I get the idea of not scaring the people and letting them roam peacefully, free from distraction and awareness in condition-white. When we were taking cased-guns up into the Rendezvous Casino on the elevator we were seldom alone but the rifles were out-of-sight. Mostly other adult riders were in various stages of quiet inebriation and financial-loss – but often there were families with kids who were naturally inquisitive. Sometimes people mistook us for musicians, grunting and groaning under the weight of instrumentation – keyboards are damn heavy! Kevin Baker’s best line in response to such a what’s-in-the-box query was, “Percussion!”
But if it’s really a hair-ball SHTF situation with fire raining down from the heavens alternating on Wednesdays with a rain of frogs…then the cute little fake tennis-racquet holder for your AR might not really matter much. And if people are desperate and weird, that “Fender” or “Gibson” sticker on the guitar-shaped carry-bag might attract the attention of the wrong people – the looter type. Maybe then a golf-bag would be a better subterfuge because looters are seldom aroused by the small white-ball sport. They wear the wrong shoes, after all.
I really don’t do resolutions – really. But now we are up-country and out from under the pasty white thumb of the fluorescent-light BayAryans, so we are on a bit of a kick – kicking away from the fatted-calf of sloth and the zombie-life of Cubicleland.
One Christmas card from the wife of an old friend and mentor was starkly sad. His stroke ten years ago was bad, but the decline that set-in was permanent and irreversible in physical, mental, and also spiritual health.
We don’t want to go out like that and one of the conditions that works to prevent such is adding strength with weights – and actually it was my wife’s idea. Having dropped a few, WE are adamant at regaining strength so that we move towards greater agility and physicality in order to make the most of our Time remaining on this crazy cue-ball.
Despite the role-models that I do have (thanks Bill!) I was content to just move rocks – and that worked, but they’re dirty and lumpy-shaped and don’t belong indoors, and that work now is mostly done.
So now we have some weighty book-ends to remind us that sitting around can be productive. She is working with the Eights while I’ve got these Tenners to hoist in between glasses of local Cabernet and alternating with the Newcastle Brown. I’m going to have to up my game when she starts to reach for the Tens…
I dreamed I got the Magpul SGA shotgun-stock and set-up the Mossberg to run Lefty. I think because I’m still harboring uncertain thoughts about the right-handed (or wrong-handed) GG&G rear-QD mount. Also it came up (in Dreamstate) that I’m visually cross-dominant. True enough, my left eye drives my cerebral cortex – or something.
Anyhow, so I was dreaming away in Fantasyland that the sling fit better and I could manipulate it easily (some fantasy that!) and roll it to the side to stuff-shells into the bottom, and do the Shell-Shucking Dance of the 3-inch chamber. And when I awoke I actually remembered my dream.
Which is a 50/50 % kinda thing, I often remember dreams but the specifics get fuzzy (and fade after an hour) especially if I’m writing something in my dream. Like the Dream about Democrats I had with the theme: Divisiveness. I remember part of it but there’s about three paragraphs/points of argument that I couldn’t reconstruct so it remains incomplete:
Democrats are by definition Divisive.
They NEED #Feminism to incite anger and keep 51% of the population off-kilter and angry at Men, and for Men to be on the defensive.
They NEED and use #Race to incite People-of-Color to anger, and maintain an edgy and UN-equal stance against ALL people of Non-Color.
They use impressionable #Youth with all their naivety and inexperience to fight against the #Elderly – over property and their decades long accumulated materials because they hate Equity, earned and derived over time – and also hate Compounded Interest.
They use … and there I lost the thread.
So there I was in the clear light of the morning and remembering that which I did, I attempted to manipulate and handle the Mossberg 590 as a Lefty. There ARE certain things I can do as a Lefty that are far superior to my right-handedness, like throw a Frisbee – but I am not a natural lefty. Except for the cross-dominance. Which I might have actually taught myself a long time ago when I was a spindly Yout’ in order to stare-down a certain someone. The idea was along the lines of “Fierce Eyeball Terror-Gaze” and that didn’t work either, except once with one girl and it lead to something entirely different…
So long story short, it didn’t take. I can’t do it, but it seems like good a practice-item/agenda-issue though. Doesn’t work for me with the AR either, I tried.
Back in the Day, a booster shot was not something you bought a round-of at the Airport Bar. When I was a kid and we traveled overseas we had to get shots, a whole range of them, every damn time. The doctors who administered the inoculations filled-in the type of shot and date in a little yellow booklet that you carried with your passport. The booklet was from the W.H.O. – the World Health Organization. It was as closely examined as your passport, and if everything was not in order you didn’t cross the border. Can anybody explain why we’re not still following those protocols? “Open Borders” is retarded bullshit and utter nonsense when peoples’ lives are at stake. We spent a fortune of good will and our Treasury to get this system working properly and now idiots and agenda-driven morons are tearing it apart.
Once we were in-country we also had to get more shots ever six to eight months depending, booster shots. Diphtheria was one, and the Typhoid-Cholera was another. I hated it because it wasn’t just the pin-prick, it was what happened afterwards that filled me with dread. The Typhoid-Cholera booster I hated the most because it made your arm swell up and hurt for about three days. It was especially painful when you bumped it against something – even lightly – or if your older brother (or sister) gave you a punch in the shoulder. So you punched back, hard. Playtime during those days often consisted only of reading books.
To this day I really-really-really hate needles and getting shots, so much that I even avoid the Flu Shot. Another thing is I seriously can’t understand drug addicts who shoot-up. That is the most degrading thing you can do to yourself IMO, and a clear sign to me that they’re really and seriously fk*d-in-the-head. Mentally disturbed, big-time. I really hate needles. Diabetics I feel very sorry about.
Was all the recent Zombie-Apocalypse hype just battlespace preparation and war-gaming something like Ebola? And where can I get some more of that Hornady Zombie ammo? I like the green-tip bullets.
(UPDATED: to include weather information in Blue. Came home to a lull in the atmospherics.)
Happy to be home Sunday (94.1 °F) after the Rendezvous, among the rocks and gentle pools of rusty brown tanbark.
On Monday morning (87.4 °F) we yanked the cliff-side rosemary stump, leveled the ground, and built up the rock wall. In the afternoon we ran up to Hangtown and got eight bags of tanbark for the back-fill.
Tuesday morning (89.4 °F) we-filled the backside of the rock-wall with more dirt and cover, and spread more tanbark on locations where it was getting sparse.
Today (95.3 °F) we painted the plywood floors in the basement. It’s two staggered-height platforms, about 24-feet long and six to eight feet wide or so.
Busy-busy, no rest for the weary and the temps are goign up again – but its a dry heat.
While things and work around the place are progressing, I am somewhat constrained. The right knee is having a extended duration flare-up of tendonitis at the inner-knee location where the tendon adjoins the fibula – or whatever. Hurtz. It makes it difficult to Operate Tactically and do my usual Ninja-riffic Tacti-O-Rama Flying-Gunstrike Fu, with three holsters.
Instead I am back to a brace, ice, ibuprofen, and a tactical-wobble that works as a hobble. I’m not running away from trouble if it rears its shaggy awful head because I just can’t. I might shuffle. Or duck. Or crawl – no that hurts too. And all of it puts me to mind of ALL the Gun-Fu theatrics that I can’t hope to begin to emulate. So the Mind becomes the weapon, instead of an inanimate object imbued with juju, mojo, and a significance outside its own envelope.
Go forth and keep your magazines loaded.
It seems we DID move far-enough away, and onto a rock outcropping, so we felt nothing and our sleep was undisturbed. Watching the morning newscast with a hint of panic in the audio, it also seems apparent that some of the news-readers and standup camera-bodies chattering away are not originally from around here – or are so young then don’t remember Loma Prieta, which was 25 years ago.
I turned in the shower this morning, adjusting the bucket beneath my feet that collects body run-off gray water for the yard and plants, and something went *SprOOing!* HUH? Aw shit. It’s not my usual lower-back dork-up, it’s in a whole new spot on the right upper hip axis. I am reminded (again, dammit) that I am closer to 60 than 40, and that my bug-out bag’s role, conditions, and environment is changing. I’ve been doing a lot of squat and lift stuff with heavy rocks and feel great, my arms have never been stronger and more sinewy – but there’s always a tingle in the right knee when I turn direction or just get into bed. The Glucosamine-Chondroitin has a great placebo effect…
As a Brahmin-born BayAryan I was concerned in the past about The Earthquake being THE bug-out trigger event. Now that we live in Tinderland in the midst of a bone-dry drought, it’s Fire (and water) I’m worried about. But the bug-out bags are only getting heavier, and any much more and my wife won’t be able to carry hers.
As age and mobility issues arise, I realize that the two of us I can’t get very far with the whole “Gunny-Alternative REI ground-pounder” kind of backpacker shit. Maybe I need a bug-out vehicle rather than a hiking stick and a soon-to-be 90-lb Kelty pack – and that’s before I even pick up a rifle and ammo. One that can run the Rubicon Trail just over the hill? Some kind of spidery, rock-hopper rig that clings to granite and can make its own trail. Nothing with a rear-view camera to help drunk hipsters in city parking. Decisions, decisions…
We escaped to the hills from the clotted crowds of ugly city-suburban people, but maybe we didn’t get far enough. Anybody coming up here to escape the Upcoming Apoclypse/Maelstrom/Collapse will be in vehicles confined to a narrow asphalt ribbon, and maybe I should learn something about explosive so we locals can drop a couple of the freeway overpasses in order to impede the Hipster escape traffic. I understand from vague reports that there’s already a crew of guys like that in Arizona who are ready for the crowds streaming out of California on the southern freeway in the event of worse: .300 Win-Mag/.338 Lapua kinda stoppit-now sniper guys.
Also, while I was previously working on the Med-kit with a concentration on wound-issue stuff, but I now wonder if there’s a fire-bandage equivalent of QuikClot…? If not there should be.
UPDATE: Thanks for everybody’s feedback and comments, especially about the burn-gel impregnated bandages! Awesome!
Wanted to thank everyone who chimed on on the topic of Moto Carry.
I’ll be looking for a muzzle-down, retention-capable shoulder rig – and also some riding pants with belt loops so that cross-draw is an option. The main problem that I hear from most people when talking about shoulder carry is the draw-stroke and necessity of having to lift your opposite arm out of the way so you don’t muzzle yourself – the hand-on-haed draw. Meanwhile Weer’d has a take on the Galco (2010), but I’d have to opt for the vertical one.
The P245 is small enough that I could stuff it into my Moose enduro waist-belt with the rest of the tools – if I’m riding solo – and if I can find the damn waist-belt.
Wife wants me to get some more seat-time before she joins in on the bike, so probably a truck/bike trip to Tahoe is in the cards.
The top of the cover sheet is checked **APPROVED**… Just ONE month after the initial application. My second interview with the Detective went well. I guess I am really a pretty boring person with no “exciting” criminal history and nothing much to hide. Truth is my a Permanent Record is pretty “thin,” he said. I mentioned the speeding ticket and that I wasn’t sure how long ago it occurred – but apparently it was over five years so the overworked DMV dropped me off the hot-sheet.
Other stuff: Being born overseas I always wonder what the question about birthplace triggers – or if it even shows-up on the list (it must), because it always seems to raise a local eyebrow, but The Professional foreheads remain untroubled, with eyes clear as glass – like riding on a sea of botox. So anyhow I had with me my Naturalization and Immigration papers, including some 56-year old Consulate documentation and foreign Hospital pulp-paper — stuff the current President doesn’t even have available in faked-up pseudo .PDF file – and didn’t hear “Boo” about that either. As an International Child of Mystery, I’m disappointed and wonder who’s gate-keeping, but welcome being on the Good-Guys side finally. I think.
My new BFF the Deputy Sheriff checked the gun’ SN#’s listed on the application. I removed the Hogue monogrip on the Model-10 .38spl and put the stock stocks back on, because it hides the SN# that’s stamped onto the bottom of the frame with a stirrup-latch screw-pin holder thing. He was checking the spurious numbers stamped on the crane, and I had to direct his attention to the actual serial-number location.
I thanked him for his work and told him how much we liked living here compared to life among the Foggy BayAryans, and he smiled and said, “We pretty much believe in the Constitution up here…” – or words to that effect. Now for an appointment to pick-up and get the Permit! Woot!!
(Updated to reflect unexpectedness and various commentary)