Time Magazine is despicable.

I saw the image below. And it brought tears of anger and sadness to my eyes.



I fear that words cannot adequately express my anger at the sight of this magazine cover. What those men sacrificed on, and around Suribachi that day transcends politics and agendas. The nobility of their sacrifices merits the humility and eternal gratitude of a nation that enjoys the freedoms resulting from their blood.

That anyone would usurp their valor in the name of advertisement sales is an insult of the gravest order. Time magazine has made it be known that the blood of our country's finest amounts to nothing more than a sensational advertisement for a bogus geopolitical cause. They have announced to the globe that nothing is sacred, and no heroism is beyond the reach of depraved sensationalism.

The knowledge that fine Marines who fought and bled on that island have and will see the icon of their sacrifice bastardized in the name of some pet cause wounds me deeply. My brothers, I apologize to you for what my generation has allowed your country to become.

While the folks at time magazine will never understand the idea behind the phrase, rest assured that some of us do. Semper Fidelis.

Kimberly Annette Yanov

Kim,

Twenty years ago today,

Would I have imagined that I'd never hold you again?
Never gaze into your almond eyes?
Never run to you as my only refuge in my maelstrom?
Never chase you through the freshly mown grass?

Could I possibly have known that I'd think of you daily?
That I'd still feel the emptiness?
That I'd pray for the infrequent visits you pay me in my dreams?
That I'd still feel the burning scar left on my soul as your mother wailed in my arms?

Would I have ever imagined the damage loss can do?
That a major portion of my life would be shaped and twisted by pain?
That I'd spend years in a chemical haze running from it?
That I'd be so angry at the numbness which caused the precious memories fade?

Would I have ever invisioned the rage I'd feel at the world?
The rage at how unfair life and death can be?
The rage at forces that would take you from us all?
The rage at god for not allowing me to take your place?

Would I ever have conceived the ache that persists?
That I'd still drive lonely stretches of road conversing with your memory?
That I'd still see glimpses of your face in the crowd?
That I'd still be crushed when that glimpse crystalizes, and is not you?

Would I ever have believed that I've gone on this long?
That I could survive even one more day?
That I could defeat the temptation to pass through the barriers and join you?
That I could find comfort without numbness?

Would I ever have guessed that I'd still feel guilty?
Guilty for not being there when you left?
Guilty that it was you and not me, when you were so deserving of life, and I was not?
Guilty for not following you to the next world?

Would I ever have understood that I could feel love again?
And that it is real?
And that she would pull me from the storm?
And that she would return life to me?

Would I ever have accepted that I could be happy?
That I'd ever have a beautiful family?
That I'd wish I could introduce you to them as my dearest friend?
That my happiness would be tainted with guilt?

Twenty three years ago,
I swore I'd never let you go.
I have kept my promise.

Christmas Eve...

Ok. So it's Christmas Eve. And as such, I feel like sharing the events of a Christmas Eve past.

Date: December 24, 1990.
Place: USS Tarawa. Persian Gulf.

You have to understand. We were not happy. It was Christmas Eve, and we were stuck on a Navy tub bobbing around thousands of miles from home. We were packed into berthing areas like sardines. It smelled like ass and feet. Lines for chow ran up, and then back down the length of this large ship. Everyone was miserable.

I was attached to Headquarters Company 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines. We shared a berthing area with a Recon platoon. Let me tell you, those Recon guys are crazy batshit insane. We generally left them alone, and they left us alone. We didn't want any part of their reindeer games.

The mood on the ship had not been pleasant. On multiple previous occasions, we'd had force-on-force fistfights in the ship's large, spacious well-deck. Maybe two weeks prior, I was involved in a brawl which basically boiled down to Golf Company 2/5 versus Headquarters and Fox 2/5. Yeah. That was about 200 guys on one side, versus about 100 on the other. Fighting. Brawling. Blood. Marines like to fight. And we'd been cooped up on that damned ship for too long, and we were starting to fight each other just to combat boredom.

Now, back to Recon. Recon platoon had a little desk in front of their berthing area where they kept some paperwork and such. On this desk, in the holiday spirit, they'd placed an inflatable Santa Claus. Well, at some point after evening chow, Santa Claus was discovered deflated. Deflated by an apparent knife wound. All hell was about to break loose.

Probably an hour after this discovery, an officer appeared in the berthing. He was wearing the telltale scuba-bubble insignia that indicated he was Recon. As he enters the berthing area, one of the Recon guys yells "ATTENTION ON DECK." The Recon lieutenant did NOT put us "at ease" or issue an "as you were." No. This man had something to say.

"GENTLEMEN. SANTA CLAUS HAS BEEN KNIFED. AGGRESSION. WILL. BE. MET. WITH. AGGRESSION!"

Forty guys yell "HOORAH!"

"YOUR HONOR AS MARINES, AS RECON, AS THE ELITE AMONG THE ELITE HAS BEEN ATTACKED. YOU HAVE BEEN ATTACKED UNPROVOKED BY A NUMERICALLY SUPERIOR FORCE. WE HAVE FACED NUMERICALLY SUPERIOR FORCES BEFORE, HAVE WE NOT!?"

"HOORAH!"

"Intelligence reports indicate that Golf Company, two-five has perpetrated this attack, completely unprovoked. Gentlemen, you know what must be done. You know where. You know how. YOU ARE RECON AND YOU WILL AVENGE SANTA CLAUS!"

"HOOOOOOORAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Within a few minutes they'd assembled and developed a plan of attack. And clonkclonkclonk down the ladder-wells they went with a mighty war-cry. We could hear the sounds of battle below us for a good ten or fifteen minutes. It sounded truly fearsome. Yells. Screams. The sound of limbs and heads hitting steel decks, pipes, racks, bulkheads, and whatever else was around. Eventually, Recon emerged up the ladder-well, clearly victorious. Celebratory "hoorahs" and assorted other motivational terms were commonplace. After a minute or two, one of the NCOs yells "Squad leaders, get me a head count!"

There's some commotion, and shuffling, and general sounds of organization happening. And over these general and familiar sounds, a question begins to get repetitive. "Williams? Where's Williams? You guys seen Williams? Last time I saw him, he had that skinny guy in a headlock beating him with a combat boot... anyone see Williams after that? Williams?"

Uh oh. Recon had an MIA. And we had a front row seat. The Recon NCOs were absolutely flipping out at this point. One of them gave a quick motivational speech. "WE NEVER LEAVE A BROTHER BEHIND. NEVER. WE WILL RESCUE WILLIAMS!" And with another "HOOORAAAAAAAAAAH" and the clonkclonkclonk of boots on the ladder-wells, down they went to recover their MIA marine, captured in the heat of battle by Golf Company.

Unfortunately, they returned empty handed. Dejected. Bloodied and defeated. We could hear the NCOs debating involving the lieutenant. Involving an officer in this sort of thing, particularly an MIA on a friendly ship was NOT going to be pretty. Fortunately, this dilemma was solved for them fifteen minutes later.

The ship's MPs brought Williams back. He was naked. He was glowing green. He had "F-A-G" written in giant block letters on his chest and back. MPs drug him over to Recon's berthing. "This guy belong to you?"

"Yeah, he's ours, what the hell?!"

"You care to tell us why his glowing naked ass was running around on the flight deck during flight ops? The 'exec' is a bit pissed."

I couldn't hear the rest of the conversation. I was knotted up on the floor laughing. But, I caught enough of the story to figure out what happened in general terms. Williams was "captured" by Golf 2/5. They stripped him down and wrote the epithets on his chest and back in permanent marker. They then cut open a dozen glowsticks and dumped the glowing yellow-green liquid all over him. After that, they drug him to one of the hatches that opened on the flight deck, and threw him through it, and then held it closed behind him. After that, a cobra pilot on approach, preparing to land on the deck reported a "glowing naked green guy" hiding behind a parked/tethered CH53 helicopter sitting on the flight deck. From there, the ship's Executive Officer ordered the ship's MPs to detain and question the "glowing naked green guy," and bring him someone's ass on a silver platter.

I don't know about asses on platters, but I know I couldn't breathe for a couple of days because my abs hurt so bad from laughing.

Oh yeah, and Christmas day sucked. It's always going to suck when you're thousands of miles from home, friends, and family.

Handgun Reliability

All the manufacturers make the claim. They all claim that you can trust your life to their pistols. Well, how does that stack up to our experiences? Can their claims be trusted? I decided to find out just how we perceive this reliability. So I conducted a poll on The High Road, which is a very popular firearms forum with many tens of thousands of users and shooters.

I have to provide some caveats for the poll though. It was COMPLETELY unscientific. It's results can't be relied on for much of anything. I asked the same question for each manufacturer and a specific "line" of their pistols. You can see the raw results of the poll below. You'll have to click it to view it properly.



Now, these results can be misleading unless you understand the questions, and the way I framed them. The questions asked are EXACTLY as you see them in the results graphic above. What is NOT mentioned, is that I did not define "serious reliability issues." So the respondents are using their own definition to formulate their response. Also, there's no accounting for "break in" or other factors which may or may not have been a factor in a respondent's decision on which box to check.



I decided to sort the data, and put together a graphic displaying percentage results per shooter. For each line, I totaled the number of respondents which claim to have either had no problems, or serious problems, and then derived a percentage. For example, we had 50 respondents claim to have Sig P series. Five of them claimed to have had serious reliability issues with them.

Again, there are controls missing which may skew perception. We do not know if those five people claiming to have had "serious reliability issues" owned ONE Sig, or FIFTY Sigs. Obviously, someone who's owned fifty Sigs, will have a much higher likelihood of owning at least ONE which had a reliability problem. So we cannot tie these results to the reliability rates of the guns. I repeat... THIS DATA LOGICALLY CANNOT BE TIED TO THE RELIABILITY RATES OF THE FIREARMS. It can only serve as an unscientific indicator of the shooter's experience. How many guns with which he has experience, is not known nor displayed. Once again, you'll have to click it to view it properly.

I don't know about you, but this is a bit frightening to me. Sig Sauer's marketing slogan is "To Hell and Back Reliability." Yet one in ten Sig shooting respondents claim to have had "Serious Reliability Issues." And my god, look at Kimber.

I'm not advocating that you make purchasing decisions based on this information. In fact, I highly discourage you from doing so. This poll was unscientific, it's data collection method had no controls. There was no entity verification. There was no verification that a respondent had even ever SHOT the firearms about which he responded.

But if nothing else, it's an interesting look into perception and reliability.

And a cartridge in a bare tree...

When I first said it, it made my ten year old groan. Then I actually did it. Then I took a photograph of it. I'm sure one day this will all come up in a certification hearing. Though, I suppose my family could provide plenty of ... ammo ... for the courts in the event they ever decide to officially question my sanity.


Then there's the tree. Ok, yeah, we went "Griswald." Why does the tree always look so much smaller out in the field than it does when you get it in the house? So yeah, our tree bends over at the ceiling because it's too tall. Or maybe the ceiling's too low. Either way, I find it hilarious.

Then there's the Christmas Tire. Yes, you read that right. Christmas Tire. This could probably find its way into Jeff Foxworthy's act. But you need some background for the Christmas Tire. I'm a scrooge. A grinch. HUMBUG. Now, my wife is quite the opposite. She's all about the Christmas spirit and all of the nonesense that goes with it. It drives her nuts that I'm not. But she's a creative girl. She asked me one day, "hey, the solstice is on the 21st, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, after the 21st, the days start getting longer, right?"

"Uh, yeah"

"So if I took one of your race tires and made a wreath out of it, would you celebrate the season, because it signals the slide towards riding season?"



She kind of had me. I had to concede and be less grinchy.

Brass

Big heaping piles of it. Pictured (via horrible cell phone camera) is a large box, overflowing with 9mm brass. I've been decapping and resizing it to prepare it for reloading. I bet there are five thousand casing there. I have yet to trim and tumble them. Man am I going to have one huge freakin' pile of 9mm ammo when I'm done with that lot.

Button Buck.

I got a little button buck yesterday. That's not interesting. I don't think that deer hunting is particularly interesting at all. For me, hunting's about putting marksmanship skills to practical use. And here in WV (at least in this area) it's a rare shot on a deer beyond a couple of hundred yards. The VAST majority of shots on deer around here will likely be closer to 50 yards. I think missing a deer with a slingshot at 50 yards would be inexcusable marksmanship. I've never missed a deer. I've never needed more than one shot on a deer. But the longest shot I've ever had was maybe, 85 yards. That particular shot did actually require a degree of marksmanship because of the angles. It allowed me about a four inch target to make a clean kill. I hit exactly where I was aiming. But I digress...

Shooting a button buck at 65 yards (my shot yesterday) isn't really any display of marksmanship at all. So, that's not the interesting part to me, even if the bullet actually did pass directly through the deer's heart. Yeah, ok, it was a decent, if not easy shot. But what IS interesting to me, is that I recovered the bullet when field dressing the deer. It was a 150gr soft-point. When recovered, it weighed 79.5 grains. More than half that bullet's mass was just gone. Wonder where it went? The bullet opened up like a flower. It did exactly what it was designed to do, how it was designed to do it. But where'd the mass of that bullet go? Interesting. And I have no answer.

"You a cop?"

So I'm a professional geek. And I have this t-shirt. It's all black, and says simply RTFM in block white letters. It's an industry acronym I'm sure some of you have heard. It stands for Read The F###### Manual. It's a standard response for that annoying user that's asked you the same question five times over the past four days which is plainly answered in page one, paragraph one of the manual.

My laundry cycle has just worked out several times over the past few months such that I happen to wear this RTFM t-shirt on range day. I assure you, it was not a conscious choice.

I do a lot of draw-fire speed drills when I'm shooting pistols at the range. I generally hit my target, and do it reasonably fast. My split times aren't anywhere near competitive, but I'm not exactly slow. I also practice firing from retention a lot at very close range - 3 yards or so. Around here, not many people shoot like that, so it tends to attract some attention. I've found that ringing a 12" steel plate @200 with irons on an AR does too, even though it's nuthin' special. But I digress...

The past three range trips where I've worn that RTFM shirt and shot pistols, people have approached me to make smalltalk. You know the deal. "Whacha shootin? I have a $some_pistol, and it's a real good shooter. Hey, what's the deal with that crazy fast thing you're doing with the target all close?" Et cetera. I'm always polite. I take the time to explain the tactical merits of shooting from retention up close. I enjoy talking about their guns more than I enjoy talking about my own. I know my own guns. Theirs I may know nothing about. I digress again...

Anyway, the question's asked every single time. "You a cop?" Sometimes, it's in the form of a statement. "You must be a cop." My response to this is always the same, and I have to admit, I get a little mental chuckle out of it.

"Nope."

*uncomfortable silence*

I'm CERTAIN they think I'm lying and are wondering why.

But it just dawned on me. Every single time I'm wearing that shirt, during the uncomfortable silence following "nope," they're STARING INTENTLY at the letters RTFM on my t-shirt. And... I just started cracking up for no apparent reason a few minutes ago, completely confusing my wife. They're staring at RTFM trying to figure out what agency RTFM is.

Suddenlink is horrid.

So, if you're in WV, you're dealing with Charter cable being bought up by Suddenlink. Well, let me relay my experience with suddenlink.

They suck.

I cannot get support for my service because their input forms on thier website are hosed. They require that you input your zip code before they'll even give you a phone number to call. When I put my zip code in, it either tells me it's invalid (gee) or "an application error has occurred."

Pa-Thet-Ic.

So I can't even call them. I'll find the number via some non-internet means and call. But how pitiful is that?

Uptime. Suddenlink apparently can't keep cable connections up. And when you call, you get some flunkie who doesn't know anything about anything networking. The only thing they understand is the script in front of them which is basically a block of "if(){}elsif(){}" stuff printed on paper. I don't know why they even bother using people. The people are apparently trained to behave like software.

LISTEN SUDDENLINK, SOME OF US KNOW MORE ABOUT NETWORK SYSTEMS THAN YOUR TIER 3 BUSINESS SUPPORT. WE DO NOT ENJOY TALKING TO ROBOTS. EVEN IF THEY ARE OF THE HUMAN VARIETY.

So.... apparently lead time for a site visit to get a suddenlink wire monkey out to check the power/signal levels on the circuit's somewhere in the neighborhood of five days. And yeah, it's one of those "we'll be there sometimes between 1PM and 12:30PM. (yes, that would mean the next day.)

Here's my advice people. If internet connectivity is important to you and you're in West Virginia? Go with (in this order of support/clue) nTelos DSL, Fibernet DSL, Verizon DSL, ATT Dialup, Suddenlink Cable.

Yes, I'm about this close to cancelling my suddenlink account and returning to dialup service since DSL can't reach me.

Ronnie? Ronnie who?

I have no idea what reminded me of this. But recently a childhood memory came to mind. It's pretty messed up. And if this blog has any readers, they're well aware that when I say "messed up," I generally mean it.

Here's the scene. It's maybe December, maybe January. The previous night, freezing rain accumulated on everything for several hours. Following that, there was a light dusting of snow. The road that ran past my house ran uphill at a moderate incline for maybe a tenth of a mile. After that, there was a moderatly flat sweeping left-hand turn. After that, it was about a 10% grade straight uphill for about a quarter mile with a slow S turn in the middle.

Now here I am, maybe 11 years old. School's canceled. I walk outside and realize that the road is two inches of solid ice with maybe a quarter inch of snow on top. In my limited experience, one thing was certain. A runner sled would flat FLY on this surface. So I go into the garage, get the sled, and treck the half mile or so up to the top of the hill. I gather my nerve, and down the road I go. I'm certain I reached speeds of forty to fifty miles per hour coming down the road. Of course, it felt like I was approaching the sound barrier, but it was just awesome.

So, after a couple of runs, I invite my friends Matt and Ronnnie over to share in this wicked sledding near my house. They show up, and an entire day of some of the best sledding I ever experienced ensues.

Well, dusk arrives, and we're all exhausted. It's a long walk up that slippery hill. Matt and I have had enough. It was oh so fun, but neither of us had another walk up that hill left in us. Ronnie on the other hand, wanted to take one last run. Matt and I agree to wait on him to take his last run, then we'll all go inside and grab some hot chocolate courtesy of my mom.

Ronnie disappears around the curve, going up the hill, and Matt and I are left on the moderate grade just before my house. Really bad ideas start to appear in my tired brain. "Hey Matt, look at these big round ice-blocks the plows left beside the road."

"Yeah, what about 'em?"

"Let's set up a slalom for Ronnie. He'll come around the curve, and he'll have to juke left-right-left-right to get past 'em. It'll be cool."

"Hmm, yeah, ok, let's do that."

So Matt and I set up this chicayne. We stage these two-foot by two-foot by six-foot walls of ice halfway across the road. We stagger them about fifteen feet apart, and each one on alternate sides of the road, extending about halfway across. Not really understanding the physics involved with a sled going forty miles per hour, we didn't realize that it would've been impossible for a formula one race-car to make turns so quickly, let alone a runner sled struggling for grip on solid ice.

We hear the clickityclackety of Ronnie's sled coming down the road and start laughing and giggling like little girls. I remember Ronnie's eyes being the size of dinner plates when he saw the first wall of ice and turned to avoid it. And he did avoid it. But there was no avoiding the second wall. Pow. Ronnie hits the second wall. The sled basically stops. Ronnie goes airborne and slams into a telephone pole which bounces him back into the road spreadeagled and unconcious. I will never forget the sight of Ronnie spreadagle, sliding slowly down the road rotating around and around. He comes to a stop about fifteen feet from my driveway. He's not moving. I look at Matt and say "Oh damn man, I think he's knocked out."

Matt turns to me and says "Knocked out hell. He's fucking dead man," then starts madly clearing our "chicayne" off of the road.

"No way, you think? Naw, he's just knocked out."

"Dude, did you SEE that? He's fucking dead man. I'm going home." And off goes Matt walking home, right past Ronnie, dragging his sled behind him.

So I walk down to Ronnie. "Ronnie, wake up. Dude, wake up." Nothing. I think "Crap, maybe Matt was right." So I ... well, er... I just went inside.

"Hey mom, can I have some hot chocolate?"

"Sure, I'll make you some."

At this point I realize that the kitchen window where mom's making me hot chocolate has a great view of the road outside my house. Too late.

"Is that Ronnie out there?"

"Where?"

"Out there on the road! Oh my god! Is that Ronnie!?"

And out the door dashes my mom. Fortunately, Ronnie comes to while my mom's down there freaking out. She brings a very, very dazed Ronnie into the house who can't remember a damn thing. I of course get interrogated. "Dude, I don't know what happened. Matt and I were tired, you wanted to take one more run. Matt went home, I came inside. No idea what happened." No one but Matt saw a thing that could dispute this story. I know Matt never told anyone. I know I damn sure didn't.

If Ronnie reads this entry, I promise it'll be the first time he learns what really happened that day.

Shreddin' the twisties

The AWR. So coined by personas known locally and internationally as "Pants" and "Slick." The AWR is the "after work ride." Couple of years ago, I managed to raz a co-worker into submission through ceasless nagging and ribbing. On a beautiful sunny day, I'd walk in wearing my leathers and go "hey man, where's your bike?" I did this about every other day for a couple of years. Finally, he went out and bought a CBR600RR. Probably did it just to shut me the hell up.



Well, today, we both rode to work. As such, we decided to do the AWR thing. Went down corridor G, then headed west on route 3 to route 34, and north to Winfield. Was a great ride. Even managed to get over on my tires a bit. I didn't put a knee down anywhere, but we were gettin' through the corners at a pretty good clip. Sometimes, the zen of a good ride on twisty WV roads is exactly what a man needs.

Escape.

A friend of mine's father was in ailing health. I feel guilty that I hadn't really paid a lot of attention to the guy until he was in pretty bad shape. Once I started listening to what he had to say, I felt like an idiot for not listening all along. He had some profound things to say, and had a way of saying them that was unique.

To elaborate, my friend had hit some really hard times. Some really bad stuff had gone down, and we were at his dad's house. Things were so bad for my friend at the time, that anywhere around supportive family was better than anywhere else. I was seriously concerned he may kill someone. Seriously, it was bad.

In the midst of dealing with this mess, my friend went outside for some air, and to stew in his own thoughts. When he walked out the door, his ailing father looked at me said said, "You need to take that boy fishin." I looked at him quizzically, thinking, but not saying "gee, how in the world is 'fishin' gonna help anything in this mess?"

He continued, possibly in response to my quizzical look. "When that bass hits, a man ain't got a care in the world."

Now, I'm not even an amateur angler. I fish a good bit. But my friend's now deceased father's words have been ringing in my ears for years now. "When that bass hits, a man ain't got a care in the world." The more I think about that, the more true it is. When that bass hits, the universe is boiled down to two points connected by a piece of nylon line. There is no crime. There is no welfare. There is no war. There is no long-running family disagreement. There was no argument last night. There is no poverty. There is nothing but a bass, a line, and you.

The fight might last all of thirty seconds. But for that thirty seconds, there are only two things in the entire universe. You, and that bass. And in the end, if he breaks the line or spits out the hook, it's really the same as if you land him on the bank or in the boat. For an instant, all of existance was boiled down to two points and a line.

Network Engineer's Nightmare

Literally. A nightmare.

You know how when you get steeped in something in the waking world, sometimes it bleeds over to your dreams. Like, guys who work in supply warehouses start having dreams about millions of boxes. Stuff like that. Well... damnit, it's happened to me.

Recently, I've been doing a *lot* of network design. I've been working nearly constantly with switches, routers, redunant gateways, redundant physical paths, (insert long line of technical jargon like Virtual Router Redunancy Protocol and Spanning Tree Protocol etc...) to the point of madness.

Well, last night, I dreamed I was standing in front a switch. A big Cisco switch. Now, when I say big, I don't mean it had a lot of ports in it. I mean the damned thing was BIG. Like, six feet tall. The data ports on it were three or four feet across. The patch cables that went into it were a good three feet around. The problem in this dream, was that we didn't have enough of these ENORMOUS patch cables. And unfortunately, we had a major uptime requirement that just couldn't be broken. The systems must stay up. There were two of us. And we came up with an idea to keep the systems up. My co-worker would go into the switch (and by into, I mean literally walk into the damned thing instead of log into it) and try to implement a software work-around. My job? Switching frames.

Yes. The frames were about four feet long, translucent, weighed about a pound, and were maybe four inches wide and three inches tall. I could read the source and destination mac addresses that were etched into these "frames." They came out of one giant switch port, and my job was to read the source and destination mac addresses off of them, and carry them over to the correct destination port, and throw them in. Yes. I was a VLAN.

I nearly woke up screaming.

I think I need to find a new career as a construction laborer or something.

So sayeth the flatlander....

"yeah but your whole state is like goddamned afghanistan with trees and moonshine"

-- unnamed friend from flyover country.

There's literary art in West Virginia. Just ask Bigfoot.

So, just to prove that we're not all NASCAR watching, budwieser drinking, harley riding on sundays in leather chaps, banjo playing, tobacco chewing, inbred, one toothed, backwoods, bumpkins the State of West Virginia has decided to incentivize the state's youth to participate in the literary arts. Yes, folks, we're having a poetry contest. About monster trucks. Yes, you read that right, monster trucks.

While I'm sure that great literary works have been written about less classy subjects, I'd imagine most of them were composed by drunken irishmen or sailors on shore leave. I, for one, cannot wait to read "Ode to Bigfoot."

Paging Peregrinus... paging Peregrinus...

Cowards! Caving to terrorists LEGITIMIZES TERROR!

Pathetic.

Some of you may have read that I sent a nastygram to Comedy Central's feedback department about thier censorship of the South Park Episode. I got a form-email response. Note that it took SEVERAL days, so they must be innundated with correspondence like mine. That or they recieved so much, they had to wait on thier legal department to formulate a mass-response.

Anyway, here's the drivel they sent me:

"Dear Viewer,


Thank you for your correspondence regarding the "South Park" episodes entitled "Cartoon Wars." We appreciate your concerns about censorship and the destructive influence of outside groups on the media, entertainment industry and particularly Comedy Central.

To reiterate, as satirists, we believe that it is our First Amendment right to poke fun at any and all people, groups, organizations and religions and we will continue to defend that right. Our goal is to make people laugh and perhaps, if we're lucky, even make them think in the process.

Comedy Central's belief in the First Amendment has not wavered, despite our decision not to air an image of Muhammad. Our decision was made not to mute the voices of Trey and Matt or because we value one religion over any other. This decision was based solely on concern for public safety in light of recent world events.

With the power of freedom of speech and expression also comes the obligation to use that power in a responsible way. Much as we wish it weren't the case, times have changed and, as witnessed by the intense and deadly reaction to the publication of the Danish cartoons, decisions cannot be made in a vacuum without considering what impact they may have on innocent individuals around the globe.

It was with this in mind we decided not to air the image of Muhammad, a decision similar to that made by virtually every single media outlet across the country earlier this year when they each determined that it was not prudent or in the interest of safety to reproduce the controversial Danish cartoons. Injuries occurred and lives were lost in the riots set off by the original publication of these cartoons. The American media made a decision then, as we did now, not to put the safety and well being of the public at risk, here or abroad.

As a viewer of "South Park," you know that over the course of ten seasons and almost 150 episodes the series has addressed all types of sensitive, hot-button issues, religious and political, and has done so with Comedy Central's full support in every instance, including this one. "Cartoon Wars" contained a very important message, one that Trey and Matt felt strongly about, as did we at the network, which is why we gave them carte blanche in every facet but one: we would not broadcast a portrayal of Muhammad.

In that regard, did we censor the show? Yes, we did. But if you hold Comedy Central's 15-year track record up against any other network out there, you'll find that we afford our talent the most creative freedom and provide a nurturing atmosphere that challenges them to be bold and daring and places them in a position to constantly break barriers and push the envelope. The result has been some of the most provocative television ever produced.

We would like nothing more than to be able to look back at this in a few years and think that perhaps we overreacted. Unfortunately, to have made a different decision and to look back and see that we completely underestimated the damage that resulted was a risk we were not willing to take.

Our pledge to you, our loyal viewers, is that Comedy Central will continue to produce and provide the best comedy available and we will continue to push it right to the edge, using and defending the First Amendment in the most responsible way we know how.

Sincerely,
Comedy Central Viewer Services"


Yeah. Wimps.

Oh, and google, you're wimps too. I couldn't upload mohammed.gif. I had to rename it. Damned cowardice is running rampant.

Here, I'll do something you didn't have the balls for:

Comedy Central and Muhammed

What I pasted into the feedback form on comedy central's website regarding South Park and censorship (apparently comedy central would not let them air an image of muhammed):

"Assuming the plotline of South Park is correct, your cowardly retreat from the first amendment is not respresentative of the spirit of freedom upon which this country is based.

I have changed the channel. I won't be seeing any more comedy central commercials."

I should get a nice drawing of muhammed and put it on this blog.

Sometimes it's a shame.

It's a shame that the local Little League baseball league is run by petty, vindictive, power hungry little beaurocrats. It's a shame because it hurts the game. It's a shame because it hurts the kids. It's a shame because it's been that way since I played at that field 20+ years ago. It's a shame because I won't expose my son to them. It's a shame because the kid hits every fastball and knuckleball I throw down the pipe. It's a shame because he has all the fundamentals, and he won't be playing.

Busy weekend

I had a really busy weekend. Trust me, I'm really, not ever, going to use this blog as a diary or journal, but hear me out. This weekend I recieved some cultural exposure that's pretty darned rare for me. You have to keep in mind that if I'm not fighting at the dojo, learning to fight at the dojo, or shooting stuff at the range, I'm probably at work. "Culture" for me means learning the japanese or korean names for various strikes, blocks, pins, throws and holds. And I suppose my use of russian ammunition for my commie rifles is a uh... form of cultural exposure.

My weekend started with a trip (the whole family) to the Clay Center for a performance by the West Virginia Symphony Orchestra. They had a guest piano virtuoso by the name of Valentina Lisitsa. Oh my god could this woman play a piano. Her performace (and the symphony of course) of Liszt's Totentanz literally brought tears to my eyes. It was my son's first exposure to classical music live. After the performance of Totentanz, the symphony went to intermission. I leaned over to my wide-eyed son (who plays guitar, and understands how difficult the mastery of an instrument can be) and said "um... was that just a little more complex than Green Day?" He nodded and replied "uh... yeah," still wide-eyed.

So Saturday, we head to guitar lessons. Yes, my whole family takes guitar lessons. The boy and I play guitar, and the wife is learning bass. And if you're in the Charleston area and in need of a good guitar teacher, look up Josh Cannon. Just call Fret n Fiddle in St. Albans and they'll hook you up. Josh can friggin play. I mean, the guy can PLAY. On top of that, he's a helluva good teacher. Very patient with fumble-fingers like myself. He doesn't chastize me for being lazy and not practicing like I should. And that's good. Because I'm not a professional musician, and I have a job, and so on... But I digress.

Right after guitar lessons, we all pack up and head over to St. Albans High School. Karate tournament day. Both the boy and I compete. We both did pretty well. My boy really kicked some butt. His age and experience class is a lot more competitive than mine. It's a bigger challenge for him to place well.

After the tournament, we head out to Scarlett Oaks for a jazz performance by Dominick Farinacci. This guy's a trumpet player, and after hearing that, I'd rank him as one of the best in the world. The guy's only twenty three years old, and he's freakin' amazing. I played a trumpet as a kid and through high school. All told, I played a trumpet for oh... seven years or so. Among my peers, I was pretty damned good too. I usually sat first or second chair in band, and being sorta familiar with how the instrument is played, I can recognize talent and skill when I hear it. Holy crap that guy was good. I mean, I can't say how good the guy was. It's just not going to translate in a text medium. Seriously, to register how good the guy was, take the top of any art or skill, and there's your analogy. The Tiger Woods of Trumpet. (that's actually a very good analogy because they were both very very good at a very very young age) The Michael Schumaker of Trumpet. The Valentino Rossi of Trumpet. The Michael Jordan of Trumpet. You get the point. The guy was good.

Not only was Dominick good, but the piano player and bassist in his band were damned good too. Now, the previous night's performance by Ms. Lisitsa had kind of tained my perception of "good" when it comes to the ivory keys, and no, this guy didn't hold a candle to her, but he was good. He did some crazy crazy stuff with scales and modes. Real zappa style space-stuff.

But the bassist, wow. That guy was a trip. He'd run through these scales, flip modes, do crazy timing stuff (within the time signature) and just flat go OFF. And what impressed me about his playing, was that he returned to what I refer to as "the melodic." Jazz players tend to drive me batshit. They go off in musical space so far, and so wide that all semblance of melody is left alone in the corner holding a sign that says "hey! remember me? I'm that thing called the song? Over here? Hello?" Well, the bassist would return to the melody. He'd go on some magical scalar/modal trip, and come back to the melody several times during his solos. It was cool. Hey jazz players, listen up. Us lay people need that. We're not all beret and turtleneck wearing musical intellectuals. We need you to come back to the melody every now and then just to remind us that we're not listening to random notes in a random key. K?

OLN thinks the whole country has ADD?

Here's an email I sent to OLN regarding thier Dakar rally coverage.

To: feedback@olntv.com

Subject: Incredibly annoying dakar coverage.

I was forced to turn the channel, switching away from your dakar rally coverage. This is unforunate, as I was really quite interested. Unfortunately, your coverage, consisting mostly of spliced 1.25 second clips back to back, was maddening to "watch." Please not that I use the term "watch" loosely. You cannot watch subjects that are changing at that pace. There's no coherent subject to see.

Please have your producers take note that all of America does not suffer from attention deficit disorder, and as such, can remain focused on a subject for more than 1.25 seconds.


Charleston, West Virginia