We are not, sadly, not even to some parents who should at least begin that way. Nor are we all the same. We each have an unequal distribution of gifts, just starting with gender which presupposes a difference in upper-body strength. But don’t tell that to a 11 year old boy who just had his ass kicked by a girl. Maybe that is a memory-test.
There is much we can overcome, but it helps to be wired with a certain propensity for those things towards which we reach. Some reaches are beyond the reacher. Some are gifted musically, some linguistically, some physically, some politically, some artistically, some intellectually, some with “Beauty” and others with animal-magnetism.
And some have a heady cocktail mix of that which makes everything a turbulent frustrating struggle, while others travel with ease and an un-furrowed brow on still waters. The best thing about this country is we are not separated by Hereditary Titles of Nobility but by actual inherited physical differences, and those are legitimate.
So we each get to struggle, and in some kinds of struggle the athletes will win out over the intellectuals, and in other struggles the advantage is reversed. I’ve always been able to draw pictures, since I was small, to help make a memory-point, or explain an idea that words did not complete, but the same fluid-fingers are totally useless at music. So “creativity” is also unequally distributed. I find it odd that some people cannot draw a simple landscape-view or a person’s face, but other people can plot the financial outcomes of nations and the strategy of war, which I cannot.
At sports I was pretty fast and strong but not the fastest and strongest, pretty agile but not the most agile. Some sports, like basketball, are completely beyond me and hold no interest whatsoever – the enthusiasm for “March Madness” defies any and all of my comprehension, I never played much basketball since we lived overseas. I got stronger because I had to defeat my older and bigger brother – and I did.
My own physical tendency is to individual things where competition is not really central, because I’m not really interested in how well (or better) other people do the same thing – they are not me. I like to snorkel, but I’m a good swimmer and a lot of people have problems with open-water, or just water itself. Like shooting. I enjoy shooting competitively, but not because of the competition or any thought of “winning,” but because of the structure and organization that enables me to gauge my own personal progress. Some people care about winning and losing and keeping score. What color is that again? Like racing Enduros. I started riding late in life and “raced” as a C-Senior. Because I was persistent and showed-up at enough events I got the semblance of “Sponsorship.” But “Mistakes were made” and the color of that was purple – as in bruises and broken ribs, and the permanently bent finger. Before it was just a do-it-all hand, now it’s perfectly curved to grip a throttle or a gun.
High gray skies with a low-lying layer white cumulus in between the top-cover and the ground. Interesting muddle today. So we went down to the Evil City of Sleazeballs and Gov. Slimsuckers: Sack-O-Tomatos. It’s been a week since our last visit, and about three-weeks since our neighbor went into the Hospital, but she of the double brain aneurysm is visibly better than last time, and less at a loss for words. Therapy is keeping her busy, and last-time she complained saying, “I’m sorry I can’t be more articulate.” – but that right there was a good word-choice and a good sign. Today she was wearing her jogging shoes and it was other stuff to complain about, and we can tell she’s anxious to be out of the smelly facility and back home. I pointed to her shoes and told her she should make a break for it! She laughed.
Wednesday is septic-pumping at the new “other place,” and Thursday is the Inspection (and with that, Termite). I need to have a couple checks ready for the guys. State Farm declined to cover us because the zip-code is “high fire-danger” – but there are plenty of other homes out there, and this-here zip-code is also “high fire danger.” So…we got pointed to a broker who found a couple of mainstream biggies who will cover: both Travelers and Hartford. We’ll probably move our vehicles and all the rest to one of those…so bye-bye Snake Farm after thirty years. Things are looking up! Soon we’ll be measuring walls and painting at The Remote High-Chaparral Chalet, elevation about 3,100 ft.
It’s not really The End Of The World as We Know It – at least not for anybody else anyhow. But just for YOU the skies are on fire and frogs rain-down from heaven as the flood-waters rise. The rental-house burnt-down and the bug-out bag was in it, along with your cash reserves. It happened when you were at work and getting a surprise pink-slip after only a week – there’s no severance. So, laid-off (again), when you came outside your 12-year old truck wouldn’t start. The tow-fee to move the truck home cost more than the value of the rusted-out Chevy, and besides your tools to fix it were in the house, now three-feet deep in wet-ash slurry. It’s just YOU now – you don’t have anybody else to defend. Your now ex-wife got fed-up and took the kids with her back to Singapore about a month ago when the other job-contract ended, and she used the last of your United-Miles. Your credit card got cut-up a the grocery store when the limit was reached, and the un-paid bill was burnt in the fire. You moved to this remote town after a long and nearly fruitless job-search, and it was the last place your dwindling funds could take you… Sucks to be you, Job.
The Red Cross gives you a sleeping bag, socks, a toothbrush, a disposable razor, and a fresh pair of socks. Somebody left a shopping-cart down at the corner. No feeling-sorry, after-all you get to “re-invent yourself,” and you can now “launch a new career!” You get to let You be You. So what you’re carrying is the single piece you take-with when you’re turned-out – what is it? A rifle might look odd and attract attention as you push your cart down the street. Somebody might recognize and want to steal that precious M1 Garand. And where do you go, with no family to go-to? Do you head south where the weather is warm for sleeping-out? Does TSA frisk and wand people on the Greyhound now? You can’t afford much ammo or the weight that it adds – what do you take, Job?
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.