Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Forty-five
Like millions of other Americans, my wife, younger spawn and I watched Super Bowl XLV. We settled in our living room, the glow of the TV before us and a fire flickering on the hearth behind.
From the bluest of blue-collar cities, small markets both, Green Bay and Pittsburgh brought a refreshingly non-NFL atmosphere to the Jerry Dome, an enthusiasm rivaling that of big-time college football. And three former Buckeyes -- A.J. Hawk, Ryan Pickett and Matt Wilhelm -- earned championship rings as members of the Packers.
It turned out to be a pretty good game, too.
As you might expect, I could do without six hours of pre-game falderal. Ditto a pop star flubbing the one song she was paid to sing -- the National Anthem. I was out of the room during the halftime fluff, but from what I hear it was a gremlin-infested Charlie Foxtrot.
I do enjoy the commercials. Bridgestone's beaver brought a grin, as did the VW ad with the kid in the Dick Cheney getup. But my runaway favorite -- by a mile -- was this Chrysler spot.
That one pulled me out of my recliner -- from concept to production it's pure genius. Whether coincidence or not, it's the second Chrysler commercial that I've dropped here on KintlaLake Blog.
As the football season faded into memory last night, we turned off the TV and retired to bed. Sleep eluded me for a time -- my mind was restless, but it wasn't replaying Super Bowl highlights. It was still stuck on rewind, conjuring scenes from 42 years ago, remembering one foggy summer morning when my father and I went plinking down by Coxey's Quarry.
It'll be a while, I think, before I can shake those visions and move on.
(My father hadn't yet marked his first birthday when this ad appeared in the July 1927 issue of Boys' Life. Methinks that Remington's claim is a bit of a stretch.)
From the bluest of blue-collar cities, small markets both, Green Bay and Pittsburgh brought a refreshingly non-NFL atmosphere to the Jerry Dome, an enthusiasm rivaling that of big-time college football. And three former Buckeyes -- A.J. Hawk, Ryan Pickett and Matt Wilhelm -- earned championship rings as members of the Packers.
It turned out to be a pretty good game, too.
As you might expect, I could do without six hours of pre-game falderal. Ditto a pop star flubbing the one song she was paid to sing -- the National Anthem. I was out of the room during the halftime fluff, but from what I hear it was a gremlin-infested Charlie Foxtrot.
I do enjoy the commercials. Bridgestone's beaver brought a grin, as did the VW ad with the kid in the Dick Cheney getup. But my runaway favorite -- by a mile -- was this Chrysler spot.
That one pulled me out of my recliner -- from concept to production it's pure genius. Whether coincidence or not, it's the second Chrysler commercial that I've dropped here on KintlaLake Blog.
As the football season faded into memory last night, we turned off the TV and retired to bed. Sleep eluded me for a time -- my mind was restless, but it wasn't replaying Super Bowl highlights. It was still stuck on rewind, conjuring scenes from 42 years ago, remembering one foggy summer morning when my father and I went plinking down by Coxey's Quarry.
It'll be a while, I think, before I can shake those visions and move on.
(My father hadn't yet marked his first birthday when this ad appeared in the July 1927 issue of Boys' Life. Methinks that Remington's claim is a bit of a stretch.)
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The rewind continues
I returned to Google Books again this morning, focusing on a particular topic and how Boys' Life treated it when I was a Scout.
I'd graduated from Webelos to Tenderfoot less than a year before this installment of "Scoutcraft" (right) appeared in the April 1969 issue. At camp a few months later, I'd fire a gun for the first time -- a .22 Winchester Model 52 with peep sights.
I was 12 years old.
Before we had political correctness, universal psychotherapy and other forms of wussification, a rifle was a tool and marksmanship was as much "Scoutcraft" as knot-tying, whittling and firebuilding. For any self-respecting American boy, hell, handling a rifle was an essential part of growing up in the Heartland.
My dad took me shooting shortly after I returned from Camp Buckeye that year. We drove out to the farmstead where he was born and raised, parked the car and trudged through tangle to the edge of a sandstone quarry.
It was the very spot where his father once taught him to shoot.
To my adolescent delight, we spent the morning bagging tin cans, one shot at a time. We took turns plinking with a well-loved Winchester Model 67 -- fittingly, the first gun that my dad ever fired.
I remember noticing how much my father enjoyed himself that day. It wasn't until many years later, when I had boys in my own life, that I understood why -- it was a rite of passage.
That Model 67 is mine now. I think I'll take my 15-year-old spawn to the range soon and give him a turn with the old single-shot .22.
Checking the calendar, though, I see that it's not 1969 anymore. Our culture has changed -- for the worse, in my opinion -- along with what boyhood means. There's no rewinding that.
Move these items out of the "expected" category and file them under "endangered": inspirational ads for Winchester, Remington or even Daisy in the pages of a magazine for boys; encouragement to become a Junior Member of the NRA; tutorials on how to be a crack shot.
A boy who wants to learn to shoot raises more eyebrows now than he does smiles. In some places, a dad who hands his boy a gun -- even an air rifle -- risks having his name inscribed on some nanny's list.
Writing a couple of years ago about vanishing traditions, I concluded,
(This classic Winchester ad appeared in the August 1967 issue of Boys' Life.)
I'd graduated from Webelos to Tenderfoot less than a year before this installment of "Scoutcraft" (right) appeared in the April 1969 issue. At camp a few months later, I'd fire a gun for the first time -- a .22 Winchester Model 52 with peep sights.I was 12 years old.
Before we had political correctness, universal psychotherapy and other forms of wussification, a rifle was a tool and marksmanship was as much "Scoutcraft" as knot-tying, whittling and firebuilding. For any self-respecting American boy, hell, handling a rifle was an essential part of growing up in the Heartland.
My dad took me shooting shortly after I returned from Camp Buckeye that year. We drove out to the farmstead where he was born and raised, parked the car and trudged through tangle to the edge of a sandstone quarry.
It was the very spot where his father once taught him to shoot.
To my adolescent delight, we spent the morning bagging tin cans, one shot at a time. We took turns plinking with a well-loved Winchester Model 67 -- fittingly, the first gun that my dad ever fired.
I remember noticing how much my father enjoyed himself that day. It wasn't until many years later, when I had boys in my own life, that I understood why -- it was a rite of passage.
That Model 67 is mine now. I think I'll take my 15-year-old spawn to the range soon and give him a turn with the old single-shot .22.
Checking the calendar, though, I see that it's not 1969 anymore. Our culture has changed -- for the worse, in my opinion -- along with what boyhood means. There's no rewinding that.
Move these items out of the "expected" category and file them under "endangered": inspirational ads for Winchester, Remington or even Daisy in the pages of a magazine for boys; encouragement to become a Junior Member of the NRA; tutorials on how to be a crack shot.
A boy who wants to learn to shoot raises more eyebrows now than he does smiles. In some places, a dad who hands his boy a gun -- even an air rifle -- risks having his name inscribed on some nanny's list.
Writing a couple of years ago about vanishing traditions, I concluded,
"We've lost so much more than we've gained."That commentary on our society, sadly correct though it may be, shouldn't prevent independent Americans from raising our children the way they ought to be raised.
(This classic Winchester ad appeared in the August 1967 issue of Boys' Life.)
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Saturday-morning rewind
It's quiet here in the KintlaLake household, as I'm the only one who's stirred at this hour on a Saturday. Sitting at my desk, sipping coffee from a stoneware mug, I found myself browsing Google Books -- specifically, trolling its trove of old magazines.
The first article that caught my attention today was "The Scout and His Equipment," penned for the February 1934 issue of Boys' Life by the incomparable Dan Beard.
There's nothing earth-shaking in the piece, certainly. It's basic and, from a modern perspective, undeniably quaint. To the clear-eyed reader it's also obvious that it was placed to accompany dozens of "official" product pitches from the likes of Remington, Eveready, Ulster, Marble, Buster Brown, Plumb, Johnson & Johnson and others.
Seems the "special advertising section" isn't exactly a new concept.
Beyond the commercial slant, and given my own affection for sharps, one particular line stood out to me:
Moving on to a 1950 issue of Popular Mechanics, I flipped through a primer on "Trail Knives," which prominently (and intentionally, I'd wager) featured Marble's fixed-blades and the Woodsman's Pal.
Last I landed on the June 1919 issue of Popular Science, where I found reader Rodney Bryson's advice on what to do with old inner tubes (pictured at right).
Strange -- he didn't call them "Ranger Bands."
Whenever I catch myself craving the latest and greatest something-or-other, rewinding through these old publications often reminds me that there truly is nothing new under the sun.
The first article that caught my attention today was "The Scout and His Equipment," penned for the February 1934 issue of Boys' Life by the incomparable Dan Beard.There's nothing earth-shaking in the piece, certainly. It's basic and, from a modern perspective, undeniably quaint. To the clear-eyed reader it's also obvious that it was placed to accompany dozens of "official" product pitches from the likes of Remington, Eveready, Ulster, Marble, Buster Brown, Plumb, Johnson & Johnson and others.
Seems the "special advertising section" isn't exactly a new concept.
Beyond the commercial slant, and given my own affection for sharps, one particular line stood out to me:
"A boy without a knife is as bad as a canoe without paddles, a lumberman without an axe, or a girl without a compact."Uncle Dan was right about that, of course. Knowing that present-day Scouts are explicitly discouraged from carrying knives, however, his words have almost a poignant ring.
Moving on to a 1950 issue of Popular Mechanics, I flipped through a primer on "Trail Knives," which prominently (and intentionally, I'd wager) featured Marble's fixed-blades and the Woodsman's Pal.
Last I landed on the June 1919 issue of Popular Science, where I found reader Rodney Bryson's advice on what to do with old inner tubes (pictured at right).Strange -- he didn't call them "Ranger Bands."
Whenever I catch myself craving the latest and greatest something-or-other, rewinding through these old publications often reminds me that there truly is nothing new under the sun.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Message sent
A soccer ball whacked our 15-year-old in the back of the head during gym class this morning, knocking him goofy and (at the school nurse's urging) requiring a quick trip to the emergency room.
It should've been quick, anyway.
We took him to a relatively new medical center not far from home, a place we've really come to like. (With two boys we've logged enough time in ERs to have a preference.) This time, however, the staff was uncharacteristically inattentive, borderline aloof, mostly invisible.
After almost an hour of waiting, a registration clerk (the person who collects payment before treatment can begin) entered our exam room. When we asked her if the ER was particularly busy today she said no, explaining (with a straight face) that the computer systems were down and that the staff had to do all of their reports manually.
Well, you learn something every day -- I mean, who knew that handwriting could interfere with practicing emergency medicine?
The clerk must've sensed our disbelief, because shortly after she left we got a visit from a tech who performed an EKG on the spawn -- a procedure that's patently unnecessary when diagnosing a possible concussion (or worse). Clearly its only purpose was to appease us.
It didn't.
Two hours into our three-hour stay, I was tired of watching TV and intolerably annoyed with what I saw on the dry-erase board mounted to the wall. Instead of displaying today's date, along with the names of a nurse and aide on duty, the date hadn't been changed since last Friday and the names (like the ER staff, by and large) were absent.
I walked over to the board, uncapped a marker, filled-in the blanks and left it that way.
It should've been quick, anyway.
We took him to a relatively new medical center not far from home, a place we've really come to like. (With two boys we've logged enough time in ERs to have a preference.) This time, however, the staff was uncharacteristically inattentive, borderline aloof, mostly invisible.
After almost an hour of waiting, a registration clerk (the person who collects payment before treatment can begin) entered our exam room. When we asked her if the ER was particularly busy today she said no, explaining (with a straight face) that the computer systems were down and that the staff had to do all of their reports manually.
Well, you learn something every day -- I mean, who knew that handwriting could interfere with practicing emergency medicine?
The clerk must've sensed our disbelief, because shortly after she left we got a visit from a tech who performed an EKG on the spawn -- a procedure that's patently unnecessary when diagnosing a possible concussion (or worse). Clearly its only purpose was to appease us.
It didn't.
Two hours into our three-hour stay, I was tired of watching TV and intolerably annoyed with what I saw on the dry-erase board mounted to the wall. Instead of displaying today's date, along with the names of a nurse and aide on duty, the date hadn't been changed since last Friday and the names (like the ER staff, by and large) were absent.
I walked over to the board, uncapped a marker, filled-in the blanks and left it that way.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Winding down
Yes, that's a Duraflame log. More about that in a bit.
My wife, younger spawn and I relaxed at the village diner late this afternoon, filling our bellies with comfort food and watching snow swirl outside. The tiny restaurant doesn't have much of a dinner crowd this time of year, so we had the place to ourselves.
The Big Winter Storm was pretty much of a yawner for us. Yesterday's round brought freezing rain, which encased our world in a half-inch of ice. Schools were closed and Mrs. KintlaLake shut down her shop ninety minutes into the day. We lost a couple of branches off of one of our maple trees. That was it.
Last night we got still more rain, but temps rose into the mid-40s and the ice buildup melted off the trees and utility lines -- a good thing, since winds today were gusting to near 50mph. There's a heap of fallen limbs under a long-needle pine behind our house, but again we emerged otherwise unscathed.
Schools closed for the second straight day. (Don't get me started.)
Now we're seeing the back edge of the storm, squalls of snow driven by a stiff wind. No accumulation is expected.
(Yawn.)
Not everyone in metro Columbus was so lucky, of course -- the ice-wind combo took down lots of trees and power lines, leaving more than 100,000 central-Ohio residents without electricity.
And that brings me back to the Duraflame log.
This morning one of my wife's co-workers, a fellow about my age, said that his home was among those without power and announced that he was going to stop at Wal-Mart on his way home to stock-up on Duraflame logs.To burn in his fireplace -- to heat his house.
When my wife asked him why (on earth) he'd choose manufactured logs over the real thing -- never mind that his fireplace will suck more heat out of his house than it'll ever add -- he insisted that Duraflames would be more cost-effective.
Seriously?
It wasn't that he misunderstood the question. He's simply a middle-aged man in search of a clue, just another of our society's hamsters.
You don't need my permission to laugh at this guy's foolishness, but you have it anyway -- along with my blessing to feel a whole lot better about yourself.
Sheesh...
Monday, January 31, 2011
Attention spanned
Anti-government protests have been simmering in Egypt for a week now. I'm taking notice, naturally, but I haven't been seduced by an oppressed people's quest for freedom -- it's a waste of energy for us, personally and nationally, to impose American democratic values on other cultures. I won't get sucked into discussing whether the U.S. will be on what Sen. John McCain calls "the right side of history," either.
Foreign policy isn't a zero-sum game. We'll let it all play out and deal with the result. History writes itself.
Fretting about what the unrest will do to our gas prices -- Egypt controls the Suez Canal and the Suez-Med Pipeline -- is likewise futile. They'll do what they'll do. Five bucks might be wishful thinking.
No, what rivets me are the responses of authorities and citizens as Egyptian society breaks down -- protesters driving hated civil-defense forces from the streets, government deploying the military and, most interesting to me, citizens forming private militias to defend their neighborhoods against looters (not to mention the thousand or so prison inmates released by authorities).
I notice, too, how the people are arming themselves -- sticks, clubs and pipes, knives and (reportedly) even Samurai swords. If an Egyptian is lucky enough to have a firearm, it's most likely an antique revolver. Predictably, ammunition is (to put it mildly) scarce.
As common as popular uprisings are in this world, it's rare that we see such events unfold on this scale in a (largely) Westernized nation. It bears watching and, for those of us who cultivate a preparedness mindset, it's instructive as hell.
Speaking of preparedness, here in the American Midwest an entirely different kind of threat has our attention. Meteorologists are tracking a winter whopper that's predicted to have a significant impact on 100,000,000 Americans.
Advisories stretch from the northern Plains to Texas and from New Mexico to Maine. It looks like we're going to get a mix of sleet and snow around here, followed by a half-inch of freezing rain.
I just hate that shit -- I'd rather shovel two feet of snow.
This morning's send-receive brought my regular e-mail from The Art of Manliness, a permanent link to which appears in the right-hand column of KintlaLake Blog. Today's subject: "22 Manly Ways to Reuse an Altoids Tin."
After my tin heart, those guys are.
Since writing about a gift-card tin earlier this month, I've found two more minty Altoinatives: Newman's Own Organics and Penguin. Each comes in a package virtually identical to the standard Altoids tin.Notes: Penguin mints are caffeinated and Newman's mints contain organic sweeteners. Newman's tins are made in England; Penguin gets its tins from China. (The mints are made in Mexico and the U.S., respectively.) Nell Newman, daughter of Paul, uses company profits to support a range of causes.
The graphics on the Newman's tins are a departure from the style favored by Altoids and, in my opinion, quite striking.
Also pictured: a half-ounce Penguin tin, slightly larger than an Altoids Smalls tin; and a vintage-repro peppermints tin from Cracker Barrel.
A burgeoning revolution, a looming winter storm, a couple of mint tins... yup, I think that about covers it.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A sad sight
When I launched KintlaLake Blog, my family and I lived across from an abandoned farm -- a big frame house and dilapidated outbuildings surrounded by fields and woodland. After dinner my wife and I often retired to our front porch, sat silently and drew peace from the scene.
Today, on an impulse, we drove by our old place. Glancing over at the farm on the other side of the road, we gasped -- it's gone.
The ground was roughed-up and leveled where barns used to stand. A bulldozer sat idle on a trailer behind a demolition company truck, parked about where the foundation of the house had been. There was no trace of an enormous oak that once cast its shadows on the lawn.
This forsaken family farm always was, to me, a sad sight. Now it's sadder still, eased a bit by my wife's perspective on the razing.
"It's ok," she said, "That was our place, our landscape. It's ok now."
She's right, of course. For my part, I'm glad that I took the time to capture some purposeful images of those barns.
Today, on an impulse, we drove by our old place. Glancing over at the farm on the other side of the road, we gasped -- it's gone.
The ground was roughed-up and leveled where barns used to stand. A bulldozer sat idle on a trailer behind a demolition company truck, parked about where the foundation of the house had been. There was no trace of an enormous oak that once cast its shadows on the lawn.
This forsaken family farm always was, to me, a sad sight. Now it's sadder still, eased a bit by my wife's perspective on the razing.
"It's ok," she said, "That was our place, our landscape. It's ok now."
She's right, of course. For my part, I'm glad that I took the time to capture some purposeful images of those barns.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Accidents happen
It took me longer than I'd expected to wade through the images from Saturday night's Zachariah's Red-Eye Reunion. I'm not sure why.
I managed to pull and tweak 65 decent photographs, roughly one of every ten frames that I shot. I won't post them all on KintlaLake Blog, of course, but it's a pretty respectable ratio.
A few of the best were unplanned, anything but deliberate, arguably even accidental. Here's an example, previously posted on Sunday.
(McGuffey Lane)
I grabbed that image as I dashed from one wing to the other while headliner McGuffey Lane paused between songs. Something about the shadows caught my eye, so I turned off the flash, raised the camera to my chest (I didn't take the time to sight through the viewfinder), banged off two shots and moved on. For a what-the-hell photo, the result surprised me.
I love the challenges of concert photography -- moving subjects and rapidly changing lighting, to name just two. I'll close this post with a pair of images illustrating what can happen when the curse of unpredictability becomes a photographic blessing.
(Guest artist Delyn Christian performing "Long-Haired Country Boy")
(Molly Pauken of McGuffey Lane & the Jonalee White band)
I managed to pull and tweak 65 decent photographs, roughly one of every ten frames that I shot. I won't post them all on KintlaLake Blog, of course, but it's a pretty respectable ratio.
A few of the best were unplanned, anything but deliberate, arguably even accidental. Here's an example, previously posted on Sunday.
(McGuffey Lane)
I grabbed that image as I dashed from one wing to the other while headliner McGuffey Lane paused between songs. Something about the shadows caught my eye, so I turned off the flash, raised the camera to my chest (I didn't take the time to sight through the viewfinder), banged off two shots and moved on. For a what-the-hell photo, the result surprised me.
I love the challenges of concert photography -- moving subjects and rapidly changing lighting, to name just two. I'll close this post with a pair of images illustrating what can happen when the curse of unpredictability becomes a photographic blessing.
(Guest artist Delyn Christian performing "Long-Haired Country Boy")
(Molly Pauken of McGuffey Lane & the Jonalee White band)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Zachariah's Red-Eye Reunion XI
Last night I photographed Zachariah's Red-Eye Reunion 2011, the third time I've had the privilege of shooting this annual concert.
I clicked off 650 frames, give or take, 500 of which I kept. Now comes the task of earnestly previewing the lot, culling the bad and editing the best. Little of that will happen today, though.
The music echoes yet this morning and the afterglow of friendship still warms me, but I'm flat exhausted.
I'll hold my place with these two images. More later, I believe.
(Previous years' Reunions: Reunion recap, an epilogue; Reunion recap, part two; Reunion recap, part one; Satisfaction; Backstage past; An uncompensated plug)
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Maine Hunting Shoe
KintlaLake Blog originates from Ohio, my home for the last ten years and my birthplace, but I spent over two decades in southern New England. My favorite getaway while living there was Maine, where the locals say of the climate,
My trips "Down East" always included a stop in the coastal town of Freeport, site of L.L. Bean. The company traces its origins to 1912, when Leon Leonwood Bean first offered his Maine Hunting Shoe.
A few things in that video stand out to me.
The moccasin-inspired Maine Hunting Shoes -- a.k.a. Bean Boots -- are still made in the USA, still made in Maine. Human hands touch them at each step of manufacturing and assembly. The workers understand history and loyalty as well as quality, taking justifiable pride in their craft.
Most striking, I think, is the revelation that the first run of 100 pairs of Maine Hunting Shoes had a return rate of 90%. Undeterred, Mr. Bean stood behind his product.
Nearly 100 years later the basic design of The Maine Hunting Shoe hasn't changed. Neither has the guarantee.
Discount outlets are full of cheap Chinese knockoffs, of course. They cost between $15 and $40, generally -- as opposed to $104 to $174 for a pair of genuine Bean Boots -- but the only guarantee they come with is the promise of wet, cold feet.
I bought a pair of real Beans back in the '80s, inadvertently leaving them behind when I moved. (My ex-wife declined repeated requests to forward them. Go figure.) Today I own and love (and recommend) other top-quality American-made boots -- insulated Red Wings for winter, leather-lined Wescos for summer.
I do miss my old Maine Hunting Shoes, though. One of these days...
(That's a young Leon Leonwood Bean on the left, posing with his hunting buddies. Check out Taylor Stitch's blog post about The Maine Hunting Shoe here.)
"We get nine months of winter, followed by three months of damned poor sleddin'."Maine's challenging winters are long indeed, and the state has the worst "mud season" in the lower 48. (Don't say that to a Vermonter.)
My trips "Down East" always included a stop in the coastal town of Freeport, site of L.L. Bean. The company traces its origins to 1912, when Leon Leonwood Bean first offered his Maine Hunting Shoe.
A few things in that video stand out to me.
The moccasin-inspired Maine Hunting Shoes -- a.k.a. Bean Boots -- are still made in the USA, still made in Maine. Human hands touch them at each step of manufacturing and assembly. The workers understand history and loyalty as well as quality, taking justifiable pride in their craft.
Most striking, I think, is the revelation that the first run of 100 pairs of Maine Hunting Shoes had a return rate of 90%. Undeterred, Mr. Bean stood behind his product.Nearly 100 years later the basic design of The Maine Hunting Shoe hasn't changed. Neither has the guarantee.
Discount outlets are full of cheap Chinese knockoffs, of course. They cost between $15 and $40, generally -- as opposed to $104 to $174 for a pair of genuine Bean Boots -- but the only guarantee they come with is the promise of wet, cold feet.
I bought a pair of real Beans back in the '80s, inadvertently leaving them behind when I moved. (My ex-wife declined repeated requests to forward them. Go figure.) Today I own and love (and recommend) other top-quality American-made boots -- insulated Red Wings for winter, leather-lined Wescos for summer.
I do miss my old Maine Hunting Shoes, though. One of these days...
(That's a young Leon Leonwood Bean on the left, posing with his hunting buddies. Check out Taylor Stitch's blog post about The Maine Hunting Shoe here.)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
'Are you going to keep helping them do it?'
I listened to Rush Limbaugh's radio show yesterday. Surprised?
Because I don't hew to the extremes, Limbaugh neither offends nor validates me ideologically. But like all talk-radio windbags, whether they blare from the right or the left, he insults critical thought.
I swear, the guy must employ a staff devoted exclusively to creating "triggers" -- Hussein, Democrat Party, drive-by media and the like, terms guaranteed to get his mindless listeners convulsing like neo-con clones of Maynard G. Krebs. Yesterday's buzz-word, repeated no fewer than two dozen times during a dissociative rant about visiting Chinese President Hu Jintao, was ChiCom.
I'm not going to dignify it with a definition. You figure it out.
Since the Tucson shooting there's been lots of chatter about the increasingly negative tone of American politics. Salon.com columnist Gene Lyons has an interesting theory about that:
* * *
Gene Lyons also tipped me off to another post-Tucson gem. Mark Shields attributed this observation to his friend Allen Ginsberg:
Because I don't hew to the extremes, Limbaugh neither offends nor validates me ideologically. But like all talk-radio windbags, whether they blare from the right or the left, he insults critical thought.
I swear, the guy must employ a staff devoted exclusively to creating "triggers" -- Hussein, Democrat Party, drive-by media and the like, terms guaranteed to get his mindless listeners convulsing like neo-con clones of Maynard G. Krebs. Yesterday's buzz-word, repeated no fewer than two dozen times during a dissociative rant about visiting Chinese President Hu Jintao, was ChiCom.
I'm not going to dignify it with a definition. You figure it out.
Since the Tucson shooting there's been lots of chatter about the increasingly negative tone of American politics. Salon.com columnist Gene Lyons has an interesting theory about that:
"Ever since Rush Limbaugh adapted the techniques of drive-time sports radio to politics -- the loudmouth hyperbole, the fake omniscience, the mute button -- the mass-marketing of outrage to people stuck in freeway traffic with blood-pressure levels already approaching the blowout range has coarsened public discourse to the level of road rage."As an example, Lyons points to something that Limbaugh said last week. This unfiltered bullshit comes directly from Limbaugh's site:
Lyons observes, quite correctly,"What [the Tucson shooter] knows is that he has the full support of a major political party in this country. ... He knows that a Democrat Party, the Democrat Party, is attempting to find anybody but him to blame. He knows if he plays his cards right, he's just a victim."
"That smiling mug shot, this guy...understands he's got a political party doing everything it can -- plus a local sheriff -- doing everything that they can to make sure he's not convicted of murder but something lesser."
"If you believe that, you'll believe anything."No thinking person would. The column concludes:
Not me. How about you?"Meanwhile, the Tucson radio station that advertised 'Rush Limbaugh: Straight Shooter' with a billboard full of simulated bullet holes has taken it down.
"See, they compete with each other, these clowns, to set you against an imaginary enemy consisting of your friends and neighbors because conflict pushes ratings, and higher ratings lead to more money.
"Are you going to keep helping them do it?"
* * *
Gene Lyons also tipped me off to another post-Tucson gem. Mark Shields attributed this observation to his friend Allen Ginsberg:
I couldn't agree more."This week, we saw a white, Catholic, Republican federal judge murdered on his way to greet a Democratic woman, member of Congress, who was his friend and was Jewish. Her life was saved initially by a 20-year-old Mexican-American college student, who saved her, and eventually by a Korean-American combat surgeon.
"And then it was all eulogized and explained by our African-American president. And, in a tragic event, that's a remarkable statement about the country."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Camden epilogue: Poetic irony
American poet Walt Whitman lived out his last years on Mickle Street in Camden, New Jersey. He died there in 1892 and was laid to rest in Harleigh Cemetery, where the graveside eulogy was delivered by the orator Robert Green Ingersoll:
Then again, looking past the facade we learn that the building's cornerstone was laid in 1929. It opened its doors two years later, just as our nation began to claw its way out of The Great Depression.
Through the middle of the 20th Century, a vigorous blue-collar Camden gave Americans radios, nuclear-powered ships and soup. But like Akron and Detroit, Massillon and Youngstown and countless other cities staked to manufacturing, the city flickered and dimmed.
Camden's city hall stands today either as a monument to an ironic inscription or as a reminder of optimism in the face of economic ruin. I struggle to see it as the latter.
I wonder -- am I simply confronting reality? Or do I lack the spirit of my grandfathers?
"He never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys, he looked upon the mountain tops, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared, he fixed his gaze upon the stars."Whitman spent much of his twilight revising and re-issuing Leaves of Grass -- "33 y'rs of hacking at it," the poet would say on releasing the final edition in 1891. Note 66 in the landmark collection begins,
"I DREAM’D in a dream, I saw a city invincible to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth"When Camden dedicated its new city hall in 1931, chiseled into the granite of the massive neo-classic structure was this paraphrase of Whitman's words:
I DREAMED I SAW A CITY INVINCIBLEIn the harsh light of current events the irony glares back at us, inescapable, wrenching.
Then again, looking past the facade we learn that the building's cornerstone was laid in 1929. It opened its doors two years later, just as our nation began to claw its way out of The Great Depression.
Through the middle of the 20th Century, a vigorous blue-collar Camden gave Americans radios, nuclear-powered ships and soup. But like Akron and Detroit, Massillon and Youngstown and countless other cities staked to manufacturing, the city flickered and dimmed.
Camden's city hall stands today either as a monument to an ironic inscription or as a reminder of optimism in the face of economic ruin. I struggle to see it as the latter.
I wonder -- am I simply confronting reality? Or do I lack the spirit of my grandfathers?
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Worst case
Imagine living in a city of 80,000 in the northeastern United States. Per-capita income is 10% below the poverty level, less than half what the average American makes and one-third of your state's average.
Hard economic times have devastated households, ravaged neighborhoods and drained your municipal budget. (Never mind that three of your last seven mayors have done prison time for corruption.) Your city, if it's to survive, has to cut 25% of its employees -- including a third of the fire department and half the police force.
Oh, by the way -- you live in "The Most Dangerous City in America." FBI statistics show violent crime occurring at more than five times the national rate, and now you're down 70 firefighters and 170 cops.
Unfortunately, there's no need to imagine such a worst-case scenario. Because unless unions representing city workers make some drastic 11th-hour concessions, that bad dream will become reality today in Camden, New Jersey USA.
Think it couldn't be worse? Think again.
For Camden's law-abiding residents, folks with good reason to be prepared to defend themselves, here's another nightmare: Brady ranks New Jersey's gun laws second-toughest in the nation.
(The People's Republic of California, of course, tops Brady's latest list. I'm glad to say that Ohio scores only 11 out of a possible 100 points, earning a one-star rating. The state of Arizona, it's worth noting, scores a near-perfect two points and zero stars.)
This city's crisis represents not failed government but a failure of the People. The citizens of Camden and New Jersey voted affinity over competence, for entitlements, in favor of nanny-knows-best public safety. Now that the money's run out, Camden has the government it asked for -- the government it deserves.
It's what happens when independence withers; when We, the People abdicate the duties of our citizenship.
It's safe to assume that Camden is only the most recent example. There will be more.
Hard economic times have devastated households, ravaged neighborhoods and drained your municipal budget. (Never mind that three of your last seven mayors have done prison time for corruption.) Your city, if it's to survive, has to cut 25% of its employees -- including a third of the fire department and half the police force.
Oh, by the way -- you live in "The Most Dangerous City in America." FBI statistics show violent crime occurring at more than five times the national rate, and now you're down 70 firefighters and 170 cops.
Unfortunately, there's no need to imagine such a worst-case scenario. Because unless unions representing city workers make some drastic 11th-hour concessions, that bad dream will become reality today in Camden, New Jersey USA.
Think it couldn't be worse? Think again.
For Camden's law-abiding residents, folks with good reason to be prepared to defend themselves, here's another nightmare: Brady ranks New Jersey's gun laws second-toughest in the nation.(The People's Republic of California, of course, tops Brady's latest list. I'm glad to say that Ohio scores only 11 out of a possible 100 points, earning a one-star rating. The state of Arizona, it's worth noting, scores a near-perfect two points and zero stars.)
This city's crisis represents not failed government but a failure of the People. The citizens of Camden and New Jersey voted affinity over competence, for entitlements, in favor of nanny-knows-best public safety. Now that the money's run out, Camden has the government it asked for -- the government it deserves.
It's what happens when independence withers; when We, the People abdicate the duties of our citizenship.
It's safe to assume that Camden is only the most recent example. There will be more.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
1 + (33 x 2) ≤ 10
When 20 people were gunned down in Tucson a week ago today, the deranged shooter reportedly was armed with a Glock 19 and two 33-round magazines.The semi-auto G19's standard-issue mag holds 15 rounds. The extended 33-rounder was developed for the ravenous G18, which is full-auto, but it works just fine with any of Glock's 9mm pistols -- full-size G17, compact G19, even the sub-compact G26.
I can attest that firing a G19 with 33 rounds on tap is a bona fide giggle when ringing gongs gleefully at the range. The weight of 18 extra rounds destroys the heft of an otherwise well-balanced pistol, however, so the jumbo mag is useless to me for serious practice.
It's not exactly concealable, either.
I've already offered my opinion that the Tucson shooting likely will embolden forces bent on disarming all American citizens. Off the bat it looks like they'll call for a ban on so-called high-capacity magazines.
A number of states already limit magazine capacity. Maryland sets the legal maximum at 20 rounds, New Jersey at 15. Four nanny states -- California, Hawaii, Massachusetts and New York -- and the District of Columbia ban any magazine holding more than ten rounds.
And now one murderous nutjob with a pair of 33-round mags may well provide the political impetus for a federal 10-round limit -- that's the disturbing equation. Depending on how strong the wind blows to the left, law-abiding citizens could be placed at an immediate defensive disadvantage, because no law will keep deadly weapons (or high-capacity magazines) out of determined criminals' hands.
As an American, I have a constitutional right to keep and bear arms. More important -- and yes, there's something more important than the Constitution -- I have a human right to defend myself. Despite the Supreme Court leaving the statutory door open for "reasonable restrictions," that is the more powerful political argument against putting citizens at the mercy of better-armed violent offenders.
Any suggestion that I must rely on law enforcement to defend me, by the way, will be met with one or both of these truisms:
Prudent gun owners today are taking inventory, just to confirm that they have all the magazines they need. (We can predict that those bought pre-ban would be "grandfathered.") Online firearms-supply retailers know this, of course -- I've already received a handful of e-mail flyers pushing high-capacity mags."When seconds count, help is only minutes away."
"I carry a gun because it's easier than carrying a cop."
Now that's my kind of post-Tucson opportunism. (And this isn't.)
DPMS Panther Arms reminded me about their typically reasonable prices on Magpul and GI-type mags for the M4/M16/AR-15. Surefire wanted me to know that the 60- and 100-round magazines they've developed for the same platform are "coming soon." (Even if you're not inclined to drop $139-$179 on one of these beauties, the demo video is worth watching.) Natchez Shooters Supplies has good deals on Glock mags, although they seem to have sold out of 33-rounders.
(Natch.)
That's ok -- they're not my thing anyway. I'm happy rolling with 15+1, but my government should stay the hell out of the business of telling me that I can't own one (or more than one).
Friday, January 14, 2011
New tin on the block
Finding uses for empty Altoids tins has become, for some people, an obsession. I'll admit to having a mild case of tin-tin-adulation myself, having mentioned the subject a few times here on KintlaLake Blog.
They beg to be recycled (or, as a jargonista would say, re-purposed). Lots of other products come to us in similarly useful containers, too -- take this sturdy hinged tin, which originally held a gift card presented to me last Christmas.
The slimmer gift-card tin is a comfortable fit for a hip, jacket or cargo pocket. While it's not as deep as an Altoids tin, it has a larger footprint and greater interior volume -- roughly 20% more space for tinder, first-aid supplies, snare wire, a fishing kit or other survival bits. It has enough headroom to swallow a 3/8-inch firesteel and enough length to accommodate a decent single-blade pocketknife (the 108mm Victorinox Safari Solo Adventurer, for example).
Sure, for less than three bucks it's possible to buy this (or another) gift-card tin, minus the gift card. But as I said about Ranger Bands, spending real money defeats the purpose -- sorry, the re-purpose.
The venerable Altoids tin will continue its reign, of course. Other minty tins worth recycling: the Altoids Chewing Gum tin, slightly more than half the size of the standard Altoids tin; and the Altoids Smalls tin, which a year ago inspired me to build an ultra-compact fire kit.
Let the tinnovations roll on.
They beg to be recycled (or, as a jargonista would say, re-purposed). Lots of other products come to us in similarly useful containers, too -- take this sturdy hinged tin, which originally held a gift card presented to me last Christmas.
The slimmer gift-card tin is a comfortable fit for a hip, jacket or cargo pocket. While it's not as deep as an Altoids tin, it has a larger footprint and greater interior volume -- roughly 20% more space for tinder, first-aid supplies, snare wire, a fishing kit or other survival bits. It has enough headroom to swallow a 3/8-inch firesteel and enough length to accommodate a decent single-blade pocketknife (the 108mm Victorinox Safari Solo Adventurer, for example).
Sure, for less than three bucks it's possible to buy this (or another) gift-card tin, minus the gift card. But as I said about Ranger Bands, spending real money defeats the purpose -- sorry, the re-purpose.
The venerable Altoids tin will continue its reign, of course. Other minty tins worth recycling: the Altoids Chewing Gum tin, slightly more than half the size of the standard Altoids tin; and the Altoids Smalls tin, which a year ago inspired me to build an ultra-compact fire kit.Let the tinnovations roll on.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Urban Resources: 'The Pace'
Here in the KintlaLake household, our arsenal of tools includes three snow shovels -- we have no snowblower and, unlike two years ago, we no longer own a tractor equipped with a dozer blade. One of our neighbors has a snow-plowing business, so occasionally (today, for instance) we'll have him give our driveway a quick scrape. For the most part, though, we move the white stuff by hand.The ordinary task of shoveling snow, believe it or not, offers a great opportunity to practice an important survival skill: getting the job done without breaking a sweat. I call it "The Pace."
In a cold-weather survival situation, whether lost in the backcountry or stuck by the roadside in the middle of a blizzard, physical exertion may be necessary -- in those two examples, perhaps that means building a shelter or clearing snow from around a tailpipe. Whatever the reason, it's crucial to conserve physical energy and warmth.
Even if a person is dressed properly, excessive sweating will saturate a base layer, quickly crippling its vital wicking function -- and there's no way to dry it out. It's an E-ticket ride to hypothermia.
The trick, then, is to work at something less than full capacity. Some survivalists put a number on that level of exertion -- I've heard 40%, 50% and 60% -- but since conditions vary and each of us is different, self-awareness is the only realistic way to gauge The Pace.
While shoveling our driveway and sidewalks the last few mornings, I paid special attention to setting a no-sweat pace -- a useful exercise but not as easy as it sounds. When I noticed myself sweating I slowed down, took a break, vented or shed an outer layer.
Other wintertime chores and activities provide myriad ways to experiment with The Pace -- buck and split firewood, go sledding, take a hike and so on.
Simple? Sure, but this "urban resource" is far from trivial. Practicing a few basic skills outside of a survival situation just might make a difference when it counts.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
More thoughts on Tucson
Several days removed from Saturday's events in Tucson, I'll offer a few opinions and observations.
First, the shooter bears the blame for his crimes, period. Whatever his defects, whatever his influences, he alone is accountable.
Second, there's no justification and no defense for the shooting. Anyone who crosses the line between explanation of murderous acts and apology for the murderer casts doubt on both their sanity and their humanity.
Likewise, the fusillade of accusations and counter-accusations flying back and forth across the ideological divide is absolutely baseless. Oh, there's no question that the likes of Bill Maher and Caribou Barbie (to name just two) exercise their First Amendment rights with few facts and breathtakingly poor judgment -- as Robert Green Ingersoll said of revival ministers,
(Incidentally, a spokeswoman for the former Mayor of Wasilla claimed yesterday that those crosshairs over Rep. Gabrielle Giffords's district were, in fact, "a surveyor's symbol." The Queen of Denali didn't cause the deaths in Tucson, of course, but c'mon now -- does anyone with a lick of common sense actually believe that bullshit?)
To reinforce a point that I made on Sunday, our constitutional rights carry consequences. And again, it's not about assigning blame -- it's about taking responsibility. Suppose you tuned to your favorite AM frequency today and heard this:
Today's political wind carries the foul odor of repressive legislation, typically ill-conceived laws that could impose limits on speech and disarm law-abiding citizens. Fact is, if laws could prevent violent crime, the tragedy in Tucson never would've happened.
Here's another fact (or, to be accurate, a prediction): Gabby Giffords will become the next Jim Brady. Take that to the bank.
Finally, the Westboro Baptist Church plans to picket the funeral of the nine-year-old girl who was murdered in Tucson. Granted, the First Amendment gives me the right to express my less-than-fond wishes for God's Assholes. For the moment, I'll exercise judgment instead.
First, the shooter bears the blame for his crimes, period. Whatever his defects, whatever his influences, he alone is accountable.
Second, there's no justification and no defense for the shooting. Anyone who crosses the line between explanation of murderous acts and apology for the murderer casts doubt on both their sanity and their humanity.
Likewise, the fusillade of accusations and counter-accusations flying back and forth across the ideological divide is absolutely baseless. Oh, there's no question that the likes of Bill Maher and Caribou Barbie (to name just two) exercise their First Amendment rights with few facts and breathtakingly poor judgment -- as Robert Green Ingersoll said of revival ministers,
"They did not know much, but they believed a great deal."Blaming homicide on the Tea Party or guns for schizoid paranoia, however, is shameful political opportunism.
(Incidentally, a spokeswoman for the former Mayor of Wasilla claimed yesterday that those crosshairs over Rep. Gabrielle Giffords's district were, in fact, "a surveyor's symbol." The Queen of Denali didn't cause the deaths in Tucson, of course, but c'mon now -- does anyone with a lick of common sense actually believe that bullshit?)
To reinforce a point that I made on Sunday, our constitutional rights carry consequences. And again, it's not about assigning blame -- it's about taking responsibility. Suppose you tuned to your favorite AM frequency today and heard this:
That'd be refreshing, now, wouldn't it? I'm not holding my breath."This radio program is entertainment, people, not gospel. These are opinions -- my opinions. If you agree, great; if you disagree, that's your prerogative.
"Sadly, some of you out there aren't playing with a full deck. You have a small brain and no life, you're a hammer in search of nails, and you take my hyperbole way too seriously. You'll twist my words into a call to violence -- I know that. It's a consequence of exercising my free-speech rights, but I won't be silenced just because some of you are as dumb as stumps."
Today's political wind carries the foul odor of repressive legislation, typically ill-conceived laws that could impose limits on speech and disarm law-abiding citizens. Fact is, if laws could prevent violent crime, the tragedy in Tucson never would've happened.
Here's another fact (or, to be accurate, a prediction): Gabby Giffords will become the next Jim Brady. Take that to the bank.
Finally, the Westboro Baptist Church plans to picket the funeral of the nine-year-old girl who was murdered in Tucson. Granted, the First Amendment gives me the right to express my less-than-fond wishes for God's Assholes. For the moment, I'll exercise judgment instead.
Monday, January 10, 2011
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