I don't know if y'all remember this, but around Samhain 2005, a local feral predator by the name of Steven Avery abducted a photographer, and with the help of his 16yo nephew, tortured and murdered her.
Steven's on trial presently. Day one of the trial another nephew got up and told the jury Steven asked him to help hide a body. Defense asked for a mistrial, because they'd neglected to talk to the kid who'd given the testimony.
Denied. First rule of committing a crime is to NOT talk about it, or at least that's what I keep hearing.
I hope we never see Mr. Avery nor his feral nephew, Brendan Dassey on this side of the bars again. These two need to go away for the rest of their lives.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Did My Part, The First Of Many Parts
If the victim disarmament folks inhabiting Washington want to get guns out of our hands, they need to shut their fat yaps, 'cause every time they go about opening them, they sell more guns than if they'd kept quiet.
I didn't exactly go buying guns, but I put in an order this morning for 2 20rd mags for my Beretta 92, and 5 more mags for my battlerifle. Get this equalled out in the checking account with a check or 2, and then I'm converting my BAG Day gun into another battlerifle. Might pick up another one of the same kind for BAG day this year (with my tax return *hack, spit*), and then it's on to my Home Defense Rifle build.
That's not counting ammo buys.
See what happens when you talk about banning guns?
I didn't exactly go buying guns, but I put in an order this morning for 2 20rd mags for my Beretta 92, and 5 more mags for my battlerifle. Get this equalled out in the checking account with a check or 2, and then I'm converting my BAG Day gun into another battlerifle. Might pick up another one of the same kind for BAG day this year (with my tax return *hack, spit*), and then it's on to my Home Defense Rifle build.
That's not counting ammo buys.
See what happens when you talk about banning guns?
Random Reflections Pt19
81. The worst thing in the world is wanting something to or not to happen, and not being able to do a damn thing to cause or forestall it. I think that’s why I have a somewhat irascible and anarchic personality – I hate not being in control at all times.
82. A bill proposed in Wisconsin would have any citizen fined $250 dollars for asking publicly nursing mothers (even on private property) to be a little more demure in their exposure of themselves. No matter the language, no matter the tone, no matter nothing, ask a woman to cover up some while she shares a Close Moment™ with her child, and you’re a criminal.
No one’s yet addressed how this would be enforced, or what to do with all the maliciously false “complaints” that will undoubtedly arise.
The ugly part of this is, there ain’t a person talking about it who’s not in favor of it.
Has the whole world gone crazy as an outhouse rat?
83. It is humbling and awe-inspiring to see in others the values and virtues you always hoped and believed you possessed. Especially when this other or others are reputed to have very little in the way of values, virtues, common sense, and responsibility in the first place.
84. It is horrifying to learn that those you trust deeply can be completely and absolutely wrong about something. Equally horrifying is seeing how those same people can use their power capriciously, over that which they are wrong about.
85. Riffing on Q-Tips.Seen on a box of Q-Tips: “Satisfaction guaranteed. Return for refund or exchange.” How can you not be satisfied with the performance of a Q-Tip, and if you’re not satisfied, why would you exchange it for exactly the same product? How do you prove you weren’t satisfied?
Why are they called Q-Tips? Aren’t they tipped with cotton? If it’s based on shape, shouldn’t it be called an I-Tip? That sounds like an invention by Apple Computers.
82. A bill proposed in Wisconsin would have any citizen fined $250 dollars for asking publicly nursing mothers (even on private property) to be a little more demure in their exposure of themselves. No matter the language, no matter the tone, no matter nothing, ask a woman to cover up some while she shares a Close Moment™ with her child, and you’re a criminal.
No one’s yet addressed how this would be enforced, or what to do with all the maliciously false “complaints” that will undoubtedly arise.
The ugly part of this is, there ain’t a person talking about it who’s not in favor of it.
Has the whole world gone crazy as an outhouse rat?
83. It is humbling and awe-inspiring to see in others the values and virtues you always hoped and believed you possessed. Especially when this other or others are reputed to have very little in the way of values, virtues, common sense, and responsibility in the first place.
84. It is horrifying to learn that those you trust deeply can be completely and absolutely wrong about something. Equally horrifying is seeing how those same people can use their power capriciously, over that which they are wrong about.
85. Riffing on Q-Tips.Seen on a box of Q-Tips: “Satisfaction guaranteed. Return for refund or exchange.” How can you not be satisfied with the performance of a Q-Tip, and if you’re not satisfied, why would you exchange it for exactly the same product? How do you prove you weren’t satisfied?
Why are they called Q-Tips? Aren’t they tipped with cotton? If it’s based on shape, shouldn’t it be called an I-Tip? That sounds like an invention by Apple Computers.
Fun Times Pt3
The Fun Times series is dedicated to those little family crisises that get everybody all angry and frantic for a while, and just generally disrupt life. So far they have all had good outcomes, which is why I can ironically call them Fun Times™.
The very first "Fun Time" involved an intruder alarm that morphed from scaring away a burglar to chasing a flying squirrel out of the house with a spatula.
The second "Fun Time" was actually kind of scary - my mom was home alone and thought someone broke in, and my brother later performed his house-clearing duties admirably.
Last night was the third "Fun Time." I'm sitting downstairs, watching Deep Space Nine, when all of a sudden, thing seem...off...and not in any way that I can fully describe. The air has changed in some way. I ignore it and keep watching. After a few minutes, I'm sniffing the air...this is really weird...it smells like sulfur. Like really, badly rotten eggs. But just a hint of it.
Perplexed, I shut off DS9, and head for the stairs at the end of the long "family" room. WTH? It smells horrible over by the stairs. I run upstairs and tell my mom it smells awful downstairs. She heads down and just about chokes at the stench. We walk into the laundry room, and the smell is stronger, much stronger. We turn left into my brother's bedroom, and now the smell could knock a buzzard off a gut-wagon. This is, like, a panic situation. Something really bad's going down here.
My brother is not, ahem, the most...clean...person in the world, so the possibility of him leaving a meal under his bed and then having it decompose is not exactly an alien thought. We go back upstairs, and wake him up from where he's sleeping on the sofa.
And here is where the situation veers off into the absurd. Slightly peeved that one of her children may have just fumigated the house through carelessness, my mom tells my brother to open up the freezer and take a deep breath so he has a suitable control with which to appreciate the full awesomeness of the stench he is about to behold. Not in so many words though. "Stick your head in the freezer and breathe," is closer to the original wording.
He refuses, and asks what's going on. "Just stick your head in the freezer." This goes on a for a minute and we all finally troop downstairs. My brother can sniff this just as soon as he heads downstairs. Once in his room, we realize the smell has gotten exponentially worse. It is unholy on a thousand different levels. This is something that no decent human being should be exposed to.
Definitely not something of my brother's creation.We have an upright freezer in the basement, and my thought is maybe it came unplugged, the...meat...inside going rancid with time. But my musings on this are quickly derailed...my mom sends me to go get the carbon monoxide detector from upstairs. My protests that carbon monoxide is odorless fall on deaf ears, and I go get the thing and plug it in in my brother's room. It reads 0 to no ones surprise.
It is around this time that my dad ventures downstairs, just having noticed that there is A Fuss on under his roof, and he asks what the matter is. Very unflappable. My mom asks if he notices the smell, and he says yes, it's his bathroom.
Last summer we had a problem with plugged pipes. Varying brands of Drano wouldn't clear out the problem, wire pipe-snakes didn't do it...so my dad bought some industrial drain cleaner. Whereas most drain-cleaners are bases, this stuff was full-on sulphuric acid, diluted to the point where it didn't eat through the pipes (be very careful about not getting on the tub though, pour it straight down the drain). Half a bottle of that later, some very unpleasant odors started wafting out of the various drains in the house, as the sulphuric acid dissolved the biological growths that every household pipe system has. These odors were so strong that after opening all the windows, our house stood as the epicenter of a kind of funk that could be sniffed for dozens of yards in every direction.
Now let your mind wander, and grasp if it can, the full horror of unleashing such a pungent menace inside a house in the winter. With all the doors and windows closed.
YEAH.
My dad had poured some more of this industrial cleaner down his shower's drainpipe.By this time the stench has flooded the living area of the upstairs, and my mom's worried about our two pet rats and our two birds, one of which is a ten-year-old finch (finches are only supposed to live four to six years). They get hastily relocated to the bedrooms at the far end of the house, and we start turning on every fan in the house.
After fifteen minutes, the god-awful stench has not depreciated, and we start wondering what to do to render the air suitable for sleeping in. My brother sprays three cans of AXE in his room, lights a candle, and sets a fan to blow air out of his room - which results in mixing the heavy smell of AXE with the smell of rotten eggs.
We finally hit upon a solution - open all the doors and windows! I should comment that this is Wisconsin, and it is winter, and our median temps for the past few days have been 10 degrees in the sun. It is nine at night. It is damned cold outside. Soon it is damned cold inside. We watched Lost, made hot drinks, and wore hats and gloves.
Around ten we finally closed the house up. Despite cranking the heat to 90 to offset the cold air, the ambient temperature had dropped seven degrees. We ran a propane space heater for a couple of minutes to warm up the living room before going to bed.
The very first "Fun Time" involved an intruder alarm that morphed from scaring away a burglar to chasing a flying squirrel out of the house with a spatula.
The second "Fun Time" was actually kind of scary - my mom was home alone and thought someone broke in, and my brother later performed his house-clearing duties admirably.
Last night was the third "Fun Time." I'm sitting downstairs, watching Deep Space Nine, when all of a sudden, thing seem...off...and not in any way that I can fully describe. The air has changed in some way. I ignore it and keep watching. After a few minutes, I'm sniffing the air...this is really weird...it smells like sulfur. Like really, badly rotten eggs. But just a hint of it.
Perplexed, I shut off DS9, and head for the stairs at the end of the long "family" room. WTH? It smells horrible over by the stairs. I run upstairs and tell my mom it smells awful downstairs. She heads down and just about chokes at the stench. We walk into the laundry room, and the smell is stronger, much stronger. We turn left into my brother's bedroom, and now the smell could knock a buzzard off a gut-wagon. This is, like, a panic situation. Something really bad's going down here.
My brother is not, ahem, the most...clean...person in the world, so the possibility of him leaving a meal under his bed and then having it decompose is not exactly an alien thought. We go back upstairs, and wake him up from where he's sleeping on the sofa.
And here is where the situation veers off into the absurd. Slightly peeved that one of her children may have just fumigated the house through carelessness, my mom tells my brother to open up the freezer and take a deep breath so he has a suitable control with which to appreciate the full awesomeness of the stench he is about to behold. Not in so many words though. "Stick your head in the freezer and breathe," is closer to the original wording.
He refuses, and asks what's going on. "Just stick your head in the freezer." This goes on a for a minute and we all finally troop downstairs. My brother can sniff this just as soon as he heads downstairs. Once in his room, we realize the smell has gotten exponentially worse. It is unholy on a thousand different levels. This is something that no decent human being should be exposed to.
Definitely not something of my brother's creation.We have an upright freezer in the basement, and my thought is maybe it came unplugged, the...meat...inside going rancid with time. But my musings on this are quickly derailed...my mom sends me to go get the carbon monoxide detector from upstairs. My protests that carbon monoxide is odorless fall on deaf ears, and I go get the thing and plug it in in my brother's room. It reads 0 to no ones surprise.
It is around this time that my dad ventures downstairs, just having noticed that there is A Fuss on under his roof, and he asks what the matter is. Very unflappable. My mom asks if he notices the smell, and he says yes, it's his bathroom.
Last summer we had a problem with plugged pipes. Varying brands of Drano wouldn't clear out the problem, wire pipe-snakes didn't do it...so my dad bought some industrial drain cleaner. Whereas most drain-cleaners are bases, this stuff was full-on sulphuric acid, diluted to the point where it didn't eat through the pipes (be very careful about not getting on the tub though, pour it straight down the drain). Half a bottle of that later, some very unpleasant odors started wafting out of the various drains in the house, as the sulphuric acid dissolved the biological growths that every household pipe system has. These odors were so strong that after opening all the windows, our house stood as the epicenter of a kind of funk that could be sniffed for dozens of yards in every direction.
Now let your mind wander, and grasp if it can, the full horror of unleashing such a pungent menace inside a house in the winter. With all the doors and windows closed.
YEAH.
My dad had poured some more of this industrial cleaner down his shower's drainpipe.By this time the stench has flooded the living area of the upstairs, and my mom's worried about our two pet rats and our two birds, one of which is a ten-year-old finch (finches are only supposed to live four to six years). They get hastily relocated to the bedrooms at the far end of the house, and we start turning on every fan in the house.
After fifteen minutes, the god-awful stench has not depreciated, and we start wondering what to do to render the air suitable for sleeping in. My brother sprays three cans of AXE in his room, lights a candle, and sets a fan to blow air out of his room - which results in mixing the heavy smell of AXE with the smell of rotten eggs.
We finally hit upon a solution - open all the doors and windows! I should comment that this is Wisconsin, and it is winter, and our median temps for the past few days have been 10 degrees in the sun. It is nine at night. It is damned cold outside. Soon it is damned cold inside. We watched Lost, made hot drinks, and wore hats and gloves.
Around ten we finally closed the house up. Despite cranking the heat to 90 to offset the cold air, the ambient temperature had dropped seven degrees. We ran a propane space heater for a couple of minutes to warm up the living room before going to bed.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
BAG Day Gun Goodness
So, before this moon-battery with the 2 McCarthy started, I was considering converting my decent BAG Day gun into an Honest-To-God battlerifle. This would entail replacing the stock and getting some decent detachable hi-caps.
Figured $150 for the stock and 2 mags. I could buy another rifle just like it for that much, but this'll give what I've got some utility. I start poking around the internet, and what do I find?
In order to stay a few steps ahead of breaking importation laws, I have to replace some of the internals with US made parts. See, AFAIK, it works like this:
@I've got a Curio & Relic gun. As such, I can ignore that parts-count game.
@I replace the stock with something more useful, I've just assembled a non-sporting, foreign assault rifle and voided C&R status. This is a Bad Thing, they'd have us believe.
@In order to avoid doing this Bad Thing, I must replace some of the foreign-made internals with identical US-made pieces.
@I will then have a US-made sporting rifle.
This is a *edited* joke. I've got to budget an extra $40 (on a college budget, getting 8 hours a week) to buy US parts that look and work identically to the foreign parts already in my rifle. Whoever came up with this should be tossed in jail, for life.
With a sign that says "Cop" or "Snitch" around their neck.
Figured $150 for the stock and 2 mags. I could buy another rifle just like it for that much, but this'll give what I've got some utility. I start poking around the internet, and what do I find?
In order to stay a few steps ahead of breaking importation laws, I have to replace some of the internals with US made parts. See, AFAIK, it works like this:
@I've got a Curio & Relic gun. As such, I can ignore that parts-count game.
@I replace the stock with something more useful, I've just assembled a non-sporting, foreign assault rifle and voided C&R status. This is a Bad Thing, they'd have us believe.
@In order to avoid doing this Bad Thing, I must replace some of the foreign-made internals with identical US-made pieces.
@I will then have a US-made sporting rifle.
This is a *edited* joke. I've got to budget an extra $40 (on a college budget, getting 8 hours a week) to buy US parts that look and work identically to the foreign parts already in my rifle. Whoever came up with this should be tossed in jail, for life.
With a sign that says "Cop" or "Snitch" around their neck.
And so it begins...
The 2 (remember the swearing code), Carolyn McCarthy (isn't she up for a lung-cancer scheduled vacation to the great shooting range in the sky sometime soon?) introduced a bill to reauthorize the Assault Weapons Ban.
Because, the pump action shotgun and .38 revolver used by the Utah mall shooter were covered in the bill, you see.
As teenagers would say: NOT.
Time to go read Unintended Consequences again, and wish there was someone out there with nothing to lose and the backbone and smarts to, at the very least, exact some appropriate vengence upon those who would deprive us of our God-given rights.
Maybe it won't make it out of committee. We can hope. In the interregnum, I'm going to be buying magazines, and maybe another battle-rifle.
Because, the pump action shotgun and .38 revolver used by the Utah mall shooter were covered in the bill, you see.
As teenagers would say: NOT.
Time to go read Unintended Consequences again, and wish there was someone out there with nothing to lose and the backbone and smarts to, at the very least, exact some appropriate vengence upon those who would deprive us of our God-given rights.
Maybe it won't make it out of committee. We can hope. In the interregnum, I'm going to be buying magazines, and maybe another battle-rifle.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Random Gun Stuff
So I decided I needed to make some purchases yesterday. I've stocked my checking account for the past few months, so I didn't feel horrible about taking a hundred out of the last paycheck to deal with some of the purchases I've been needing/wanting to make.
First up was a prepaid phone card. I'll restock my phone when I go back to school.
Then I got 2 30-round mags for my battlerifles. I was horrified when I brought them home and the follower on one was too depressed due to a rust spot. Despite scrubbing at the mag with paper towel, gun patches, WD40, and the most caustic chemical I've ever handled CopperKleenz gun-cleaner (it chaps my hands every time I clean a gun, and I take maybe 10 minutes per gun...nasty stuff), the follower was still stuck on the rust spot. I begin to think it's a spring problem, so I took it back, got a new one that worked perfectly.
Finally, out to Sportsman's Warehouse where I pick up Hogue Grips for Paul Nelson, my Sig P220. VERY nice. They were a pain to put on, but they're nice and slim and increase my ability to grip the gun well. I wonder how well they'll aid my shooting, since the only problem I have with the gun is the muzzle-flip provided by the 4in barrel. On top of that, the pistol looks really nice now.
First up was a prepaid phone card. I'll restock my phone when I go back to school.
Then I got 2 30-round mags for my battlerifles. I was horrified when I brought them home and the follower on one was too depressed due to a rust spot. Despite scrubbing at the mag with paper towel, gun patches, WD40, and the most caustic chemical I've ever handled CopperKleenz gun-cleaner (it chaps my hands every time I clean a gun, and I take maybe 10 minutes per gun...nasty stuff), the follower was still stuck on the rust spot. I begin to think it's a spring problem, so I took it back, got a new one that worked perfectly.
Finally, out to Sportsman's Warehouse where I pick up Hogue Grips for Paul Nelson, my Sig P220. VERY nice. They were a pain to put on, but they're nice and slim and increase my ability to grip the gun well. I wonder how well they'll aid my shooting, since the only problem I have with the gun is the muzzle-flip provided by the 4in barrel. On top of that, the pistol looks really nice now.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
What do you say?
On what may have been the last night at my regular job, a late-middle-aged woman comes in, looking for a CD with the Metallica song "Am I Evil?" without the lyrics.
We joke about how few kareoke CDs Metallica put out, and I eventually just hand her Garage Inc. and tell her this is the best I can do. Nope, she's looking for the backing track, so someone could play guitar over it.
I make a few recommendations for places to look online, and let her know that getting someone to record the guitar part for her is going to be expensive and time consuming. She tells me her son used to play it, and she wants to hear it again.
A couple of years ago in my fair city, a couple of Hmong kids pitched a white youth off a five story parking garage for the crime of not being Hmong. It wasn't a hate crime, like the recent shooting of a Hmong hunter by a white guy, so it didn't get much press.
That was her son that got tossed off the roof.
She's a wreck now. We talked for half an hour. She moved into her son's empty apartment. She destroyed her family connections in the way she divided up his possessions. She goes to grief counseling. She's on more medications than the local cancer ward.
She simply cannot, and will not move forward with her life. The life that she created was horrifically taken from this earth, and that's why she spends all her time listening to his CDs and looking at boxes of his crayons from when he was eight.
It's not every day you get to speak with someone who's loved one was the victim of homicide. It's not every day you get to see how the mind can destroy a person.
What do you say to them?
What CAN you say to them?
We joke about how few kareoke CDs Metallica put out, and I eventually just hand her Garage Inc. and tell her this is the best I can do. Nope, she's looking for the backing track, so someone could play guitar over it.
I make a few recommendations for places to look online, and let her know that getting someone to record the guitar part for her is going to be expensive and time consuming. She tells me her son used to play it, and she wants to hear it again.
A couple of years ago in my fair city, a couple of Hmong kids pitched a white youth off a five story parking garage for the crime of not being Hmong. It wasn't a hate crime, like the recent shooting of a Hmong hunter by a white guy, so it didn't get much press.
That was her son that got tossed off the roof.
She's a wreck now. We talked for half an hour. She moved into her son's empty apartment. She destroyed her family connections in the way she divided up his possessions. She goes to grief counseling. She's on more medications than the local cancer ward.
She simply cannot, and will not move forward with her life. The life that she created was horrifically taken from this earth, and that's why she spends all her time listening to his CDs and looking at boxes of his crayons from when he was eight.
It's not every day you get to speak with someone who's loved one was the victim of homicide. It's not every day you get to see how the mind can destroy a person.
What do you say to them?
What CAN you say to them?
House
Funny episode (at times) tonight. I'll paraphrase.
*House pulls a microscope out of a man's nose*
H."Very nice. If my lawn looked like that, pigeons wouldn't dare poop on it."
Patient"First impressions do count. For example, I noticed that your shirt isn't pressed, and you obviously haven't shaved in many days."
H."You use a toenail clippers to trim your nose hairs?"
P."They give me more...reach."
H."I haven't combed my hair and my shirt is rumpled. You have athlete's foot in your nose. I'm ready to be judged."
*House pulls a microscope out of a man's nose*
H."Very nice. If my lawn looked like that, pigeons wouldn't dare poop on it."
Patient"First impressions do count. For example, I noticed that your shirt isn't pressed, and you obviously haven't shaved in many days."
H."You use a toenail clippers to trim your nose hairs?"
P."They give me more...reach."
H."I haven't combed my hair and my shirt is rumpled. You have athlete's foot in your nose. I'm ready to be judged."
Saturday, January 27, 2007
When The Crowds Are Gone
Yeah, I've threatened to post songs...here's the first one. One of my favorites of all time, Savatage's When The Crowds Are Gone.
I don't know where the years have gone
Memories can only last so long
Like faded photographs, forgotten songs
And the things I never knew
When the skin is thin, the heart shows through
Please believe me what I tell you is true
Where's the lights, turn 'em on again
One more night to believe and then
Another note for my requiem
A memory to carry on
The story's over
When The Crowds Are Gone
All my friends have been crucified
Made life a long suicide true
Guess we never figured out the rules
But I'm still alive, my fingers feel
Gonna play on till the final reel's through
And read the credits from a different view
Where's the lights, turn 'em on again
One more night to believe and then
Another note for my requiem
A memory to carry on
The story's over
When The Crowds Are Gone
When The Crowds Are Gone
When The Crowds Are Gone
And I'm all alone
Playing the saddest song
Now that the lights are gone
Turn them on again
One more time for me my friend
Turn 'em on again
I never wanted to know
Never wanted to see
I wasted my time
Till time wasted me
Never wanted to go
Always wanted to stay
'Cause the persons I am
Are the parts that I play
So I plot and I plan
Hope and I scheme
To the lure of a night
Filled with unfinished dreams
I'm holding on tight
To a world gone astray
As they charge me for years
I can no longer pay
Turn 'em on again (repeat)
I never wanted to know
Never wanted to see
I wasted my time
Till time wasted me
I Never wanted to go
Always wanted to stay
'Cause the persons I am
Are the parts that I play
The parts I play
And the lights
Turn them off my friend
And the ghosts
We'll just let them in
Cause in the dark
It's easier to see
---------------------------------------------
The Savatage website says it's about a master composer who...wastes...his life trying to publish his masterpiece, only to have it played for the first time at his funeral.
I see in it more a musician (or maybe just a person) looking back on his life (maybe at his last show, I see it at his deathbed), seeing the things he's sacrificed for his music, his interest, his obsession. He's obviously begging, hoping, for one more moment, fighting the inevitable. In the end, he accepts his fate.
You can see the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8WWiJ6TU4s
I'm pretty certain it's standard 80s fare. Like the song, it gets far better around "I never wanted..." It's quite enjoyable watching Jon and Criss Oliva with their seperate parts, one beating a piano to death with his guitar, the other finishing the song on his knees, screaming about the parts that we play.
I never wanted to know
Never wanted to see
I wasted my time
Till time wasted me
I don't know where the years have gone
Memories can only last so long
Like faded photographs, forgotten songs
And the things I never knew
When the skin is thin, the heart shows through
Please believe me what I tell you is true
Where's the lights, turn 'em on again
One more night to believe and then
Another note for my requiem
A memory to carry on
The story's over
When The Crowds Are Gone
All my friends have been crucified
Made life a long suicide true
Guess we never figured out the rules
But I'm still alive, my fingers feel
Gonna play on till the final reel's through
And read the credits from a different view
Where's the lights, turn 'em on again
One more night to believe and then
Another note for my requiem
A memory to carry on
The story's over
When The Crowds Are Gone
When The Crowds Are Gone
When The Crowds Are Gone
And I'm all alone
Playing the saddest song
Now that the lights are gone
Turn them on again
One more time for me my friend
Turn 'em on again
I never wanted to know
Never wanted to see
I wasted my time
Till time wasted me
Never wanted to go
Always wanted to stay
'Cause the persons I am
Are the parts that I play
So I plot and I plan
Hope and I scheme
To the lure of a night
Filled with unfinished dreams
I'm holding on tight
To a world gone astray
As they charge me for years
I can no longer pay
Turn 'em on again (repeat)
I never wanted to know
Never wanted to see
I wasted my time
Till time wasted me
I Never wanted to go
Always wanted to stay
'Cause the persons I am
Are the parts that I play
The parts I play
And the lights
Turn them off my friend
And the ghosts
We'll just let them in
Cause in the dark
It's easier to see
---------------------------------------------
The Savatage website says it's about a master composer who...wastes...his life trying to publish his masterpiece, only to have it played for the first time at his funeral.
I see in it more a musician (or maybe just a person) looking back on his life (maybe at his last show, I see it at his deathbed), seeing the things he's sacrificed for his music, his interest, his obsession. He's obviously begging, hoping, for one more moment, fighting the inevitable. In the end, he accepts his fate.
You can see the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8WWiJ6TU4s
I'm pretty certain it's standard 80s fare. Like the song, it gets far better around "I never wanted..." It's quite enjoyable watching Jon and Criss Oliva with their seperate parts, one beating a piano to death with his guitar, the other finishing the song on his knees, screaming about the parts that we play.
I never wanted to know
Never wanted to see
I wasted my time
Till time wasted me
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Fun Times Pt2
Before I move on to the meat of the entry, let me just apologize in advance for the lack of content. My life the last few weeks has looked something like this:
Work, 11-7:30 Sunday & Monday
School, Tuesday 10-4:30
School, homework, and all the stuff I can't do after 7:30 at night, Wednesday & Thursday
Work, 11-7:30 Friday & Saturday
Anyhoo, onto the story.
I call for a ride home from school Thursday afternoon, and my mom sounds weird. On the verge of crying. It's easy to tell in the car that's she's freaked out. While I was at programming class, and my brother was at the Y, another set of voices started talking in the house, over the radio. She'd been out feeding squirrels and left the back door open, then went down to the opposite end of the house... and after turning off the radio, the voices persisted. She went from room to room, making sure all noise-making appliances were off.
They were.
The voices were still talking. Mom went to the top of the basement stairs. The voices were coming from downstairs. Someone had turned the TV on, while she was upstairs. No one else was home.
This is the very definition of A Bad Thing(TM).
She couldn't leave, because my brother was coming home, and she didn't want him walking in on a burglary in progress. Not only that, but I'd be calling soon. So, she went and retrieved my dad's newly restored 1911, and stood by the back door for 15 minutes. She didn't know how to make it operational, but the impulse to get a gun was the right one.
15 minutes later, my brother gets back from the Y. In his words, "there are few things scarier than being greeted at the door by your mother, who's holding a gun and going 'ssshhhh.'"
Brother doesn't know how to operate a 1911. Nevertheless, he takes it, stands at the head of the stairs, and tells mom to retrieve my CX4 (which he does know how to operate) from my room. She does, and he ventures into the basement.
A note aforehand. My brother's not quite the gunny I am. He has no interest in self-defense theory, doesn't read or watch tapes, or constantly surround himself with people who talk guns and survival more than they eat (slight exaggeration), like yours truly does.
Our basement is divided up into a long room running parallel under the front of the house, and a bedroom (my brother's), a laundry room, a bathroom, and a workroom running parallel to long room, under the back of the house. The stairs lead down to one end of the long room.
My brother sprinted down the stairs, got to the end of the long room, put the wall to his back, and evaluated. The lights had been turned on, and the TV was on. He quickly checks visible hiding places, and sprints to the laundry room, which is an intersection for the basement. From there, he moves fast to his bedroom, and trades the 9mm carbine for Nancy Pelosi, the battlerifle that he practically owns, and keeps in his closet. From there, he runs back upstairs.
I'd called by then, and he tells mom, in her words "Go get 'Vincent.' He's the safe one, he'll know what to do." My mom says it's a measure of the respect my brother has for me, that he'd rather rely on my judgement in a crisis than his own.
Let me tell you, there's nothing quite like coming home, and finding your brother sitting on the sofa with a battlerifle over his knees.
I jack a round into the 1911, and we go downstairs, check room to room. Nobody. Empty. Having thoroughly cleared the basement of all hiding places, we return our various weaponry to the places from whence it came, go upstairs, and begin the Monday Morning Quarterbacking.
My mom has since handled every gun I own, and does not possess the physical strength to draw back a bolt or slide. She just can't, and it's our practice to leave chambers empty around the house. So, I'm looking into a revolver. It'll cost as much as a battlerifle probably, and it won't have near the utility.
The reason I write this is to show my respect for my brother. It just keeps climbing. I've observed him and his actions now for quite a while, and I'm hard-pressed to come up with a better, more practical person, and not just when it comes to handling the household weaponry. I can't go into it here, but I find it humbling to see in someone else the qualities I WISH to see in myself, especially in someone who I've been told doesn't possess them. But let's look at what he did right in this situation:
Traded up from a handgun to a carbine.
Moved through a big empty space fast, and only stopped when he had his back to something.
Cleared the hiding places and intersection fast.
Traded up from a carbine to a rifle when the opportunity presented itself.
Waited for backup before going any deeper into an unknown situation.
I doubt he'll read this, but for someone who's spent zip for time around the gun culture, that's pretty damn good for a first try, and deserves a slap on the back.
Oh and, we have no idea how the lights or TV came on. My mom hadn't been downstairs for about half an hour before they turned themselves on. It's a mystery.
Gander Mtn. will be getting a visit from me this week, and I'm definitely coming back better schooled in wheelguns than when I left.
Work, 11-7:30 Sunday & Monday
School, Tuesday 10-4:30
School, homework, and all the stuff I can't do after 7:30 at night, Wednesday & Thursday
Work, 11-7:30 Friday & Saturday
Anyhoo, onto the story.
I call for a ride home from school Thursday afternoon, and my mom sounds weird. On the verge of crying. It's easy to tell in the car that's she's freaked out. While I was at programming class, and my brother was at the Y, another set of voices started talking in the house, over the radio. She'd been out feeding squirrels and left the back door open, then went down to the opposite end of the house... and after turning off the radio, the voices persisted. She went from room to room, making sure all noise-making appliances were off.
They were.
The voices were still talking. Mom went to the top of the basement stairs. The voices were coming from downstairs. Someone had turned the TV on, while she was upstairs. No one else was home.
This is the very definition of A Bad Thing(TM).
She couldn't leave, because my brother was coming home, and she didn't want him walking in on a burglary in progress. Not only that, but I'd be calling soon. So, she went and retrieved my dad's newly restored 1911, and stood by the back door for 15 minutes. She didn't know how to make it operational, but the impulse to get a gun was the right one.
15 minutes later, my brother gets back from the Y. In his words, "there are few things scarier than being greeted at the door by your mother, who's holding a gun and going 'ssshhhh.'"
Brother doesn't know how to operate a 1911. Nevertheless, he takes it, stands at the head of the stairs, and tells mom to retrieve my CX4 (which he does know how to operate) from my room. She does, and he ventures into the basement.
A note aforehand. My brother's not quite the gunny I am. He has no interest in self-defense theory, doesn't read or watch tapes, or constantly surround himself with people who talk guns and survival more than they eat (slight exaggeration), like yours truly does.
Our basement is divided up into a long room running parallel under the front of the house, and a bedroom (my brother's), a laundry room, a bathroom, and a workroom running parallel to long room, under the back of the house. The stairs lead down to one end of the long room.
My brother sprinted down the stairs, got to the end of the long room, put the wall to his back, and evaluated. The lights had been turned on, and the TV was on. He quickly checks visible hiding places, and sprints to the laundry room, which is an intersection for the basement. From there, he moves fast to his bedroom, and trades the 9mm carbine for Nancy Pelosi, the battlerifle that he practically owns, and keeps in his closet. From there, he runs back upstairs.
I'd called by then, and he tells mom, in her words "Go get 'Vincent.' He's the safe one, he'll know what to do." My mom says it's a measure of the respect my brother has for me, that he'd rather rely on my judgement in a crisis than his own.
Let me tell you, there's nothing quite like coming home, and finding your brother sitting on the sofa with a battlerifle over his knees.
I jack a round into the 1911, and we go downstairs, check room to room. Nobody. Empty. Having thoroughly cleared the basement of all hiding places, we return our various weaponry to the places from whence it came, go upstairs, and begin the Monday Morning Quarterbacking.
My mom has since handled every gun I own, and does not possess the physical strength to draw back a bolt or slide. She just can't, and it's our practice to leave chambers empty around the house. So, I'm looking into a revolver. It'll cost as much as a battlerifle probably, and it won't have near the utility.
The reason I write this is to show my respect for my brother. It just keeps climbing. I've observed him and his actions now for quite a while, and I'm hard-pressed to come up with a better, more practical person, and not just when it comes to handling the household weaponry. I can't go into it here, but I find it humbling to see in someone else the qualities I WISH to see in myself, especially in someone who I've been told doesn't possess them. But let's look at what he did right in this situation:
Traded up from a handgun to a carbine.
Moved through a big empty space fast, and only stopped when he had his back to something.
Cleared the hiding places and intersection fast.
Traded up from a carbine to a rifle when the opportunity presented itself.
Waited for backup before going any deeper into an unknown situation.
I doubt he'll read this, but for someone who's spent zip for time around the gun culture, that's pretty damn good for a first try, and deserves a slap on the back.
Oh and, we have no idea how the lights or TV came on. My mom hadn't been downstairs for about half an hour before they turned themselves on. It's a mystery.
Gander Mtn. will be getting a visit from me this week, and I'm definitely coming back better schooled in wheelguns than when I left.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Happy New Year
So here I am, 12 days after the new year. Busy as heck with a full-time job and school that's described as equal to a full-time job. Brief updates follow, but I'm not sure how much I'm going to be updating here. I gotta find some equilibrium between school and work before I can say "I'm going to write x essays and y posts a month."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Got Miami Vice for Christmas. Love that movie. Not as good as Heat, or Collateral, but better than 95% of the movies I've seen in my life.
I'm buying up the DS9 box-sets. It's my treat to myself for when school kicks in in full swing and there's nothing much else to enjoy in my day.
That giddily happy post I made a couple months ago? "Time is luck." "Luck ran out." That's from Miami Vice, and uttered in almost the same context.
I put a collapsible stock on Nancy Pelosi, my Election Day Assault Rifle. Lovin' it. Thinking of getting another one and outfitting it with a folding stock. I think 3 assault rifles and a couple companion rifles (go find the meaning of that term), should be enough. Now I want to get a taste of shotgunning. And go shooting more. BTW, my dad's 1911 works flawlessly. Apparently the smiths at Gander Mtn aren't complete morons.
I watched Blood Diamond on New Years Eve. Decent movie. I like seeing USPs featured so prominently, and characters that chamber-check their guns when appropriate. Of course it was a bleeding-heart liberal ending, but what else is one to expect.
Also went bowling on NYE, and enjoyed it once I'd pulled myself out of my funk. After bowling, my brother got pulled over for pausing at a red light instead of stopping. It's his own fault, but I still don't like it.
I've got roughly half of my New Years resolutions taken care of already, but monetarily, I still have to account for about two thirds.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm thinking I'll start posting song lyrics here - songs that I like or that I have running through my head.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Got Miami Vice for Christmas. Love that movie. Not as good as Heat, or Collateral, but better than 95% of the movies I've seen in my life.
I'm buying up the DS9 box-sets. It's my treat to myself for when school kicks in in full swing and there's nothing much else to enjoy in my day.
That giddily happy post I made a couple months ago? "Time is luck." "Luck ran out." That's from Miami Vice, and uttered in almost the same context.
I put a collapsible stock on Nancy Pelosi, my Election Day Assault Rifle. Lovin' it. Thinking of getting another one and outfitting it with a folding stock. I think 3 assault rifles and a couple companion rifles (go find the meaning of that term), should be enough. Now I want to get a taste of shotgunning. And go shooting more. BTW, my dad's 1911 works flawlessly. Apparently the smiths at Gander Mtn aren't complete morons.
I watched Blood Diamond on New Years Eve. Decent movie. I like seeing USPs featured so prominently, and characters that chamber-check their guns when appropriate. Of course it was a bleeding-heart liberal ending, but what else is one to expect.
Also went bowling on NYE, and enjoyed it once I'd pulled myself out of my funk. After bowling, my brother got pulled over for pausing at a red light instead of stopping. It's his own fault, but I still don't like it.
I've got roughly half of my New Years resolutions taken care of already, but monetarily, I still have to account for about two thirds.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm thinking I'll start posting song lyrics here - songs that I like or that I have running through my head.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Random Reflections Pt18
76. Apologies to the THR’er that I’m about to steal this from. A minister said as he handed in a bunch of .22 rifles at a gun buyback “I don’t believe in violence, I have faith.”
Whereupon the THR’er posted “Not believing in violence is like not believing in gravity. Don’t believe in it all you want, but don’t take away my parachute.” Dang straight.
77. I think humans have certain programming built in. There’s one set of hardcoded instructions I’d like to reference, and that’s fear of the dark.
There is no logical reason for humans to fear what darkness conceals. But we do. Our steps get tentative. Our breathing goes quick. We tense up. Our eyes move about more. I can’t think of a logical reason for this except for some sort of basic operating instructions printed on our genes.
78. I can’t figure out why people have such a problem with Myspace. I think it’s a generational thing. Elvis, The Beatles, Nirvana, violent video games, Myspace…every generation’s parents need something to hate.
Name me one thing that can be done on Myspace that can’t be done on your standard bulletin board, or by someone with a passing knowledge of Geocities. You can’t!
Myspace is representative of the internet. It is a place that people meet. It will be used for good or ill. It is a parents’ job to make sure that their child uses it responsibly – no one else’s.
79. The best way not to do something wrong or stupid is to not place yourself into situations where you could choose to do something wrong or stupid. Better to remove temptation as much as possible than find out the hard way your willpower ain’t up to the task.
80. Expanding on the “things I learned from programming” RR above, the only thing that matters is What IS. Wasting time living on What Isn’t or What Should Be is a state of delusion and a waste of life.
Whereupon the THR’er posted “Not believing in violence is like not believing in gravity. Don’t believe in it all you want, but don’t take away my parachute.” Dang straight.
77. I think humans have certain programming built in. There’s one set of hardcoded instructions I’d like to reference, and that’s fear of the dark.
There is no logical reason for humans to fear what darkness conceals. But we do. Our steps get tentative. Our breathing goes quick. We tense up. Our eyes move about more. I can’t think of a logical reason for this except for some sort of basic operating instructions printed on our genes.
78. I can’t figure out why people have such a problem with Myspace. I think it’s a generational thing. Elvis, The Beatles, Nirvana, violent video games, Myspace…every generation’s parents need something to hate.
Name me one thing that can be done on Myspace that can’t be done on your standard bulletin board, or by someone with a passing knowledge of Geocities. You can’t!
Myspace is representative of the internet. It is a place that people meet. It will be used for good or ill. It is a parents’ job to make sure that their child uses it responsibly – no one else’s.
79. The best way not to do something wrong or stupid is to not place yourself into situations where you could choose to do something wrong or stupid. Better to remove temptation as much as possible than find out the hard way your willpower ain’t up to the task.
80. Expanding on the “things I learned from programming” RR above, the only thing that matters is What IS. Wasting time living on What Isn’t or What Should Be is a state of delusion and a waste of life.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
An Anniversary Of Sorts
Not only do I get to wish everybody reading this blog (both of you) a very Merry Christmas, it's also my 100th post.
Seems like a lifetime ago since I sat down in a library somewhere, logged into a generic computer using a fake name, and decided to try my hand at the blogging thing. In reality, it's only been about a year and a quarter.
So here's to another year, another 100 posts, and most of all, peace and freedom for mankind.
Merry Christmas!
Seems like a lifetime ago since I sat down in a library somewhere, logged into a generic computer using a fake name, and decided to try my hand at the blogging thing. In reality, it's only been about a year and a quarter.
So here's to another year, another 100 posts, and most of all, peace and freedom for mankind.
Merry Christmas!
Tales From Retail Pt5
5.It’s Christmas Eve, and the store has been off-and-on busy all day. I got in at about 8:45am, I’m scheduled to be getting out at 6:00pm, and I’m wearily wondering why on earth we can’t just close the store so all these people can go spend some time with their families.
It’s about 4pm, and a biker gang walks in. Or should I say, they look like a biker gang. 5 BIG guys wearing jeans, denim and leather letter jackets, their hair is a mess and they’ve all got huge scraggly beards. I think “Ok, biker gang,” and my trouble radar perks up.
Yes, I know, bikers are usually nice people. I will say that I believe stereotypes usually exist for a reason, and it doesn’t ever hurt to be cautious.
Following these scruffy bikers are about 5 of the richest-looking women I’ve ever seen. Now, I’m not one spend lots of time hanging out in the women’s clothing department, but if any one of their coats cost less than $1000, I’d be surprised. Jewels, expensive hairdos, expensive shoes, the works…didn’t look like they’d ever shopped at Walmart.
So my night’s just gotten a little weirder, and I figure “What the heck, these guys aren’t going to do anything funny with this crowd of women in tow,” so go up to the first guy, who looks like a grizzly bear trying to walk among mankind for a day, offer my hand and say “Welcome to *redacted*. I’m *redacted*, anything I can help you find?”
He says no, and I move on to the next biker. The rest have scattered throughout the store, and when he says no he’s not looking for anything, I let him pass and turn to watch them. All the men’s letter jackets are labeled with a rose and a guitar, and say “Trans-Siberian Orchestra World Tour 2005-2006.”
This is not unusual. TSO was playing the arena two days later, and lots of people are wearing their merchandise. So, I decide to shmooze a little. I find the first guy and say “Wow, a Trans-Siberian fan! Gonna be at their concert on the 26th?”
His reply, “I should hope so, otherwise they won’t have a drummer.”
It is to my credit that I had the presence of mind not to kneel down and start praying in his direction. Looking at the band photos, I’m pretty sure I shook hands with either John O. Reilly or Jeff Plate.
They didn’t buy anything, but did ask where we kept the TSO CDs. I VERY politely informed them that we had sold out of everything except Beethoven’s Last Night. Then they left, and I felt like little ol’ me again.
So, ‘bout an hour later, two women enter the store. Late teens, early twenties, college age. One’s dressed like Han Solo, jeans, white button-up shirt, black vest. They’re not looking for anything, but I do note that they both have heavy European accents and it’s obvious English is not their first language, nor likely second or third.
After about 5 minutes, the Han-Solo-dressalike calls me over and requests a Beatles DVD. Now, it’s about 8 hours till Christmas and the store has been thoroughly cleaned out of everything except marijuana posters, CDs in the Finnish language, and novelty lip gloss on the Jessica Simpson label.
But, I found a DVD by A Beatle. A George Harrison DVD. I recall it was orange, and evoked psychodelic sensations in the eyes.
I bring it over to her, and notice she’s doing something with her hands. What the heck, over, she’s undressing…
She had her shirt unbuttoned down to her navel by the time I gathered up what senses hadn’t deserted me, handed her the CD, and had beat feet to the farthest corner of the store.
Oh yeah, and the registers choked at store closing, so I had to call the store manager at home (this is on Christmas Eve) at 7 at night to figure out how to find a “lost transaction.” I finally got home around 8pm.
It’s about 4pm, and a biker gang walks in. Or should I say, they look like a biker gang. 5 BIG guys wearing jeans, denim and leather letter jackets, their hair is a mess and they’ve all got huge scraggly beards. I think “Ok, biker gang,” and my trouble radar perks up.
Yes, I know, bikers are usually nice people. I will say that I believe stereotypes usually exist for a reason, and it doesn’t ever hurt to be cautious.
Following these scruffy bikers are about 5 of the richest-looking women I’ve ever seen. Now, I’m not one spend lots of time hanging out in the women’s clothing department, but if any one of their coats cost less than $1000, I’d be surprised. Jewels, expensive hairdos, expensive shoes, the works…didn’t look like they’d ever shopped at Walmart.
So my night’s just gotten a little weirder, and I figure “What the heck, these guys aren’t going to do anything funny with this crowd of women in tow,” so go up to the first guy, who looks like a grizzly bear trying to walk among mankind for a day, offer my hand and say “Welcome to *redacted*. I’m *redacted*, anything I can help you find?”
He says no, and I move on to the next biker. The rest have scattered throughout the store, and when he says no he’s not looking for anything, I let him pass and turn to watch them. All the men’s letter jackets are labeled with a rose and a guitar, and say “Trans-Siberian Orchestra World Tour 2005-2006.”
This is not unusual. TSO was playing the arena two days later, and lots of people are wearing their merchandise. So, I decide to shmooze a little. I find the first guy and say “Wow, a Trans-Siberian fan! Gonna be at their concert on the 26th?”
His reply, “I should hope so, otherwise they won’t have a drummer.”
It is to my credit that I had the presence of mind not to kneel down and start praying in his direction. Looking at the band photos, I’m pretty sure I shook hands with either John O. Reilly or Jeff Plate.
They didn’t buy anything, but did ask where we kept the TSO CDs. I VERY politely informed them that we had sold out of everything except Beethoven’s Last Night. Then they left, and I felt like little ol’ me again.
So, ‘bout an hour later, two women enter the store. Late teens, early twenties, college age. One’s dressed like Han Solo, jeans, white button-up shirt, black vest. They’re not looking for anything, but I do note that they both have heavy European accents and it’s obvious English is not their first language, nor likely second or third.
After about 5 minutes, the Han-Solo-dressalike calls me over and requests a Beatles DVD. Now, it’s about 8 hours till Christmas and the store has been thoroughly cleaned out of everything except marijuana posters, CDs in the Finnish language, and novelty lip gloss on the Jessica Simpson label.
But, I found a DVD by A Beatle. A George Harrison DVD. I recall it was orange, and evoked psychodelic sensations in the eyes.
I bring it over to her, and notice she’s doing something with her hands. What the heck, over, she’s undressing…
She had her shirt unbuttoned down to her navel by the time I gathered up what senses hadn’t deserted me, handed her the CD, and had beat feet to the farthest corner of the store.
Oh yeah, and the registers choked at store closing, so I had to call the store manager at home (this is on Christmas Eve) at 7 at night to figure out how to find a “lost transaction.” I finally got home around 8pm.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Tales From Retail Pt4
4.The first time I saw the man I call Rev, I thought he was literally retarded.
He was about 4 foot nothing, and equally sized through the x and z axis. He had a face and head like Danny Devito, except Danny Devito doesn’t have eyes that bulge out like a victim of strangulation. He was pushing a shopping cart loaded with CDs, and when I asked him if I could help him, he talked in a high, squeaky voice like Alvin The Chipmunk, speaking really fast and with a major lisp.
He was looking for parody Christmas CDs, and I kindly offered to order them for him. He accepted my offer, and after ringing up his transaction with nary a word of complaint, he rather rudely asks me if I’ve exempted him from the sales tax.
I didn’t know your average Joe was exempt, file the data away for future use under Taxes: Avoidance Of, and go get a manager higher than myself to help me figure out what to do when someone’s asking for something I can’t legally give them.
The manager OK’s it, and I process everything as tax exempt. He pays with a check. Labeled “First Church Of Cain.”
Now, I’m the first in line to say nobody should get special breaks on anything, but I find it even funnier when I have to give a Satanist priest tax exempt status on Christmas comedy CDs.
To be continued…later…
He was about 4 foot nothing, and equally sized through the x and z axis. He had a face and head like Danny Devito, except Danny Devito doesn’t have eyes that bulge out like a victim of strangulation. He was pushing a shopping cart loaded with CDs, and when I asked him if I could help him, he talked in a high, squeaky voice like Alvin The Chipmunk, speaking really fast and with a major lisp.
He was looking for parody Christmas CDs, and I kindly offered to order them for him. He accepted my offer, and after ringing up his transaction with nary a word of complaint, he rather rudely asks me if I’ve exempted him from the sales tax.
I didn’t know your average Joe was exempt, file the data away for future use under Taxes: Avoidance Of, and go get a manager higher than myself to help me figure out what to do when someone’s asking for something I can’t legally give them.
The manager OK’s it, and I process everything as tax exempt. He pays with a check. Labeled “First Church Of Cain.”
Now, I’m the first in line to say nobody should get special breaks on anything, but I find it even funnier when I have to give a Satanist priest tax exempt status on Christmas comedy CDs.
To be continued…later…
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Shi'ite Christians
Or:Very, very religious persons who don't know when to leave the h*ll enough alone.
I'm a fairly religious person. I have a strict code of ethics that by and large intersects with those laid down by Christ. I'm not a big one for praying (it's started to seem kind of hypocritical to say anything other than thanks, given that I know God ain't gonna protect me and mine from anything bad, why ask?) I wish I went to church more, but work doesn't allow. So, in no way, shape, or form is the following an attack on organized religion or any denomination or practice of Christianity.
I'm getting into the car after exitting the post office, and it being Wisconsin, and WI weather being what it is, I'm wearing my leather jacket, and the warmest shirt under it that I own - my Punisher sweatshirt. Which has the standard Punisher skull emblazoned spraypaint style on the front.
I've got one leg in the car when an overweight, late-middle-aged to early elderly gent steps down off the sidewalk in front of the car, approaches my door, and crooks a finger at me.This is somewhat odd. He looks like one of my old teachers, but not quite. Thinking that maybe my fly's open or I dropped a $20, and he's looking to Pay It Forward today, I get back out.
"Excuse me," says the man.
"Can I help you?" is my standard reply.
"There's one man in all of history who came to bring peace and everlasting life, only one, and his name is Jesus Christ. Whether you choose to accept him is up to you.
"I'm too busy trying to figure out what he's going on about to process his next words correctly, but I'm thinking it was something along the lines of "You must choose, but choose wisely." Sort of like from Indiana Jones, but not nearly so inspiring when it doesn't come from a 900 year old Crusader.
Getting defensive, I say "I am a Christian, what are you talking about?"
Serenely, he points at my shirt and replies "I see that symbol, and I am reminded of that man who came to bring..."
I cut him off. "This symbol's from a movie."
He raises a hand. "I mean no offense. I don't know if it is or not. But be that as it may..." He drones on for another moment about my choice and the man who came to bring everlasting life, while backing up and moving away.
"Thanks. Have a nice day." I get back into the car.
Still torques me off. This is the only problem I have with Christmas - not the (wonderful) marketing, not the commercialization - all the religious fruits come out of the cake. Unless I'm wearing something so...vile...that I'm breaking public decency laws, why do you give a damn what I wear, and who are you to try and tell me that my shirt (inferred) is a symbol of Satanism. It must be real ... nice to be that secure in your own righteousness that you can deign to lecture people you've never met before on how their clothing threatens their salvation.Adrian
I'm a fairly religious person. I have a strict code of ethics that by and large intersects with those laid down by Christ. I'm not a big one for praying (it's started to seem kind of hypocritical to say anything other than thanks, given that I know God ain't gonna protect me and mine from anything bad, why ask?) I wish I went to church more, but work doesn't allow. So, in no way, shape, or form is the following an attack on organized religion or any denomination or practice of Christianity.
I'm getting into the car after exitting the post office, and it being Wisconsin, and WI weather being what it is, I'm wearing my leather jacket, and the warmest shirt under it that I own - my Punisher sweatshirt. Which has the standard Punisher skull emblazoned spraypaint style on the front.
I've got one leg in the car when an overweight, late-middle-aged to early elderly gent steps down off the sidewalk in front of the car, approaches my door, and crooks a finger at me.This is somewhat odd. He looks like one of my old teachers, but not quite. Thinking that maybe my fly's open or I dropped a $20, and he's looking to Pay It Forward today, I get back out.
"Excuse me," says the man.
"Can I help you?" is my standard reply.
"There's one man in all of history who came to bring peace and everlasting life, only one, and his name is Jesus Christ. Whether you choose to accept him is up to you.
"I'm too busy trying to figure out what he's going on about to process his next words correctly, but I'm thinking it was something along the lines of "You must choose, but choose wisely." Sort of like from Indiana Jones, but not nearly so inspiring when it doesn't come from a 900 year old Crusader.
Getting defensive, I say "I am a Christian, what are you talking about?"
Serenely, he points at my shirt and replies "I see that symbol, and I am reminded of that man who came to bring..."
I cut him off. "This symbol's from a movie."
He raises a hand. "I mean no offense. I don't know if it is or not. But be that as it may..." He drones on for another moment about my choice and the man who came to bring everlasting life, while backing up and moving away.
"Thanks. Have a nice day." I get back into the car.
Still torques me off. This is the only problem I have with Christmas - not the (wonderful) marketing, not the commercialization - all the religious fruits come out of the cake. Unless I'm wearing something so...vile...that I'm breaking public decency laws, why do you give a damn what I wear, and who are you to try and tell me that my shirt (inferred) is a symbol of Satanism. It must be real ... nice to be that secure in your own righteousness that you can deign to lecture people you've never met before on how their clothing threatens their salvation.Adrian
Monday, December 11, 2006
Defining The Second Amendment?
Apparently, the gun-free high-crime utopia of Washington D.C. (they took a perfectly good swamp and turned it into the seat of government) has a lawsuit on its hands regarding the ownership of handguns. Seems they told 6 of their embattled citizens that they can't keep guns for protection, only for National Guard use, and said citizens are suing.
There's the very real possibility that this could go before the Supreme Court. The SCOTUS has refused to take gun cases before (one theory being that either way it goes, it could spark nation-wide strife of the ballistic variety), and the only way this could well for us is they could rule it's an individual right.
Alternatively, they could rule that it's only applicable to the National Guard (despite the fact that the US militia is comprised of every adult male, and has been defined as such since the beginning of the nation).
Then they could ignore it completely, and the case gets decided by a lower court, which will rule against us. The precedent there would not be good.
This sucks.
Meanwhile, 17 senators have written legislation that would bind the US with UN gun trade policies. The list of traitors reads like a who's who of the Democratic Party. Unfortunately, there's one surprise on there - the one Democrat I thought actually had their head on straight, Russ Feingold.
There are a few spots of good news: My Sig magazines (the Novaks I ordered) came, and work perfectly. And Dunham's is having a sale on rifle ammunition. I've got about $50 cash burning a hole in my back pocket, and I think Dunham's is as good a place as any to unload it.
There's the very real possibility that this could go before the Supreme Court. The SCOTUS has refused to take gun cases before (one theory being that either way it goes, it could spark nation-wide strife of the ballistic variety), and the only way this could well for us is they could rule it's an individual right.
Alternatively, they could rule that it's only applicable to the National Guard (despite the fact that the US militia is comprised of every adult male, and has been defined as such since the beginning of the nation).
Then they could ignore it completely, and the case gets decided by a lower court, which will rule against us. The precedent there would not be good.
This sucks.
Meanwhile, 17 senators have written legislation that would bind the US with UN gun trade policies. The list of traitors reads like a who's who of the Democratic Party. Unfortunately, there's one surprise on there - the one Democrat I thought actually had their head on straight, Russ Feingold.
There are a few spots of good news: My Sig magazines (the Novaks I ordered) came, and work perfectly. And Dunham's is having a sale on rifle ammunition. I've got about $50 cash burning a hole in my back pocket, and I think Dunham's is as good a place as any to unload it.
Tales From Retail Pt3
3. Being a manager, I frequently wound up closing the store with only one other employee after the Christmas rush died down. Usually it was with a guy around my age who I’ll refer to as Dave.
Dave was probably the best worker I’ve ever seen who didn’t get promoted to management. Absolutely unimpeachable character, but with an oft-alluded to shady set of friends.
Dave finishes checking out a line of people and comes to find me out on the floor. He says “If the police come here, I need you to back me up, ok?”
I might’ve not known to turn electrical appliances off before spraying them with cleaning solution, but I do know A Clue™ when I hear one. I asked what happened. He’s literally shaking he’s so mad. He says “I can’t talk about it right now, I’ll tell you later.”
The police don’t show up in the interregnum, and at the end of the night he tells me that a person from school, with whom he shares a mutual hatred pushed their way past customers to the front of the line.
“What are you doing?” Dave asked.
“Hey buddy, can you sell me some pot?” The person replies. He asked twice more and got rather loud and insistent about it while Dave was helping customers. Apparently, their long-standing feud had escalated to the point where the nemesis was attempting to get Dave arrested by hoping someone would phone in that he was a drug dealer.
Dave was probably the best worker I’ve ever seen who didn’t get promoted to management. Absolutely unimpeachable character, but with an oft-alluded to shady set of friends.
Dave finishes checking out a line of people and comes to find me out on the floor. He says “If the police come here, I need you to back me up, ok?”
I might’ve not known to turn electrical appliances off before spraying them with cleaning solution, but I do know A Clue™ when I hear one. I asked what happened. He’s literally shaking he’s so mad. He says “I can’t talk about it right now, I’ll tell you later.”
The police don’t show up in the interregnum, and at the end of the night he tells me that a person from school, with whom he shares a mutual hatred pushed their way past customers to the front of the line.
“What are you doing?” Dave asked.
“Hey buddy, can you sell me some pot?” The person replies. He asked twice more and got rather loud and insistent about it while Dave was helping customers. Apparently, their long-standing feud had escalated to the point where the nemesis was attempting to get Dave arrested by hoping someone would phone in that he was a drug dealer.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Tales From Retail Pt2
Sorry for the lack of updates. School's winding down (which means finals) and work is winding up (because of Christmas) and they're both combining to prevent me from writing very much either here or elsewhere. That said, for a while at least, there'll be a new Tales From Retail every Monday.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
2.I hate heights. My old store had high ceilings. With 2 banks of TVs attached. Those TVs needed to be cleaned about once every two weeks, or so I found out after Christmas. Guess who wound up doing that?
I haul the ladder out of the back (which is 3 times my height and weighs 3 times as much.) I only manage to drop it twice setting it up. I carry the paper towel and Windex up, and watch the music videos from closeup while I’m spraying and dusting the screens.
Hindsight is 20/20. I should’ve been intelligent enough to know then what I was about to learn.
The first bank of TVs goes ok. I haul the ladder to the second bank, and set it up. The placement is a little awkward since there’s a long browser of CDs right under the TVs. It strikes me that if I were to fall, I’d fall into the CDs.
I climb up with my cleaning supplies, dust the first TV, and spritz the second. I’ve wiped the screen half clean when I hear what sounds like a handclap. Both my hands spring open and I drop the Windex and paper towel, and I jerk backwards. I don’t know if my knees went weak, but I managed to grab the ladder and wedge my feet into the rungs enough to stay upward. I immediately come down, check myself for burns and other damage. My mouth tastes like iron.
When I told the manager about the incident later he laughed and said “I should’ve told you to turn the TVs off first.”
So yeah, that’s how I electrocuted myself on the job.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
2.I hate heights. My old store had high ceilings. With 2 banks of TVs attached. Those TVs needed to be cleaned about once every two weeks, or so I found out after Christmas. Guess who wound up doing that?
I haul the ladder out of the back (which is 3 times my height and weighs 3 times as much.) I only manage to drop it twice setting it up. I carry the paper towel and Windex up, and watch the music videos from closeup while I’m spraying and dusting the screens.
Hindsight is 20/20. I should’ve been intelligent enough to know then what I was about to learn.
The first bank of TVs goes ok. I haul the ladder to the second bank, and set it up. The placement is a little awkward since there’s a long browser of CDs right under the TVs. It strikes me that if I were to fall, I’d fall into the CDs.
I climb up with my cleaning supplies, dust the first TV, and spritz the second. I’ve wiped the screen half clean when I hear what sounds like a handclap. Both my hands spring open and I drop the Windex and paper towel, and I jerk backwards. I don’t know if my knees went weak, but I managed to grab the ladder and wedge my feet into the rungs enough to stay upward. I immediately come down, check myself for burns and other damage. My mouth tastes like iron.
When I told the manager about the incident later he laughed and said “I should’ve told you to turn the TVs off first.”
So yeah, that’s how I electrocuted myself on the job.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)