The KintlaLake household has a rooting interest in both of our town's high schools -- we live in the shadow of one and our 16-year-old attends the other. They met on the football field last night, just the fourth time they'd played each other. All-day rain made for a slow track, sloppy but much better than artificial turf. The sounds of the bands, the crowd and the public-address system traveled through the heavy air to our house, as clear as if we'd been sitting in the bleachers. Our spawn's school, always the underdog, gave its cross-town rivals all they could handle (and then some) this time, falling by just three points. A touchdown in the final minute was the difference.
Elizabeth Warren, former assistant to President Barack Obama, wants to be the Democratic Party's nominee for the U.S. Senate seat long held by Ted Kennedy, now occupied by Republican Scott Brown. As a committed liberal campaigning in Massachusetts, which tilts to the left, she's free to express her progressive [sic] ideology. Take this soliloquy, delivered at a recent private fundraiser.
Warren opens by dismissing accusations of "class warfare" -- and then, with stunning aplomb, she schools us on how to wage all-out class warfare. She demeans initiative and achievement. Typical of extreme ideologues, she wants government to assume the functions of society. Most of what right-wingers call "socialism" just isn't. This is.
My new shipping-and-receiving job is going fine, thank you very much. On September 2nd I mentioned using the opportunity to justify buying a knife especially for the purpose. I ended up buying two.
The Tim Wegner-designed Blade-Tech Ratel Lite (retail $24, street $20, made in Taiwan) features a saber-ground, 1-15/16-inch leaf-shape blade of AUS 8 stainless steel. It's a lock-back, with textured scales of fiberglass-reinforced nylon and a reversible pocket clip. The second-gen Spyderco Chicago (retail $65, street $41, made in Taiwan) has G-10 scales, replacing a now-discontinued carbon-fiber version. Its flat-ground, 440C leaf-shape blade is two inches long, held open with a liner lock. The wire-style pocket clip is reversible to accommodate either left- or right-hand carry. Fit and finish are good on both knives. Perhaps the Blade-Tech is a touch stiffer, the Spyderco slightly smoother, feeding my perception that the latter is more refined (for lack of a better descriptor). After two weeks of hard use in the warehouse, both blades have held up well -- the AUS 8 and 440C are, I found, durable and easy to maintain. I should mention here that the pocket clip on my particular Ratel Lite started out extremely tight -- secure is one thing, but this was something else entirely and, from what I gather, pretty common. A short loop of paracord, threaded through the lanyard hole, was required to facilitate an easy draw from my pocket. Eventually I modified the bend of the clip by stuffing a thick stack of cardboard under it and leaving it that way overnight. That fixed the problem. Despite having been conceived as EDC or "suit" knives that sneak under annoyingly silly "two-inch-max" laws, both the Ratel Lite and the Chicago have performed admirably for me as box-cutters. I have no complaints, practically speaking, about either. That's not to say that I don't have a preference. Sure, it's possible to buy two Ratel Lites for the street price of one Chicago, which certainly makes the Blade-Tech the better value. But the Spyderco is the better knife, in my opinion, for several reasons. First, I find the liner-lock quicker and more natural to use. I also like the grip -- not just the feel of G-10 slabs, but the way that my fingers index to the handle and the choil formed when the knife is open. And finally, the flat grind and thinner blade make it a better and more versatile cutter -- 1/8 inch (Ratel Lite) versus 3/32 inch (Chicago) may seem like a nit, but the 25% difference shows up big in performance. I'll keep and will continue to use both of these knives. I lean toward the Spyderco, but your mileage (as they say) may vary.
Back to the Backwoods One steamy Saturday three years ago, my wife and I fled a raucous gameday scene for the relative calm of the Thornville Backwoods Fest.
We reprised that trip yesterday afternoon, minus the hot weather and tailgating. (This year the Buckeyes played late, away and badly, getting spanked 24-6 by Miami.)Our experience at the 2011 festival was virtually identical to what I described in 2008 -- wonderful. We returned home refreshed, toting a pound of wildflower honey from a nearby village, a quart of syrup drawn from maple trees next door to the festival grounds, and a big ol' bag of fresh cracklings (a.k.a. pork rinds) cooked in a iron kettle over an open fire. Local is best. Life is good.
While Mrs. KintlaLake was out of town on business early this week, I gathered two dozen ripe Roma tomatoes, cut them into quarter-inch slices, sprinkled them with Mrs. Dash Extra Spicy Blend and dried them in our new food dehydrator. The process, which took about 36 hours, yielded a marvelously sweet-and-savory result. For now I've stored them in a wire-bail jar. I'm sure they'll find their way into soups and pasta dishes -- if, that is, I can resist snacking on them as-is. This morning I picked a pocketful of yellow pear tomatoes, halved them and began drying them as well. I skipped the seasoning for this batch, and I'm anxious to see how they turn out. I also harvested our first five habanero peppers, along with 15 long green hot peppers. Both got my refrigerator-pickles treatment, the cold brine supplemented with peppercorns and garlic cloves. Considering the late start, damn, this has been a great season.
In the interest of full disclosure, I skipped last night's CNN-Tea Party Republican Debate in favor of Monday Night Football. I have, however, read the transcript and I've watched some of the video. Most interesting to me was this exchange between moderator Wolf Blitzer and candidate Rep. Ron Paul.
BLITZER: You're a physician, Ron Paul, so you're a doctor. You know something about [health care]. Let me ask you this hypothetical question.
A healthy 30-year-old young man has a good job, makes a good living, but decides, you know what? I'm not going to spend $200 or $300 a month for health insurance because I'm healthy, I don't need it. But something terrible happens, all of a sudden he needs it.
Who's going to pay if he goes into a coma, for example? Who pays for that?
PAUL: Well, in a society that you accept welfarism and socialism, he expects the government to take care of him.
BLITZER: Well, what do you want?
PAUL: But what he should do is whatever he wants to do, and assume responsibility for himself. My advice to him would have a major medical policy, but not be forced --
BLITZER: But he doesn't have that. He doesn't have it, and he needs intensive care for six months. Who pays?
PAUL: That's what freedom is all about, taking your own risks. This whole idea that you have to prepare and take care of everybody --
BLITZER: But Congressman, are you saying that society should just let him die?
PAUL: No. I practiced medicine before we had Medicaid, in the early 1960s, when I got out of medical school. I practiced at Santa Rosa Hospital in San Antonio, and the churches took care of them. We never turned anybody away from the hospitals.
And we've given up on this whole concept that we might take care of ourselves and assume responsibility for ourselves. Our neighbors, our friends, our churches would do it. This whole idea, that's the reason the cost is so high.
The cost is so high because they dump it on the government, it becomes a bureaucracy. It becomes special interests. It kowtows to the insurance companies and the drug companies, and then on top of that, you have the inflation. The inflation devalues the dollar, we have lack of competition.
There's no competition in medicine. Everybody is protected by licensing. And we should actually legalize alternative health care, allow people to practice what they want.
I'm by no means a rabid supporter of Ron Paul, but I believe that he got this answer exactly right. To explain why, first I need to draw the distinction -- as Paul did -- between government and society. A government of, by and for The People has little interest and, in principle, no role in offering do-overs to some citizens at others' expense. Provisions for social welfare currently exist in law and official custom, and virtually all of us have been their beneficiaries, but now they're expected. A society, in the form of individuals or communities, may choose to exercise compassion where a government should not. Charity should be the province of society -- "our neighbors, our friends, our churches" -- and not the business of government. Laziness and complacency have transformed exceptions into crushing entitlements. At the core of the problem, as Paul correctly points out, is our collective failure to "take care of ourselves and assume responsibility for ourselves." The Republican field is inarguably weak and Ron Paul, like the other candidates, has managed to screw the proverbial pooch in every debate. But the position he expressed last night is right on target, along with being refreshingly free of the dime-store populism that infects this GOP race.
On a day filled with poignant remembrances, the performance at Ground Zero this morning by an elderly Paul Simon -- arguably the quintessential New Yorker -- was moving, fitting, perfect.
In today's edition of The Columbus Dispatch, many of the regular Sunday comics commemorate, in one way or another, the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Flipping through these colorful back pages this morning, I was especially touched by several of the long-running strips, the ones that trace back to my childhood and beyond -- Beetle Bailey, Hägar the Horrible, The Family Circus and others. Dean Young still writes Blondie, the classic 'toon once drawn by his father, Chic Young, from 1930 until his death in 1973. I have no doubt that Dad would've approved of today's strip.
Today, ten years on, I touch the memory of ordinary lives and extraordinary bravery. It's a day for honoring those who serve my community, my state, my nation.
It’s time to visit again the aching grief, to embrace my rage and to shape anger into vigilance that guards my freedoms.
Whatever else I thought I needed to say can wait until tomorrow.
Our volunteer gourd vines started dying back a couple of weeks ago, and I finally got 'round to harvesting what they left behind. Thirty-two "winged" Cucurbita gourds now lay drying on a newspaper-covered table in our basement. They're of various shapes and sizes, the largest measuring over 17 inches long. Most are green, orange and gold, with a few white ones in the bunch.
Yesterday's noon kickoff had Mrs. KintlaLake and me arriving on the Ohio State campus around 9am. Once there we strolled north along Neil, crossed Lane and, in a parking lot next to a venerable OSU watering hole, resurrected one of our favorite gameday traditions. It had been three years since Danger Brothers left Lane Avenue when Hineygate, "the world's largest tailgate party," ended its 26-year run. The band played on, albeit at a tiny outdoor venue over a mile away, but pre-game hasn't been the same since. But there we were behind the Varsity Club yesterday morning, sipping ice-cold Budweiser at an hour more appropriate to cereal and milk, digging Danger Brothers' wonderfully adolescent shtick. We'd been there less than a minute, I'd guess, when another member of the Beer-for-Breakfast Club approached me, grinning. "You're here!" he shouted over the music, reaching to grab my hand. "My buds and me wondered if you'd be here -- I knew you would!" I have no idea who that guy was -- and yeah, the encounter was just a wee bit disturbing -- but the spirit of Hineygate, cultivated over a generation of football Saturdays, has returned to Lane Avenue. It was like a big ol' reunion, familiar faces in a new place. The missus and I hung around through Danger Brothers' first set so that we could extend a personal "welcome back" before heading over to The 'Shoe for another band and another reunion. The first game traditionally hosts the annual return of TBDBITL alumni. The sight and sound of nearly a thousand bandsmen -- 225 current members and more than 750 scarlet-shirted alums -- is unforgettable, stirring our souls in ways I won't even try to describe. As for the game, I'll cut to the chase: Ohio State 42, Akron 0. (Maybe there's a reason they're called "Zips.") The Bucks looked good, not great, and a win is a win. My wife and I didn't see the whole game, however. We didn't even make it through the first half. In 49 years of watching OSU play football in Ohio Stadium, I can't recall it ever being as brutally hot as it was yesterday -- upper 90s, heat index well above 110°F, stifling humidity and a smog alert. An official went down from the heat ten minutes into the game. After the first quarter, fans started bailing down the aisles like they often do when the Buckeyes are up by four touchdowns at the end of the third. We went below shortly before halftime. The concourse under the stands was jammed, the walls lined with people trying to cool off. Woozy patrons packed first-aid stations, with more standing in long lines awaiting medical help. Ambulances came and went like cabs at Grand Central -- hundreds of fans suffering from heat-related maladies, some reported to be serious, were transported to area hospitals. I'd never seen anything like it. We chugged water and cuddled cups of ice for a half-hour, but we knew that if we returned to our A-deck seats it wouldn't take long for the relative comfort to broil away. Ultimately we decided to call it a (game)day. I snapped this photo of Mrs. KintlaLake just before we walked out of the stadium. The sign means to convey that once we left, we wouldn't be permitted back in. The double entendre, certainly unintentional, suited the occasion. Overall it was a great day, despite the fact that we ended it utterly gassed. We still are, stumbling through the middle of our long weekend and trying to re-charge.
More than two dozen tomatoes, harvested from the garden yesterday morning, finish ripening on stone windowsills in our kitchen. Over in the fridge there's a tub of chunky salsa fresca, made with home-grown tomatoes and hot peppers, along with a bowl of cucumbers-and-onions salad marinating in red-wine vinegar. Out back, the garden is a rat's nest of ridiculously productive plants and unreachable (but harmless) weeds. Our cuke vines are withering at the base but still setting fruit, about half of it small and stunted. We'll have a modest crop of peas from a second planting. More long green peppers are on the way and, obviously, three tomato plants are giving us more than we can handle. As I hoped, we'll have a late-season bounty of habanero peppers. I don't recall ever being this gratified with a backyard garden. As autumn approaches and takes hold I'll clear some of the beds, prepare the soil and plant wintering crops. The cycle never ends. Recently I did a different kind of "planting" (so to speak) that'll bear fruit after the Labor Day weekend. Although I didn't mention it here, I took a temporary warehouse job a couple of weeks ago, filling in for four days at the shop my wife manages. To my surprise, I really enjoyed the work. Apparently I proved my worth to the rest of the crew, too, because the corporate office called Mrs. KintlaLake this week and offered me a full-time position. My first day is Tuesday. Such a tape-and-boxes proposition requires a proper knife, of course. I rummaged through the blades I own and didn't find what I was looking for, exactly, so (naturally) I had a good excuse to go shopping. After surfing KnifeWorks for a while, I picked up a Blade-Tech that fills the bill. The Ratel Lite is inexpensive, small, one-handed and equipped with a pocket clip -- perfect. I'll offer my impressions here once I've used it for a week or two. Between now and the moment I punch the clock on Tuesday, however, I'll reach down and pick up "the longest continuous thread in the fabric of my life" -- Ohio State football. It's been a rocky off-season, to say the least, an agonizing time for life-long fans of the Buckeyes. Just yesterday, three more players were suspended for the first game. Tomorrow, the bullshit will end and football will begin. Life in Buckeye Nation will get back to normal. Traditions cultivated over 122 years will resume. All will be well once again. Like a storm leaves the air clear and fresh, scandal may have stripped OSU football to its essence. We have a new coach, an interim coach, a young coach. Expectations for this 2011 team are modest. Critics are likely to be uncharacteristically forgiving. In other words, the pressure in Columbus is as low as it'll ever get. This is one football season that everyone should be able to enjoy. Mrs. KintlaLake and I will settle into our seats in The 'Shoe tomorrow at noon, intent on doing just that.
Okay, so you think that "Chevy Runs Deep" commercial is sappy or cliché and yeah, maybe the acting won't win any prizes. But if you can't help dismissing it, whatever the reason, you don't get it. You wouldn't give your right arm for just one more ride in your granddad's truck. You're an incurable consumer, buying shiny new stuff rather than maintaining or restoring perfectly useful old stuff. You'll probably never understand the satisfaction I get from paring an apple with my late father's pen knife, hauling brush in his old wheelbarrow or turning soil with the shovel he used in his own garden. You haven't the faintest idea what akeeperis, do you?
While waiting for the younger spawn to emerge from school on the first day of classes yesterday, I heard Rush Limbaugh nonsensically connect the dots -- from the perceived "hype" over Hurricane Irene to the media's allegiance to the Obama "regime." It was like listening to a drunken college freshman use what he'd learned in Psych 101 to explain nuclear physics. Moving on, he noted that Colin Powellsaid on Sunday that he hasn't yet decided who he'll vote for in 2012. Limbaugh then predicted that Powell again would vote for Pres. Obama because,
"Melanin is thicker than water."
The man knows his Dittoheads, I'll give him that. "Don't doubt me!" he bellows. "The fix is in!" And indeed it is -- just don't tell Limbaugh's simple-minded poodles.
Getting back to Irene -- I'm no meteorologist, but I'm smart enough to recognize that forecasting weather, especially tropical systems, is an inexact science. Irene, like most hurricanes, bobbed and wiggled. It threatened to follow a path that could take an unprecedented toll in lives, livelihoods, property and infrastructure. The worst didn't happen. Perfect hindsight, however, doesn't warrant indicting the press, forecasters or public officials for warning citizens of the scientifically reasonable chance that it could happen. Yes, the media did inject unnecessary drama into the whole affair, but that's not unusual. They do it every day. It doesn't move me. I do have a problem, though, with characterizing some as "ignoring" or "defying" official evacuation orders. Not the true idiots, people who went swimming in the surf as Hurricane Irene made landfall -- I'm talking about prepared, independent citizens who gauged the risks and responsibly chose to shelter-in-place. Truth be told, the vast majority of folks who stayed put were guided by sentiment or ego, not by critical thought or common sense. The unprepared now complain that they're still stranded or that their power still hasn't been restored. And yes, even they deserve the right to ride out a big storm in their own homes. Personally (and within reason) I would've done whatever it took to avoid becoming a refugee in my own land. That choice is neither ignorant nor defiant -- it's independent. I spent 20-plus years of my life in southern New England. Often I ventured north into Vermont, New Hampshire and the Adirondacks of New York -- for the scenery, sure, but also because I was drawn to the region's independent spirit. The remnants of Hurricane Irene unleashed catastrophic flooding on the area. Bridges I've crossed -- swept away. Streets I walked, the riverside restaurant where I savored morning coffee -- devastated. A friend's house perched on the bank of the Mad River, the place where I celebrated Independence Day a dozen years ago -- gone. My heart aches for these Americans, and yet I have no doubt that they'll rebound and rebuild like the People they are. Up there, see, especially in rural communities and small villages, independence wins out over drama -- every time.
My wife and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to drop in on the annual Reynoldsburg Tomato Festival last night. It was no coincidence that McGuffey Lane occupied the main stage when we arrived, making this the second straight weekend that we've caught their act. This time I wasn't there to photograph the performance. I left my pro gear at home but, as I often do, I brought along my digital pocket camera and snapped about a dozen images of the show. A little silver PhD* camera naturally is less capable than a big black SLR with interchangeable lenses. It works well for documenting events and preserving memories, but even its best work should be passed through the filter of lower expectations. Then again, because it's much smaller it's more likely to be carried. (That should sound familiar, by the way.) And "getting the shot" requires actually having something to shoot with. Put another way -- if Jeff Cooper, quoted in Friday's post, had been a photographer instead of the Father of Modern Pistolcraft, he might well have said,
"Remember the first rule of photography: Have a camera."
So a point-and-shoot camera is, potentially, an EDC item. For the committed photographer, however, a high-quality PhD* has other, less obvious applications. Photography's components -- composition, exposure, highlight and shadow, color, etc. -- are fundamental. Different equipment may render a given subject in different ways, but I've found that spending time with a pocket camera and then transferring lessons learned to a like-branded SLR (I choose Canon) to be extraordinarily helpful. Most often I use the smaller camera to play around with composition. I bring the results of those tests back to my PC, looking for promising angles worth exploring with my SLR. Essentially, it's equivalent to the artist's sketchpad. That's what I did two years ago with the barns. I do it whenever I shoot a knife, a morning's harvest or other subject to accompany a post on KintlaLake Blog. It was my mission last night, too, as I captured McGuffey Lane's show from a band's-eye perspective. The images I've posted here today document a scene but by no means are they great photos. That's ok by me -- the goal of the exercise was to create sketches, continuing my exploration of the medium. *PhD = "push here, dummy"
The process of choosing EDC items is part-and-parcel of developing a preparedness mindset. Although I continue to fiddle with my own kit, it's changed little since last September.
I still carry a multi-blade pocketknife as well as a folding knife with locking blade, semi-auto pistol and spare magazine, flashlight, pry bar, wristwatch, cell phone, keys and wallet. Preparedness isn't simply a collection of gadgets, of course, so cultivating the skills to use the tools I've chosen is essential. And beyond that, I must have the discipline to carry those tools -- ownership and mastery, indispensable though they are, become useless without possession. I believe it was Jeff Cooper who said,
"Remember the first rule of gunfighting: Have a gun."
For some time now I've been honing my discipline to carry not just every day, but everywhere practicable. I've found focusing on EWC (as opposed to EDC) to be an eye-opening exercise. We humans are reasonable creatures -- that is, we tend to want good reasons to do stuff. I'm just walking to the mailbox, so do I really need a knife? Why should I bother to have a handgun on my belt while I'm sitting here at my desk? It's daytime -- what good is a flashlight? Those questions don't reflect a preparedness mindset. Anyone who's moved past EDC to EWC understands what I'm talking about. Choosing what to carry means choosing to carry it -- establish the reason and then (for the most part) dismiss it. And for me, choosing to carry an item means carrying it all the time. Ok, not all the time. Carrying a knife or a firearm isn't permitted everywhere. And no, I don't carry my kit to bed or in the shower, but in both places they remain within arm's reach. By the time that Mrs. KintlaLake and I are enjoying pre-dawn coffee and conversation on the patio, I'm carrying every item mentioned above. Likewise when I mow the lawn or walk the dogs, cook dinner or change the oil in the truck, ride my bicycle or water the garden. All together now: Not just every day -- everywhere.
Despite the attention I've paid to Christine O'Donnell since she rose to notoriety 11 months ago, it's hard to overstate how insubstantial and inept she is. Politically she's like a gnat that's become separated from the swarm -- annoying and persistent, yet incapable of accomplishing anything of consequence. Yesterday's performance is but the latest evidence. O'Donnell's fans will agree with her claim that Piers Morgan's questioning was rude, typical of the dreaded Gotcha Lamestream Media. That perspective demonstrates three things: immaturity; a colossal ignorance of the role of a free press; and personal neuroses that likely include paranoia, or at least a raging persecution complex. Together, they go a long way toward explaining some folks' attraction to an immature and clearly neurotic 41-year-old woman for whom persecution (so perceived) is a calling card. As certain as I am of my armchair psychoanalysis, I'm veering out of my lane here. I do know a thing or two, however, about working with the news and entertainment media. First of all, an interviewer is under no legal, moral or ethical obligation to address only topics that the interviewee wants to talk about. Yesterday O'Donnell showed her misconceptions (and her ass):
"Well, don't you think as a host, if I say this is what I want to talk about, that's what we should address?"
Any host who limits his questioning to agreed-upon topics is complicit in his guest's propaganda -- only amateurs, hacks and shills do that. They insult our constitutional right to a free and independent press. See, there are no "gotcha questions" -- there are only questions that the subject doesn't want to answer (or hasn't prepared to answer). We needn't look far to find an example of how to navigate a tough interview. Mark Sanford, the disgraced former governor of South Carolina, appeared live on Piers Morgan Tonight just two days before the O'Donnell debacle. I make no judgments about Sanford's marital infidelity, political ideology or religious faith, but during this minefield of an interview he conducted himself with grace and poise. Second, when a public figure emerges after a long absence to do a round of interviews, everyone knows that they're promoting something -- a TV show, a CD, a tour or, in the case of Christine O'Donnell, a book. The trick, for an interview subject, is to make the viewer forget the self-serving promotion angle. I always advise my spokespersons to focus on being poised and appealing, answer the questions and let the interviewer bring up the product. O'Donnell took the opposite approach:
"As I admit in the book..."
"As I, again, painstakingly detail in the book..."
"As I write in the book..."
"I wrote this book..."
"I address it in the book."
"Let's get the conversation back to the book."
"I'm here to talk about the book."
"What I'm trying to do is to promote a book."
In all, she reminded us about her new book 16 times -- and that in an abbreviated interview, for cryin' out loud. It was the only topic she was prepared to talk about, so she came off as a clumsy huckster. Making my third and last point will require going back to the early part of yesterday's interview, before the conversation got contentious. Morgan had just played the infamous "I'm not a witch" campaign ad, calling it "creepy." O'Donnell, justifiably chagrined, admitted that the spot was a mistake:
"I listened to the so-called experts who had been losing election after election...listen to your gut...the experts aren't always experts."
Later in the interview, when the going got tough, we saw her glancing off-camera to her left -- either her "gut" was over on the other side of the studio or, more likely, she was taking cues from an "expert." Shortly after that, she again looked off-camera and said,
"OK. I'm being pulled away."
Pulled by what, her gut? Apparently she's hired another expert who's as clueless as she is, one who willfully embarrassed their client. A successful interview can pay big dividends in publicity -- but a good interview is, more than anything else, a test. As consumers of news media, that's what we should demand -- the tougher, the better.
We should praise media for administering those tests, recognize public figures who pass them and quickly write off whiny weaklings like Christine O'Donnell.
"I'm not talking about policies. I'm not running for office. Ask Michele Bachmann what she thinks." (Former U.S. Senate candidate Christine O'Donnell, just before her handlers pulled the plug on her interview today with Piers Morgan)
(Blogger's note: I've spent much of my professional life prepping public figures for media interviews, and I've done hundreds of interviews myself. Trust me, walking out -- a la Carrie Prejean and Christine O'Donnell -- does nothing to embarrass the host. It only exposes the interview subject as an assclown. KL)
All-day rain made for a slow track, sloppy but much better than artificial turf. The sounds of the bands, the crowd and the public-address system traveled through the heavy air to our house, as clear as if we'd been sitting in the bleachers.
The Tim Wegner-designed Blade-Tech Ratel Lite (retail $24, street $20, made in Taiwan) features a saber-ground, 1-15/16-inch leaf-shape blade of AUS 8 stainless steel. It's a lock-back, with textured scales of fiberglass-reinforced nylon and a reversible pocket clip.
We returned home refreshed, toting a pound of wildflower honey from a nearby village, a quart of syrup drawn from maple trees next door to the festival grounds, and a big ol' bag of fresh cracklings (a.k.a. pork rinds) cooked in a iron kettle over an open fire.
Dean Young still writes Blondie, the classic 'toon once drawn by his father, Chic Young, from 1930 until his death in 1973. I have no doubt that Dad would've approved of today's strip.
But there we were behind the Varsity Club yesterday morning, sipping ice-cold Budweiser at an hour more appropriate to cereal and milk, digging Danger Brothers' wonderfully adolescent shtick. We'd been there less than a minute, I'd guess, when another member of the Beer-for-Breakfast Club approached me, grinning.
The first game traditionally hosts the annual return of TBDBITL alumni. The sight and sound of nearly a thousand bandsmen -- 225 current members and more than 750 scarlet-shirted alums -- is unforgettable, stirring our souls in ways I won't even try to describe.
We chugged water and cuddled cups of ice for a half-hour, but we knew that if we returned to our A-deck seats it wouldn't take long for the relative comfort to broil away. Ultimately we decided to call it a (game)day.
Out back, the garden is a rat's nest of ridiculously productive plants and unreachable (but harmless) weeds. Our cuke vines are withering at the base but still setting fruit, about half of it small and stunted. We'll have a modest crop of peas from a second planting. More long green peppers are on the way and, obviously, three tomato plants are giving us more than we can handle.
After surfing KnifeWorks for a while, I picked up a Blade-Tech that fills the bill. The Ratel Lite is inexpensive, small, one-handed and equipped with a pocket clip -- perfect. I'll offer my impressions here once I've used it for a week or two.
It's been a rocky off-season, to say the least, an agonizing time for life-long fans of the Buckeyes. Just yesterday, three more players were suspended for the first game.
Getting back to Irene -- I'm no meteorologist, but I'm smart enough to recognize that forecasting weather, especially tropical systems, is an inexact science. Irene, like most hurricanes, bobbed and wiggled. It threatened to follow a path that could take an unprecedented toll in lives, livelihoods, property and infrastructure.
A little silver PhD* camera naturally is less capable than a big black SLR with interchangeable lenses. It works well for documenting events and preserving memories, but even its best work should be passed through the filter of lower expectations.
The images I've posted here today document a scene but by no means are they great photos. That's ok by me -- the goal of the exercise was to create sketches, continuing my exploration of the medium. 
I still carry a multi-blade pocketknife as well as a folding knife with locking blade, semi-auto pistol and spare magazine, flashlight, pry bar, wristwatch, cell phone, keys and wallet.
Choosing what to carry means choosing to carry it -- establish the reason and then (for the most part) dismiss it. And for me, choosing to carry an item means carrying it all the time.
Yesterday's performance is but the latest evidence.
