What's Your Microsoft prediction for 2011?

The Seattle Times Microsoft Pri0 blog asks: What's Your Microsoft prediction for 2011? Well, here are mine:

Steve Ballmer will... co-star with "Little Frank" Colacurcio on a new reality show, "Real CEOs of the West Coast"

Microsoft's stock will... replace Lunesta as the most popular sleep aid

Windows Phone 7 will... prevent most users from walking into telephone poles

The iPad will... continue to be the "really don't need/must have" item of the year

Bing will... continue to exacerbate my attention deficit disorder

Here are other reader responses.

The Day That Changed Us

For some time now, I've been considering what to write, and indeed whether to write anything about 9-11. It is a day upon which every blogger in the galaxy shall no doubt post some deeply felt thought, or deeply emoted political rant.

And probably virtually all posts will begin with a discourse of "what I was doing that sunny Autumn morning in 2001." Like the "where were you when Kennedy was killed?" of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, this will be the "where were you when..." of our latter days.

As traumatic as that day was, and the blanching horror of its unfolding, it is what happened directly after that I'm concerned with here. Our culture immediately precipitated into two distinct phases: those committed to restoring peace by any means, and those committed to the integrity of the nation by any means. There is nobility in both impulses, no doubt, though many of us have learned that they are mutually exclusive. But it's only an observation--please don't mistake this for a political rant. I'm digging for deeper ore.

When a piece of iron is struck hard, the atoms within are suddenly shocked out of their crystalline lattice, and in a split second align with the Earth's magnetic field. Some to the North, some to the South, now irreversibly aligned. Our nation was similarly struck on that day, September 11, 2001. If I were to say that we were all changed forever, would it be a cliche? Yes--but it's one of those cliches repeated because they are so true.

This much may have been obvious, at least to you who lived it. But it is strange for me to look at birthdates of children--some as old as 9 now--for whom all this happened in the dim ancient history before they existed. And it is hard for me to imagine too in some ways, for I was different then. In fact I was a different person. The cells in a human being's body live for seven years, to be replaced by other cells. So in a sense, the organic structure that comprises the person that is you is regenerated every seven years. Beyond that biological trivium, I firmly believe that people change--psychically and spiritually--sometimes so drastically that the old person is cast aside. There is redemption and damnation and purgatorial transfiguration, all at our own hand and under our own will. The catalyst is history.

In those days I had no desire or use for children. I despised the squalid little things. I had better things to do with my life and time. Only a fundamentally different person could want to adopt a very strong willed, stubborn, difficult, devious, obsessive, sometimes impossible, and physically very strong child. Now I've discovered that the same little monster can be brilliant, deeply loving, and fascinatingly creative.

The day that changed us is never from an external event; it's always something we determine for ourselves. It may seem a happy cycling of events, from bad to good. But something now haunts me. Someday, I will have to explain 9-11 to my daughter. I will have to explain Evil.

I hope I'm not underestimating my child (again). But it's not enough to explain that "bad men did this." Every child understands that. Not even I comprehend what went into this atrocity. It is so repulsive, so... filthy, that I feel almost that I were abusing this child even to talk about it.

Unfortunately, there is no ignoring it. The children will find the most shocking of these videos and watch them. They always do. They are morbidly curious and always outwit our attempts at censorship.

If I've learned anything from being a parent, it's that children ask when they're ready to listen. When the question comes, I don't know what I will say. It will have to come from my deeply held beliefs, my experiences, and whatever poor understanding I've managed to glean from the wisdom of the generations. And it will have to be said clearly and simply.

Obviously, I am not up to the task. But on the day that changed me, I volunteered for things like this.

Wee Barbarians

I shall confess here and now that I have never been completely comfortable with children. It's something we are made to be ashamed of, as a favorite Hollywood conceit tells us that people who prefer not to be around children are very bad people, not to be trusted, possibly conservative toetappers. It is in fact the opposite--people who like children a bit too much are to be suspected.

But I have digressed already.

My daughter is now in preschool, a kind of advanced placement program to help one's children get into the very best Kindergartens. In dropping her off and bringing her home, I have been in contact with some of her classmates, and countless billions of germs as well. But I have found to my delight that I really enjoy interacting with children and their incandescent little skulls.

I learn so much from these wee barbarians, for that is what they are. What we call Innocence is actually a primitive and brutally honest packaging of our own impulses, except in bodies too small and cute to do much damage. When they are displeased with some breaking of the order, there is no passive-aggressive blocking of lanes or presentation of the birdfinger; they simply push the transgressor's oversized head down a sliding board. I can almost see the wisdom of making preschools gun-free zones, for in them a real potential for mayhem exists.

What we as adults forget is that children's senses are hypercharged; they perceive things openly and directly; colors are so vivid as to be almost tasted. And surroundings are viewed as much more imposing. I stood aside at her school's tiny playground--an average sized yard, really--and tried to see the playset and the trees and the sky as they did. I mostly felt sad because it was so very hard for my dulled senses, jaded over nearly half a century. I felt touches of it only when I walked down a basement stairwell to look up at the fence, playset, and teachers, and imagined them to be 20 feet tall.

At bedtime I always read H a story. If I'm feeling playful of an evening, I might improvise. What's interesting is that when I make up a story, H is entertained, and that is the aim, but I take some learning from it. A couple of her favorite themes are vicious beasts, such as grizzly bears, arctic wolves, and bumbles (Sasquatches), and punishments for wicked children. Children are not particularly interested in warm morality tales, save that bad children are punished in extravagantly cruel ways, and besides, what morals the kids take away may be imposed ruthlessly on others.

Out of these tales has arisen a hero of sorts, from the German folk tale of Knecht Ruprecht ("Servant Rupert"), a dark figure whom Santa Claus employs to punish bad children. Children are fascinated by the Santa trope insofar as it cajoles them into a sense of morality (admittedly artificial, at first) that nevertheless allows them to reckon their potential year-end haul for being good. It is rewarding but tedious. What is really satisfying about the Ruprecht legend is what happens to other rotten little bastards who trangress The Rules.

It is a splendid tale to frighten the bejeezus out of the little skulls, and it goes something like this:

Ruprecht arrives every year to leave coal or other droppings in the stockings of badly behaved children. True delinquents receive a good switching, or possibly a sjambok to the soles of the feet if Herr Ruprecht is in a foul mood that evening. But the worst of the worst, the truly rotten and irredeemable, are put into a giant sack and Shanghaied to his castle for a year of purgatorial labor.

Now, if Santa lives at the North Pole, where must Ruprecht live? This provides the opportunity to grope the globe and learn a bit of geography. At the opposite end, of course--the South Pole! Here the very worst children are brought for horrible punishments. The young mind is eager to know all details. What happens to these wickeds?

Rupprecht wears a costume similar to Santa's, except it's green with black fur trim, the opposite of Santa's colors. No quaint sleigh and charming reindeer either for this adversary of the bads. On Christmas Eve, Ruprecht travels the world over in a green and black Zeppelin powered by flying penguins. He metes out punishment in his penal colony at the South Pole. In the prison, like Dante's Inferno, each punishment is diabolically engineered to fit the child's sin.

Kids who are mean to animals are given honeysuckle soap to bathe in, and are beset upon incessantly by insects and woodpeckers that painfully peck the vermin off them. Braggarts are fed a special kind of supergenerative bean casserole, so they can puff up all they like. Liars find that Whopperslugs have crawled into their ears overnight, special slugs that expand, contract, and squirm tortuously whenever a lie is told. This, because liars spend their time filling others' ears with abominations.

For dinner, junk food and candy gluttons are given mud soup with turnip, plus sandwiches made with real sand and a little peanut butter. Tattlers have lead weights suspended by a string tied to their tongues. Cheaters and kids who take credit for others' work are tarred upon arrival, so that all manner of things--paper, pillows, utensils--stick to them. Bullies wear a kind of mail made of pennies; they move so slowly that would-be victims can simply pace off to a safe distance and mock them. And the lowest of the low, graffitists (especially those who consider themselves artists) are tickled unto incontinence but also rather nicely decorated by having paint-covered worms crawl over their armpits, backs of the knees, and between the toes.

Ruprecht has installed tubes leading to his dining room so that the ghastly screams can be piped in while he sups. An elaborate panel of tuning knobs allows him to bring up the low moans and attenuate the shrillest shrieks, for a more enjoyable listening experience. So beware, all ye who have been extra naughty.

Rulebreakers and intransigents are made to sit in their nudity on a giant ice cube. And made to sleep on a tray of hard, uncooked peas. Or cooked, depending on the foulness of Ruprecht's mood. The really hard cases spend six minutes a day in a tiled room where an ill-tempered Chinese nanny waits with black rubber gloves, a jar of chili paste, and a much-applied wire brush.

The punishments are not at all meant to be remedial. Ruprecht has tired of redemption ("I so hate it vhen dey repent.") and believes that he is an unappreciated artist, for truly deserved punishment is a lost art.

Perhaps you, gentle reader, have been likewise naughty and your curiosity has been piqued. You have been mostly good, but not entirely. You would like to know what reward lies in store for you. You will have to wait for the rest of the story. The fear lingers at the end of the allotted time. We never outgrow it.

25 Years After

It's amazing how the mind, especially the part called the "male mind," works. One day I stumbled upon the music video of Yes' "Owner Of A Lonely Heart" on YouTube, and began wallowing in nostalgia about the 80s, completely unaware of the significance that that day was our 25th wedding anniversary. On some level, though, I must have known it.

Men have a strange way of approaching sentimentality. They will feel a sorrowful yearning or bittersweet ache for a particular event or a phase of their lives, set about by some old movie or song, and usually intensified during a brew or five. But it shall never occur to them that a particular day might be an important anniversary or even their own birthday. And they are often found shopping on Christmas Eve.

Neither will they communicate to their beloved anything about this orgy of wallowing historicity, and most certainly not any of their feelings about it. I'm not even sure I understand mine.

For us, the 80s were a tough time, and the music itself not very good. In contrast, the music of the 70s and 90s is generally much more well conceived and executed. Yet the music of the 80s, mostly very trite, stirs a great sadness. I think it is because it makes me think of all the promise of a young couple, and the long road since then. It hasn't been a sad story, but such a long journey is poignant.

Perhaps we feel regret for the mistakes we made, or our failure to make situations better, or harsh things we have said. But we shouldn't think that--life was just as we made it and we make it better as learn more about it. And the only way to learn about it is to make bad decisions.

I thought I had something profound to say about time and memory, but it has slipped by somehow. At any rate, here is the music:

Trip through the 80s - A Video Compilation

Gary Numan - Are Friends Electric?

Gary Numan - Cars

Gary Numan - I Die You Die

What Gary is up to these days

A-ha - Take On Me

Big In Japan - Alphaville

Men Without Hats - Safety Dance (the most inexplicable band name, song title, and video theme of the 80s)

And the video that launched me on an orgy of sentimentality:

Yes - Owner Of A Lonely Heart (full-length official video)

I thought that this last classic, voted best video of the 80s if I remember correctly, could not be improved upon--yet perhaps it can:

Max Graham vs Yes - Owner Of A Lonely Heart (2004)

The Karrs

The many faces of John Mark Karr

Alexis Valoran Reich; Delia Alexis Reich; Daxis das Verdammte; Caelitus, Dark Prince of the Immaculates; John Mark Karr, Freak of Nature, et cetera, et cetera

There is something poetic in the the life and times of John Mark Karr. Gentle readers will perhaps remember Karr as the bizarre personality who stepped forward in 2006 to take credit for the kidnapping and murder of JonBenet Ramsey. After a short investigation, police determined that he had in fact done nothing wrong, was kurbashed for annoying everyone for a few hours, and sent on his irrelevant way. Then, we knew him as a bent individual obsessed with the 6-year-old beauty queen--twisted and disturbing as that is in itself. Now he has emerged as a certified freak of nature. The man, and I use the term loosely, has built a resume most of us only dream about, usually after a blurry night in the vomit runnels of Old Cancun. He helps us to define life's elusive quality of "afictivity," that is, being too strange to operate as fiction. Here, then, are a few articles detailing his rich exploits:

John Mark Karr Re-Emerges to Form a JonBenet Cult

Search Warrants Issued for JonBenet Lookalike Cult Leader John Mark Karr

I mentioned a poetic quality in all of this--assembled fragments of the very strange reportage read almost like found poetry:

John Mark Karr, 46 * reputed pedophile * falsely confessed to murdering JonBenet Ramsey 2006 stirs international sensation * has had a sex change operation in the past two years * now goes by various names * "Alexis Valoran Reich," occasionally "Delia Alexis Reich" * married a 13-year-old and later a 16-year-old in the 1980s * has been trying to create a cult of JonBenet Ramsey lookalikes he calls "the Immaculates" * may be armed, seeking shelter from followers * blond girls 4 - 6 years old with small feet * internet aliases Daxis das Verdammte, Drk Prnz, Caelitus, F.O.N. (Freak Of Nature) * rules the only place on the Web that tells the truth about him * written in third person and called Lei Sussurra (Latin for "I murmur") * Occupation: Nanny, teacher, tutor, child care giver, computer repair and instruction * threatened 19-year-old Samantha Spiegel * met Karr when she was 9 and he was a teacher's aide at elite Convent of the Sacred Heart Catholic School in San Francisco * he taught her fourth-grade class * voluntarily surgically castrated in 2006 * Karr demanded that she recruit young girls into The Immaculates * Alexis was last seen in a metropolitan Seattle, WA shelter * "If you deceive me," he replied, "I will kill you. I know where you live" * "Reich" has as many as 30 "minions" * Principius Caelitus Immaculatae * often lives in homeless shelters and uses Craigslist to find rooms for a few days at a time * "If you cost me my little girls I will hunt you down and kill you" * lei sussura * "He checks my website 80 times a day" * Reich failed to respond to e-mail messages from Fox News * refused to comment * he was trying to look younger * last seen living in a shelter for battered women in Seattle * In one of his last messages, Karr wrote: "I want to hurt you..." * I murmur * "The life he leads is purely speculative."

Losing Face

In Japanese, "I dreamed that..." is expressed literally as "saw this kind of dream" (こんな夢を見た). This phrasing implies that one has experienced not a specific series of images, but a pattern or template that plays out from time to time and from place to place. It makes me wonder whether dreams are unique to the dreamer. Jung did not think so. According to him, all dreams, especially those involving nudity, or game shows, or both, are almost certainly not original.

I have a bad habit, borne of a hubris in which I imagine myself some prophetic Belteshazzar, of trying to find the deeper meaning in dreams, as if something were being desperately encoded to me during sleep. Or worse, in assuming that it presaged actual events, and only my mental thickness prevented me from seeing revealed truth. I mention hubris for, let us face it: not all those you meet at parties who claim to be psychic are frauds, but all are annoying.

And so... where was I? I had this kind of dream.

A surgical team had fitted me with a prosthetic face. Whether my natural face had been lost in an auto accident, or by consequence of some awful disease, was not known. I was simply in need of a face. Inexplicably, they fitted me with the face of an anatomical mannequin of the kind used to demonstrate musculature. The exposed muscle, tendons, and exposed eyeballs, albeit false, were disturbing. The point of using such a device was lost on me, but they made up for this deficiency by adding yet another mask to fit rather clumsily over the first--the exterior mask being the kind used at masquerade parties, made of white plastic.

I resolved to venture into public only when necessary, and to avoid people at all costs. I had little reason to be out in crowded places, and only one activity lured me outside--walking my dog Fritz. This worked well enough, and I was happy to be out and about with him again, almost forgetting my predicament.

But then he wandered off as he is wont to do, sniffing and marking various patches of ground, posts, and logs. He began to wander too near to a group of people, and I was worried that my appearance would alarm them. Somehow I could not stop him from forging toward this group of people. I became very annoyed at him and finally had to pick him up bodily and whisk him away. I remember trying to avoid a young girl lest my false face frighten her. I felt isolated and could not even bring myself to look in a mirror and see the mask over the mask.

Later, a day or two later after this dream, I took my four-year-old daughter H to the office. I had a few tasks to follow up on, and N wanted to go swimming that evening. H behaved well at first but increasingly grabbed things and wandered around. I suppose I wasn't paying attention to my own annoyance level, but it was the sort of situation in which you think you can finish up in a few more minutes--though you never can with computers.

Before we left, I had to print some documents and pick them up. After the usual delay with the printer, I told H to come with me down the hall to the printer, and she did, but then wandered off when my back was turned. She hadn't gone very far, but it set me off that she'd slipped off in just a few seconds and after I'd been clear in telling her to stay in the copy room. I pulled her back to the office and this made her stubbornly want to go wherever the hell she had been off to. We're very alike in this way--stubborn about what to do next and hair-trigger tempers. It escalated very quickly from there. I tugged, she cried, then I dragged, and she screamed. So I had to exit the building hastily while carrying a shrieking child upside down. Embarrassing at best, and at worst incriminating--it occurred to me that I could be seen as a kidnapper.

Only later did it occur to me that what I had feared in my dream had actually happened--that I lost face. In particular, my carefully groomed outer persona (a word which, after all, originally meant mask) was peeled off quite easily--by an escalation of minor events and ultimately my own loss of control.

Dennis Hopper +RIP+

The classic scene: "It's dark now"

...not to mention his significant contribution as the music critic Milton Pawley.

Do we really need this crap?

The Onion taps a poignant yet risible vein of truth that helps me further understand my chronic self-loathing:

New Social Networking Crap that Nobody Needs!

"Launched last year, Foursquare is unique in that it not only allows users to broadcast their whereabouts, but also offers a number of built-in incentives, including some innovative new crap The New York Times surely has a throbbing hard-on for."

To think I work on Scheiße like this...

Making some changes

Our lives have been turned upside down in the past month or so, it seems. We decided to move back to the Puget Sound area so that the family can be together all week. Also, we needed to get away from the construction debris, which encroached upon everything we own. We've taken an apartment in Issaquah WA, where we'll stay while the house in Winthrop sells.

The remote work situation was the biggest frustration. The long drive back and forth (which everyone thinks is the major obstacle) was fine; in fact, I quite liked it. But the lodging arrangements away from home were only just tolerable. Originally I had intended to spend much more time working from home. I have to laugh at the breathless wonderment given in the technology and business media to the coming boom in remote work. Perhaps my experience has made me cynical--but it's a steaming pile of hype. Calling into meetings is not the same as being present (though it does spare you some of the feelings of resentment and despair). And most companies' attitude toward the remote worker is one of constant suspicion. As if employees have never played Serious Sam on the office computer.

With the experience now behind me, I consider the best work arrangements I've had to have been where I lived close to work (less than 30 min drive) and had a reasonably flexible schedule. I've found I prefer to be in the office where I can interact with people face-to-face. Most days, that is, except Friday, which is largely not a viable work day. Too many people are absent or have taking off early.

Life is already becoming saner. In this 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment, we have to prioritize what possessions we really want and need and can reasonably store. It's an effective antidote to hoarding.

Can't Wait to Sin

It rings provocatively and strikes a deep chord, like one of the greatest punk rock titles of all time, or perhaps a dirty old blues standard cranked out in the 20s and revitalized by Eric Clapton, but it is an abashed and reluctantly admitted truth among us Catholics. The best thing about Lent is its blessed End.

Easter is our most important holiday for many reasons. We say that we await it for the spiritual reawakening, and we do, but let us be honest about religious feeling. It takes the emotional form of Togetherness and Gluttony; the Mass is but a kernel of the great family get together consisting of heaping portions of chiefly pork and potato based cuisine. We drink, we schmooze, we argue with family members blessedly not seen for several months. It is much like a Polish wedding, without the fights.

It is a fundamental truth of the human psyche that religious feeling is caught up with excess. And it is a testament to the genius of the church fathers that excess preceeded by abstinence is more keenly felt. We appreciate all the more the first beer of Easter after a hellish 40 days in a parched desert. Thank you God, we say as the cool hoppy goodness pours down the gullet.

Each of us entertains our own personal Hells. My most challenging Lenten fast involved abstinence from caffeine. It was a vast wasteland where life lost most of its Joy. My most recent Lent was no desert picnic either. Giving up both sarcasm and muttering blasphemies to myself, two of my most cherished habits, was more than difficult. I admit that I mostly failed. But I learned a lot about myself. One, I enjoy talking to myself far more than most people, except for my dog, my four-year-old daughter--both of whom see the world very much as I do--and my wife, who reminds me that the way to salvation is not how much you buy but where. Two, I learned that I am full of vitriol for my fellow man and enjoy it immensely.

Still there is this matter of Lent and its true meaning, which we conveniently ignore. Perhaps it is good to put aside some of our comforts and crutches for a while. Fail as I would with my abstinence, I did take time every day to contemplate God's Hand in our temporal existence. I am not ashamed to say I made a leap of faith, and let my mind focus on Trust in God. This is a hard thing. I prayed very hard about things that are going badly in the world and in my life and that, frankly, scared me cold. And I came out with this: God wants the best for you, but God will let you fail. God will let you make your most stupid decisions and suffer the consequences, and that is where real pain comes from. I firmly believe, as Swedenborg maintains, that because God is the source of love and creation, suffering does not come from God, but we cause evil and suffering ourselves, and create our own customized, form-fitted Hell of our very own. And in a perverse way, we cherish that sweet Hell, for it is as unique to each of us as our own fingerprints, and as much an emanation of our character as our children.

Hell is a rich and fascinating subject worthy of its own article, or novel, or epic poem. For here and now, let us celebrate, for we have contemplated God's intimate care and sacrifice for us, and now we can dig in.

The Mystery of St Patrick's Day...

Why is Riverdance hypnotic?

The things you learn at the range...

I saw that my local range/gunshop had BOTH a CZ 75 Kadet .22 AND a SIG P226 Classic .22 available to rent. So, I made some range time right after work and worked out these guns--I've been wanting a .22 pistol for some time, but obstacles keep manifesting. It might not be considered manly to say, but the lowly .22 is my favorite round, because it's so cheap, useful, and dammit fun for practice.

First I tried the SIG. The Classic 22 is actually a major caliber P226 (better known as the sidearm of the SEALs and Texas Rangers) with a .22 slide/barrel kit factory installed; it comes with a coupon that allows you to buy a 9mm, .40 SW, or .357 SIG slide/barrel kit for $400. I liked that idea, so I favored this model. However, I had a huge problem shooting straight with this SIG. I've shot a P226 in 9mm and really liked it; today I was all over the paper--to be fair, I was probably milking the gun (overly squeezing the grip, thus subtly turning the barrel) and flinching a bit. But the gun itself also misfed and stovepiped several rounds, practically on every magazine.

This is the SIG 226 .22 Classic--essentially a SIG 226 with a .22 conversion kit installed at the factory:

Then I tried the CZ. What can I say, it was... amazing. The holes appeared wherever I pointed the gun. As if I couldn't miss. Actually, I could miss when I got a little cocky, but if I focused, it was dead on. The CZ 75 (I've shot the 9mm version as well) is probably the most accurate, natural handling, ergonomic gun I've ever shot. No FTFs whatever. Needless to say, a CZ Kadet immediately went on my buy list. Highly recommended.

Here's the CZ Kadet--based off the CZ 75B, this is a very easy albeit full-size pistol to shoot:

Mei Guo Yang Guizi Need Not Apply

Viva USA, an information technology staffing firm in Rolling Meadows IL, posted an advertisement for a technical writer stipulating that an "arrogant American" would not be suitable for the position.

Job Description:

Writes a variety of technical articles, reports, brochures, and/or manuals for documentation for a wide rangle of uses. May be responsible for coordinating the display of graphics and the production of the document. Requires a bachelor's degree in a related area and 4-6 years of experience in the field or in a related area. Familiar with a variety of the field's concepts, practices, and procedures.

Relies on limited experience and judgment to plan and accomplish goals. Performs a variety of tasks. May lead and direct the work of others. Typically reports to a manager or head of a unit/department. A wide degree of creativity and latitude is expected.

Looking for someone with nuclear experience or experience with terms/expressions commonly used in the nuclear industry....a tech saavy [sic] person is preferred. This individual will be responsible for writing proposals with the assistance of engineers, etc. Exelon Nuclear Partners sells services to foreign countries who are looking to build nuclear facilities. Exelon Nuclear Partners is looking to provide these proposals to Chinese businesses, so someone who is respectful and understands Chinese culture is preferred. An arrogant American will not work well in this role. Proposals do not need to be written in Chinese, they can be written in English. Location for this position can be in Canterra or Kennett Square.

Well, that's me out...

Creeping across the country like a great creeping thing

The Decline: The Geography of a Recession

Celebrate Take Your Gun to the Park Day!

...by, you know, taking your gun to the park. And legally carrying it, of course. (Hint: you need a license in most states.)

According to this post on opensecrets.org:

A federal law takes effect today that allows gun owners to tote their weapons within national parks, so long as they obey local laws. It's a major victory for gun rights advocates, who argue gun owners should have had such rights decades ago. And it comes as pro-gun forces spent more on federal lobbying efforts in 2009 than in any year since 2002--all told, nearly $5 million. They targeted at least some of that money at both the House and Senate versions of the "Preservation of the Second Amendment in National Parks and National Wildlife Refuges Act," a Center for Responsive Politics analysis indicates. Gun control advocates, meanwhile, spent a relative pittance in 2009 on federal lobbying efforts--$180,000. Most of that came from a single organization: Mayors Against Illegal Guns. The decline in gun control advocates' lobbying power is striking: In 2001, the special interest area spent more than $2.1 million* on federal lobbying efforts.

*95% of which came from the change weighing down Mayor Bloomberg's pants.

Iceland Bridge Underway

It appears that one of the elder statesmen who follows this web site (most likely Sen Robert Byrd of WV) must have taken our advice, and in anticipation of the upcoming purchase of Iceland, Congress has voted funding for a massive sea bridge to connect us to the island nation.

Here is a satellite photo of the bridge construction, underway as this goes to press:

As long as our sage advice is being heeded, we would like to suggest a name for the bridge. Since Ted Kennedy's name has been reserved for the "Edward Moore Kennedy Memorial Health Bureaucracy," and President Obama's name is likewise taken for the "Barack Hussein Obama Socialism Comes out from under the Bed Program," we will have to find another august figure. Perhaps "Nancy Pelosi Incredible Suspension Bridge."

"The meme has been remixed to exhaustion"

These are the "All Your Base" of this decade, so let's enjoy them while they still seem funny.

Hitler gets the Massachsetts Senate election results

Take 1


Take 2



Finally, Hitler Himself Makes a YouTube Video

Some mistakes are bigger than others

Wife Calls Cops On Man Preparing For Martial Law In Massachusetts

Mistake: Having lots of guns and living in Massachusetts

Bigger mistake: Having lots of guns, living in Massachusetts, and doing target practice on the third floor of your house

Egregious mistake: Having lots of guns, living in Massachusetts, doing target practice on the third floor of your house, and being married to a Cambridge psychiatrist

The Horror, The Horror

This used to be our living room...

Gotta love that rock wool insulation.

A few more views of the carnage...

Just one small problem with that Masada...

...actually 3000 small problems with the Magpul Masada, otherwise known as the Bushmaster ACR, now known as the Remington ACR--it's all so incestuous. When Adolf found out he was quite pissed.

This rifle has an interesting history, and I do hope it replaces the M4 carbine. For the background, read this very good Wikipedia article about the Bushmaster ACR. Wish they'd kept the Masada name, though--very cool.

Helping out in Haiti

I don't need to tell you Haiti is a hurting place. There is really not much to add; I would simply like to share a few relief agencies I like.

World Vision (http://www.worldvision.org/), which, I'm proud to say, is headquartered here in Washington State.

Catholic Relief Services (http://www.crs.org/), even if you aren't Catholic ;)

Salvation Army (http://www.salvationarmyusa.org/). It's fun to drop change in the pot at Christmas so why not drop some more. They have boots on the ground in many countries, and a strong presence in Haiti.

Search Dog Foundation (http://www.searchdogfoundation.org/) is one that I haven't donated to in the past but sounds very cool. They rescue dogs and train them to work with firefighters and other first responders to find people buried alive in the wreckage of disasters.

An Interesting Year for Guns Ahead

With the biggest event in the shooting world, the SHOT Show, less than a week away, we have already seen quite a few leaks and early product announcements. I believe it's going to be an interesting year for guns, both technologically and legislatively.

Ruger gets (even further) behind the .327 Federal Magnum

Ruger releases two new revolvers in the somewhat controversial .327 Federal Magnum... Controversial meaning, do we really need a .32 magnum magnum? Or, do we really need a smaller, faster .357 magnum? I answer, why not, if it means more rounds in the cylinder. For more commentary, see Michael Bane's post New Rugers, and Ruger Blackhawk and GP100 Chambered in .327 Federal Magnum on the ever-burgeoning blog ONEINCHGROUP.

The Epitomization of Italian Engineering: Rhino .357 Magnum

Possibly filed under W for WTF, Chiappa's new Rhino reflects perfectly the ideals of Italian engineering, which they apply to cars, firearms and battleships equally: one: must have the style of a beautiful woman; two: must handle like a beautiful woman; three: function follows form. As a case in point, a friend of mine had a Fiat in which the tachometer needle moved counterclockwise. The reason for doing this was that the steering column would otherwise have obscured the 0 - 6000 RPM range. Well, you ask, why not simply move the tachometer dial? Oh no, that would have broken up the symmetry of the dashboard. In the case of the Rhino, what makes this revolver unique is that the barrel is lined up with the bottom of the cylinder--this low centerline causes the recoil to travel directly into the shooter's palm and wrist, rather than above them, thus reducing barrel rise. With a .357 snubby, this is certainly a serious consideration.

Fig. 1: Cutaway view of the Chiappa Rhino

Carry options just get better and better

Ruger 9SRc: ...Watch the demo video on the Ruger website or the DRTV Podcast. Michael Bane compares an SR9c with a Glock 26 one-on-one. NICE compact carry. I like the design even better than the Taurus 709. While we don't know whether the Ruger will prove to be as reliable as the Glock, it's certainly prettier!
Boberg XR9-S Shorty 9mm: ...still developing...

Candy for the black rifle crowd

This video of the Remington ACR was recently leaked on YouTube. Remington got just about everything right on this one: the FN SCAR desert tan styling; the collapsible stocks; the gas-piston action, interchangeable 5.56mm and 6.8mm SPC barrels; non-reciprocating charging handle, on the left hand side; and the cherry on top, an optional muzzle entry tool (hint: it's not just for breaking windows).

Developing...

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Moving Forward into 2010

As we journey forth into a new year, I've decided to do things a bit differently on ye olde blog. Even the paltry few posts I racked up last year have given me insight into what kind of content I want to post, and in a deeper sense, what I should spend my time thinking about.

I intend to be positive in my rhetoric. By this I do not mean happy affirmations such as "Every day in every way I am getting better and better. Then I grab the shotgun." No, I simply mean that it is better to provide workable alternatives than criticize. It is better to persuade rather than attack--though I shall hurl mockery at the truly deserving. And in imaginative matters, it is better to put into practice than theorize.

Writing this blog has surprised me because I orginally intended it to be a creative outlet, a venue to think out loud more socially acceptable than muttering to myself in the library men's room. Possibly even a way to trick myself into writing fiction. Rather I have turned out far more political content than I'd intended. I might be forgiven because I, like so many others today, have been booted into uncomfortable intimacy with the unwinding of our economy; our flagrant, dissolute budgetary and tax policy, reaching back several administrations; and our inexplicable indulgence as a society for malignant ideas.

Moreover, I regret my previous apathy and inaction. This while the country overall is going through a defining crisis, a political and cultural transformation, where our civil society finally comes to terms with its long flirtation with fashionable statism and cultural relativism.

In the final analysis, blogs are simply streams of opinions, and the latter, like anuses, are ubiquitous. The world doesn't need another streaming anus. It is more than a little presumptuous to set out writing in hopes of changing people's minds im Großen und Ganzen, so perhaps I'm simply inviting others to my own thoughts.

There are good arguments for having no political commentary at all on one's blog, and I've considered these carefully. For now it shall remain, for it is not so much a matter of shouting slogans as a concern about basic freedoms. And it is an integral part of who I am. Nevertheless, life comprises so many other matters, and I must try not to neglect these.

It's the blimp, it's the blimp! (No, just another year)

New Year's Eve was accompanied by a robust snowfall and a full moon, illuminating the woods in supernal twilight, all of which I welcome and regard as a propitious omen.

This is our place, which we affectionately refer to as "Wolfenbach" because of its situation on Wolf Creek Road in Winthrop WA. And this appelation may once again be appropriate, as the first Grey Wolves sighted in Washington State for almost a century live right here in the Methow Valley.

Poor 2009. Everyone I talk to pretty much universally regards it as a bad year, spitting "good riddance" after it. Perhaps Microsoft shall build their own version of the Goodyear blimp to celebrate the accomplishments of the past year, such as they are. I propose that they call it the "Badyear Blimp." Or to retread a term I have oft heard used in conjunction with 2009, "The Crap Zeppelin."

In any event, we have affixed a Pennsylvania Dutch Hex sign on the front of our house. This should ward off further evil times and perhaps even the local Jehovah's Witnesses.