For the birds

Four minutes into OSU's game with Eastern Michigan yesterday, the Buckeyes were up 14-0.

The mismatch was official, the rout on. I did some quick math.

"Y'know," I said to my wife, "this thing really could be 210-0 by the time it's over."

Against a team riding a 15-game losing streak, a school which has the proud eagle as its mascot but initials that spell out the name of a flightless bird with a brain the size of its eyeball -- EMU -- anything was possible.

The Bucks possessed the ball 12 times and had 11 scores, racking up 645 yards and punting just once. Wide receiver Dane Sanzenbacher caught an OSU record-tying four TD passes from Terrelle Pryor, who himself had a TD catch and another rushing.

Most memorable, at least for me, was Ohio State's second-quarter response to the Emus' first touchdown. It took the Buckeyes eight nonchalant plays to cover 68 yards, the dominant offense making the exercise look about as strenuous as a hotel-ballroom walkthrough, ending with Pryor's nine-yard scoring toss to Sanzenbacher.

That made it 31-7, on the way to a holy shit final of 73-20.

Here endeth the "green" portion of the 2010 schedule. Now bring on the Big Ten and let's see what we're made of.

It's the truth

(Stahler cartoons, The Columbus Dispatch)

To the House Committee on Immigration:

When Stephen Colbert testified before your Committee today, the People weren't laughing with you -- not because you weren't laughing, but because we were laughing at you.

In this compartmentalized society we separate drama from comedy and family shows from news, and you've had your own private pomposity network. That ended today, when Mr. Colbert lampooned you to your face.

Since the hearing, your Democratic members have been wringing their hands, calling Mr. Colbert's testimony "sad" and wondering aloud if it damaged the cause of migrant workers. Republican members, amplified by captive partisan bullhorn FOXNews, have called it "disrespectful" and "a mockery."

We, the People, see it differently. We know that nothing could be sadder than the liberal naiveté demonstrated by your Chairwoman in inviting Mr. Colbert in the first place, unless it's the Committee's confidence that he'd actually deliver the politically correct pabulum that he submitted in advance of the hearing.

Self-serving conservatives on this Committee and of this Congress, those of you so adept at making campaign hay on the issue of illegal immigration but accomplishing absolutely nothing, display institutional disrespect for the People you purport to serve.

You've made a mockery of yourselves and of governance. Your impotence and inaction have done more damage to the House of Representatives -- and to our nation -- than a comedian's five-minute statement ever could.

Mr. Colbert simply walked into your hallowed halls today and served his satire to you personally. It's time someone did.

Sincerely,
KintlaLake

* * *
"...the true counterweights on the left to the crowd-rousers on the right are the comedians." (Alexandra Petri, The Washington Post)

"As Stephen Colbert asked committee members if he could enter into the Congressional Record a video of his colonoscopy as evidence of the importance of eating fruits and vegetables, I realized that decorum is dead, celebrity rules and maybe bringing a clown into these proceedings is just what's needed to show the extent to which our Congress has become a circus." (Dave George, AolNews)

Notes from the pumpkin patch

Ok, so my Monday didn't turn out so well -- a willing spirit lost to weak flesh -- but I still managed to come home with useful experience.

Under a cloudless sky, with low humidity and temps pushing 90°F, drinking plenty of water was a must -- and I did, although it's unlikely that I could've chugged enough to prevent the world-class bonk that knocked me out of the game. Nutrition came in the form of three PowerBars, and that was adequate.

If I had it to do over again I'd employ a canteen or a hydration bladder, some way to keep water with me rather than in an ice chest in the truck, which often was 200 yards away.

I dressed for battling the spiny overgrowth -- sturdy boots and comfortable socks, blue jeans and a long-sleeved denim shirt. Although I prefer deerskin gloves, that day I wore a well-loved cowhide pair and they did the job.

Under the loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt I wore a polypropylene t-shirt (layers aren't just for cold weather), which kept me much cooler than a cotton tee or nothing at all. For headgear I chose Amish over redneck -- a broad-brimmed straw hat, bought for five bucks at an odd-lots store earlier this summer, ventilated much better than a feed cap and allowed me to carry a 360° patch of shade around with me.

I also had the good sense to tuck a bandanna into my hip pocket. In addition to serving as headband and sweat rag, soaked with water from the ice chest and tied around my neck it provided blessed (albeit temporary) relief from the heat. Honestly, I don't know why I don't carry one of these indispensable cloth squares every day.

I brought along a pair of short-handled loppers for cutting pumpkins from their vines. That's what I ended up using 99% of the time, but I thought that a medium-sized fixed-blade knife might come in handy, too, so I slipped a Bark River Gunny onto my belt -- not the one that I wrote about a year ago, rather a Micarta-handled version bought at well below dealer cost from a shop that was reducing inventory.

Capable as the Gunny is, it generally isn't the right tool for the job of harvesting pumpkins. (My 18-year-old, who carried his own bargain-basement Gunny on Monday, concurs.) See, at this point in the season their tough, woody stems no longer are securely attached, and it proved almost impossible to apply enough force to cut the stem without breaking it off (thereby junkin' the punkin). I did use the knife a few times to clear vegetation, but that was about it.

I had my EDC Victorinox Farmer with me, of course. I never took it out of my pocket.

Finally, I left my Glock 19 in the safe and carried my Walther P22 -- lighter on the belt and arguably a more reasonable choice should I have had to dispatch a pumpkin-patch pest. (I didn't.) Loaded with ten rounds of CCI Stinger, the P22 rode at 4 o'clock in an El Paso Saddlery Tortilla OWB leather holster, joined at 8 o'clock by a spare ten-round magazine in an El Paso Mag Pouch.

Whatever else came out of that imperfect day, I got to spend quality time sorting out kit. If I were headed back to the pumpkin patch tomorrow -- and I'm not -- with just a few changes I believe I'd equip myself the same way.

Well, duh.

Over on the home page of Ohioans for Concealed Carry -- a good group, by the way -- is a thought-provoking commentary. In "Not-so-conservative talk radio," Philip Mulivor writes about keeping company with Bill Bennett's Morning in America for the last three years.

Then Mulivor reports stumbling upon what David Kopel wrote for the NRA's America's 1st Freedom magazine:

"Before the dark days of the Clinton administration, few federal government officials had done more to damage Second Amendment rights than William Bennett, the so-called 'drug czar' under President George H.W. Bush. In March 1989, Bennett set off a national panic by pushing the first Bush administration to ban the import of so-called 'assault weapons.'

"Bennett claimed that 'assault weapons' were the firearms of choice for violent drug dealers. The claim, of course, was nonsense. Police gun seizure data showed that the guns were rarely used in any type of crime. Yet Bennett's massive publicity stunt prohibited dozens of models of high-quality guns. And it set the stage for state-level bans on so-called 'assault weapons,' and, in the long run, for the 1994 Clinton gun ban."

Mulivor's superficial image of Bennett was shattered by the revelation. Chagrined, he observes,

"The lesson here is simple, and I'm probably the last person in Ohio to get it: Not all pro-[Second Amendment] folks are politically conservative, and not all conservatives are pro-[Second Amendment]."

Really? Like, we actually have to think about this stuff?

Mulivor, who's clearly a slave to right-wing purity, goes on to show us that he doesn't "get it" at all, disputing Bennett's patriotism.

I once had the pleasure of dining with Bill Bennett, prior to an event I helped organize a decade ago. Our conversation made it abundantly clear to me that this self-described conservative is, in fact, an independent citizen-patriot.

A few of the views expressed to me that evening, if widely known by right-wing ideologues, would have him riding on a rail -- and make no mistake, I'm in adamant disagreement with positions he's taken on Second Amendment issues -- but I judge Bennett to be an intelligent, thoughtful voice in a shamefully simple-minded political climate.

The real "lesson" from Mulivor's experience (and mine) is that the conservative label is fundamentally useless, both as a gauge of others and as a badge we wear. The same must be said of liberal, Republican, Christian and all the rest.

Division will not save our nation. Believing will be our downfall.

We must stand independently, think critically, embrace differences and act with the passion of patriots.

Contrary to popular belief

Election Day is less than six weeks away. We, the People, seem to be in an anti-incumbent mood these days, seasoned with rhetoric about (or lip-service to) "returning to constitutional principles."

Please grant me, at least for the duration of this post, my contention that the right to keep and bear arms, as guaranteed by the Second Amendment, is the most fundamental of constitutional principles. It's the one and only right that empowers us, if necessary, to defend with force our other precious liberties.

So it would seem, then, that a principled People would be looking for staunch Second Amendment advocates to supplant the bums who now hold office. Everyone knows that means getting behind right-wing Republicans and conservative Tea Party candidates -- right?

Welcome to The Great State of Ohio, where a Democratic governor is up for re-election and conventional wisdom [sic] takes a long lunch.

Gov. Ted Strickland, a steelworker's son from Lucasville, came to the office after several terms in the U.S. House of Representatives. As a Democrat raised in southern Ohio he wears the label "progressive" more comfortably than he does "liberal," even though he endorsed Hillary Clinton for president in 2008.

Strickland has helped to repair much of the damage that the previous governor -- Bob Taft, a Republican -- did to our Second Amendment rights. (Why Ohioans put a Boston-born lawyer in that office for eight years is beyond me.) Strickland's record as governor and, before that, as congressman has earned him an A+ grade from the National Rifle Association and the endorsement of both the NRA and the Buckeye Firearms Association.

Opposing incumbent Strickland's bid for a second term is John Kasich, a Pennsylvania native and former congressman representing Ohio's 12th District. Many FOXNews viewers will remember "From the Heartland with John Kasich" and his occasional stand-ins for Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly. While he's a loyal Republican, he expresses his values with a moderation which annoys wingnuts in search of ideological purity.

I don't care that Kasich worked as a managing director of Lehman Brothers until it imploded in 2008. I do care that as a congressman he voted on the side of the Clinton Assault Weapons Ban -- five times -- and against repealing the oppressive DC gun ban that ultimately was neutered by the Heller decision. And that's not the half of it.

His NRA grades: C- overall, with a flurry of Fs on crucial tests.

Obviously, Kasich and Strickland defy partisan stereotypes. Neither is a litmus-test candidate, and for that I'm grateful. Each manifests the kind of thoughtful independence that has my respect (if not always my agreement on specific issues).

There's no perfect candidate in this or any race, but from a constitutional perspective I believe that Ted Strickland would give Ohio a more principled four years than John Kasich would.

Honest labor

In this New Normal, many Americans are enduring long stretches of unemployment or (so-called) under-employment. No matter who or where we are, we ask ourselves this question:

"What am I willing to do?"

After leaving Saturday's game my wife and I headed to a gun show over on the city's west side, where we ran into the guy who taught my CCW class. In addition to being a firearms instructor, a retired (but still commissioned) law-enforcement officer, a local elected official and a proponent of preserving primitive skills, he's also something of a gentleman farmer.

It's mid-September, time for him to harvest his pumpkins. He offered me a job picking the seasonal crop. I accepted.

I showed up at the farm early yesterday morning, accompanied by my unemployed 18-year-old. The first field we were instructed to work was overgrown with thistles -- I'm talkin' eight feet tall, their downy seeds filling the air like snow.

We were left on our own to clear ten-foot-wide paths that'd be bush-hogged and harvested later. It took us nearly two hours to fight through the tangle to the opposite side of the field, 150 yards away. Our boss returned with another picker just as we made the turn to cut another swath.

Together the four of us cut two more paths over the next hour. We then hitched a hay-wagon to a pickup truck and followed it back and forth across the field, heaving the orange orbs onto the wagon.

Once loaded, truck and wagon began their slow journey to a local roadside stand. The spawn and I drove on ahead to unload another wagon that had been delivered the day before, finishing about the time that the morning's picking arrived. And after that wagon was empty, we set about unloading a trailer stacked with the biggest pumpkins that are practical to sell, some requiring two of us to move.

My watch read 1:30pm when our crew broke for an hour. The spawn and I picked up his younger brother at school, dropped him at home and went back to the fields, where we loaded yet another wagon.

The day's final hours saw us picking a planting of smallish pumpkins, round ones ranging from grapefruit- to cantaloupe-sized, and tossing them into the bed of a pickup. Field's end coincided with full truck, which by that time held around 2,500 pumpkins.

The boy and I boarded my TrailBlazer as the sun dipped toward the tops of the trees. We fell in behind our boss on his old John Deere and followed him across field and wood, past his shooting range and finally to his well-kept homestead. The three of us chatted in the driveway for several minutes before saying our goodbyes.

The 18-year-old is back in the fields today. I'm not.

Yesterday I pushed myself to, through and well past my physical limits. My slow recovery now isn't a matter of age -- hell, two of my fellow punkin-pickers are 65+. I dressed for the day's oppressive heat and kept myself well-hydrated. I bonked anyway, big-time.

There's no labor so honest as farming, working close to the land. I'm no farmer, though, nor am I the 16-year-old who slogged through football drills on late-summer mornings, went straight from the practice field to the hayfield to help with baling, and was back in pads by 4pm for the second two-a-day.

Willing though I may be, as hard as I'm able to work around my own yard and house, compared to men who have been doing this kind of labor all of their lives it seems that I've gone soft.

I'm not resigned to decline, however. Whether or not I can reverse my physical slide remains to be seen, but I'm committed to forestalling it at the very least.

Addendum: Gameday notes
A strange scene unfolded during Saturday's pre-game in The 'Shoe, directly below where my wife and I stood and cheered.

OSU's mascot, Brutus, was leading the #2 Buckeyes onto the field before the National Anthem when OhioU's mascot, Rufus, crashed tradition, tackled the unsuspecting Brutus (twice) and punched him repeatedly.

This wasn't the play-acting typical of sports mascots -- the 19-year-old raging psycho-dumbass in the Bobcat getup admits to having planned the stunt for over a year.

"It was the whole reason I tried out," he told the campus newspaper.

It's tempting, naturally, for self-righteous Ohio State fans to shout, "Disrespect!" and make this some sort of OSU-OhioU thing. That'd be wrong, of course.

Confusing disrespectful with stupid, I mean.

My Hemi may be gone...

...but I'm still enough of a motorhead to love this commercial.

Gameday notes

When the Bobcats of Ohio University stepped out of the MAC and into The 'Shoe yesterday, no one gave them a chance to beat The Ohio State University -- and no one should've.

The Buckeyes' offense clicked and the defense smothered everything that Ohio U. tried to do. (Dig the photo showing seven Silver Bullets on the ball.) OSU was up 27-0 after one quarter and 34-0 by halftime. The final score was a merciful 43-7.

Since falling 7-6 to Oberlin in 1921, Ohio State is 41-0-1 against in-state football competition. (Wooster managed a 7-7 tie in 1924.) A few opponents have come close -- Ohio U. in 2008 and Cincinnati in 2002 -- but this wasn't to be the year for an upset.

* * *
Best game-day slogan, seen on the back of a t-shirt:

"I may cheer for the Buckeyes, but I drink like a Bobcat."

An inside joke, playing off of Ohio U.'s reputation as a party school.

* * *
After the season-opener against Marshall I commented on the level of security around Ohio Stadium, noting specifically the "roll-through checkpoints" we observed. This week Mrs. KintlaLake discreetly snapped a couple of photos as we passed through a chicane on Woody Hayes Drive, in the middle of the bridge over the Olentangy River.


Notice the Ohio State Highway Patrol SRT trooper with the dog, posted just prior to where vehicles enter the checkpoint.

The white delivery van in front of us was ordered to pull to the side and was swept individually.

Looking back toward the security chicane reveals how truly tight it is. The magnified perspective shows that we were the second-to-last in our six-vehicle group to clear scrutiny. At the intersection in the distance, several hundred yards west, traffic is stopped awaiting officers' instructions to proceed toward the checkpoint.

I'm careful, of course, not to post a lot about the hows and wheres of game-day security. We respect the integrity of the effort, as well as the men and women behind it.

A friend of ours has command responsibility for much of this deployment -- my wife and I spent a half-hour chatting with him yesterday morning, actually -- and we're privy to details that most folks will never know.

Suffice it to say that some of those details would curl your hair.

The sound of the lights

Our town has two high schools, one of which sits behind a stand of trees across the street. The football stadium, which is hosting its first home game as I type this, is less than a quarter-mile from our house. Naturally, we can hear the crowd, the band and the public address system as if they're in our front yard -- which, essentially, they are.

After tonight's pre-game festivities, we were treated to the PA announcer reading the Preamble to the United States Constitution, followed by the singing of the National Anthem.

That's what I'm talkin' about -- Happy Constitution Day, People!

Urban Resources: Fatwood

Fatwood, the resin-rich heartwood of pines, is the ultimate natural firestarter. Until you've watched it burn -- whether you harvested it laboriously from a lightning-struck tree or bought a bundle from your favorite outfitter -- you've been working way too hard at getting your fires going. I recommend carrying a stick or two in every fire kit, survival kit and 72-hour bag.

There's no question that old conifer stumps produce the best fatwood, but even a living tree will push resinous sap toward any injury. When a branch breaks off or is cut, resin will fill (and eventually ooze out of) the wound. The photo at right shows one of our backyard pines where I removed a three-inch limb at the trunk last month.

In my experience, the most convenient source of utility-grade fatwood is the stubs of lower branches. In urban settings, thanks to tidy homeowners and the ubiquitous ornamental pine, it's easy to find.

This morning I used the saw blade of my Victorinox Farmer to harvest one such thumb-sized stub. My first clue that it contained a fair bit of resin was the chalky buildup at the end. The wood was relatively hard, too, and it didn't yield easily to the saw, another sign that I'd made a good choice.

Once I'd sawed the stub from the trunk, I put the freshly cut end to my nose -- a strong whiff of turpentine confirmed the presence of turpene, the volatile compound that makes fatwood burn so well.

Next, using the knife blade as a wedge and a stick as a baton, I split the stub a couple of times to expose "the good stuff." Batoning a folding knife can put a lot of stress on the pivot and backspring, by the way, so I didn't open the blade completely to its "locked" position.


To liberate the best fatwood in this particular piece, I looked for sticky, dark-orange veins of concentrated resin. (Click on the photo above to see what I was after.) The resulting sticks will be shaved into curls or scraped into powder for starting our next backyard fire.

Did I mention that fatwood will burn even when it's wet?

A bit of navel-gazing

Although KintlaLake Blog has been around for two-and-a-half years (as of yesterday, actually), Blogger has offered statistics only for a few months. It doesn't tell me who you are, exactly, but I know (generally) how you got here, the country you're in and what you've been looking at.

It is, in a word, fascinating.

First, I was stunned to see that KintlaLake Blog has had thousands of page-views since July. An overwhelming majority of readers (81%) check-in from somewhere in the USA; there's also a respectable audience (5%) in Canada. The rest of you are scattered across the globe -- the UK, Western and Eastern Europe, the former Soviet republics, Australia and New Zealand, China and elsewhere.

It didn't surprise me to learn that most of you found this blog via a search engine like Google, Yahoo! or bing, or through a referring site such as American Bushman or Facebook.

(Over the last couple of days, incidentally, one of the most common search strings leading readers to KintlaLake Blog has been christine o'donnell fundamentalist wacko. I love it.)

What did set me back a bit were the most popular posts. The top ten:

Sharps: Camillus MIL-K-818D
Sharps: Bark River Gunny
Sharps: RAT Cutlery RC-4P MB
Sharps: Fiddleback Forge Bushcrafter
Impressions: KSF Complete Sharpening Kit
EDC revisited
Addendum: Kephart kerfuffle
Sharps: Neck-and-neck
Sharps: Heartland blades
Sharps: A modern-day Soldier

I wouldn't have expected an article about the humble Camillus "Demo" knife to generate significant interest, really, but it did -- to the tune of twice as many page-views as any other single post. Go figure.

Anyway -- wherever you are, however you got here and whatever keeps you coming back, your interest gratifies me.

Unintended consequences

Mike Castle's run as an elected official stretches back to 1966 and includes two terms as Delaware's governor. Considered a moderate Republican, the 71-year-old Castle has served his state in the U.S. House of Representatives since 1993.

Yesterday, Castle lost the GOP primary for the U.S. Senate seat once held by Joe Biden.

While we should honor his contributions, we need not mourn his defeat -- it's time he retired anyway. I mean, if we're going to get The Revolution underway, we need new faces in government. And if those professional politicians and long-toothed incumbents won't step aside, dammit, we should vote them out of office.

In this case, unfortunately, Delaware Republicans have given us a cure that's worse than the disease -- Christine O'Donnell, a 41-year-old marketing consultant and political pundit who's best-known for promoting sexual purity. Seriously.

Addressing supporters last night after her victory, O'Donnell beamed,

"You guys are the visionaries and leaders who made this possible."

By "you guys," no doubt she was referring to endorsers Sarah Palin, Jim DeMint, Michelle Bachman and (natch) the Tea Party Express.

Yikes -- that's a scary bunch of wingnuts, for sure, but I'll give credit where it's due. O'Donnell's campaign vanquished the national Republican establishment, which threw everything but the kitchen sink behind Castle and still lost. Generally speaking, I celebrate whenever one of the dominant political parties goes down hard.

Who else is celebrating? None other than Chris Coons, the Democratic Party candidate. Here's what greets visitors to Chris Coons for U.S. Senate this morning:

There's also a rather pointed statement, which begins,

"With Christine O'Donnell, we face an ideology rather than a record. One of Sarah Palin's newest 'Mama Grizzlies,' O'Donnell will fight to roll back a woman's right to choose and lead the charge against stem-cell research, falsely claiming that this ground-breaking research exploits women. She has a record of supporting discrimination against gays and lesbians, and pressing for public schools to teach creationism."

Democrats should wait 'til after the general election to break into a Snoopy dance but, given the stark choice between a centrist Democrat and fringe-dweller O'Donnell, in a state like Delaware it's all but certain that Coons will prevail.

That's the rundown -- but what's really happening here?

Citizens are righteously pissed at our dysfunctional government. We're expressing our anger by shunning incumbents, insiders and establishment-backed candidates in favor of fresh political blood. Because the American electorate can't break its addiction to ideologues, however, the transfusion is hopelessly tainted.

"Throw the bums out" serves The Revolution, in my opinion, only if the alternative is independent of mindless ideology and dominant political parties.

The Tea Party, in its early days, was on the right track. Its focus was on constitutional principles and a libertarian approach to governing -- until, that is, it was polluted by ultra-conservatives and co-opted by the Republican Party.

The result, sadly, is typified by Christine O'Donnell -- a unelectable, anti-libertarian, right-wing extremist.

In a perfect Delaware, Republican primary voters would've had an intelligent, truly independent alternative to Mike Castle. They didn't.

Even worse, it appears, they wouldn't have known the difference.

Oh, they meant well, but when they chose a nutjob like Christine O'Donnell, they signaled to a troubled nation that The Revolution may need to be postponed -- indefinitely.

Urban Resources: Firewood

Our house sits on a postage-stamp lot, a tiny patch of land in a Midwestern village. On its face, it appears to offer little in the way of natural resources.

A closer look reveals what a first glance doesn't.

I believe this post will be the first of a series I'll call "Urban Resources" -- seeking and finding materials often discarded and practices neglected. Today I'll talk about making use of a ridiculously simple source of firewood for our backyard pit or, in a pinch, the indoor fireplace.

There are but four trees on our lot -- two maples, a crabapple and a 60-year-old ash. On township property to the east are a magnificent bur oak and a catalpa, each estimated to be 180 years old, as well as a handful of tall pines and spruces. Our southern neighbor's sweetgum and poplar hang over our driveway.

Because all of those trees are relatively mature, they shed onto our lawn every day -- just how much depends on the weather. I've made an early-morning ritual of collecting fallen wood and carrying it to a semi-tidy pile I've built behind the garage.

It's not all small twigs, either. We had an arborist prune the ash of dead limbs back in May, which added some respectably large rounds, and our decrepit crabapple seems to lose a branch or two every time the wind blows.

Bucking the larger limbs requires nothing more than a pruning saw, although occasionally I resort to using a small chainsaw that operates on rechargeable batteries. I also break out my old Estwing hatchet from time to time. The tool I use most often, however, is a machete.

Specifically, it's 22-inch Collins that I've had for 27 years. The blade is stained and the edge is nicked, and the fractured phenolic handle is wrapped in adhesive tape -- that is, it's just about broken-in. A few minutes' attention with a flat file and a genuine Carborundum stone is all it takes to keep the blade brutally effective.

In four months I've gathered about one-third of a cord of imperfect firewood for my inelegant woodpile. Yes, much of it is kindling and some of it is tinder, but I figure I have enough wood for about a dozen good cooking fires -- so far -- and every bit of it was free.

In the next installment, I'll talk about a surprising source of the ultimate natural firestarter: fatwood. Stay tuned.

Where were you on 9/11?

No, not in 2001 -- I'm talking about last Saturday, on the ninth anniversary of the terrorist attacks.

Ok, I'll go first.

Where I was
As you might expect, on a football Saturday I spent my daylight hours in and around Ohio Stadium for the game with Miami.

Buckeye Nation is the heart of the Heartland and we have our priorities. Before the teams strapped on their helmets and drew first blood, we paid reverent tribute to the occasion.


The Ohio State University Marching Band unfurled a big American flag on the field and played "America." After a moment of silence -- observed by all but the classless and poorly self-policed Miami fans, who wouldn't shut up -- the National Anthem was performed by Columbus' own Rascal Flatts.

It was a stirring rendition and a significant break from tradition. As I said here two-and-a-half years ago, when it comes to the "Star Spangled Banner" I have a problem with performances:

"The national anthem is our national anthem -- it should be joined and sung by The People, not performed for The People. The People should celebrate -- insist on celebrating -- the privilege of honoring our freedom in unison."

I love Rascal Flatts and they did a spectacular job, but let's not make a habit of this, ok?

Toward the end of the first half, the public-address announcer directed our attention to the South end zone and introduced first-responders from throughout Ohio, men and women who serve us every day. Then, before TBDBITL took the field for its halftime show, another group was honored -- FDNY firefighters and paramedics, NYPD officers and other first-responders who bear the physical and emotional scars of Ground Zero.

Last to be introduced: David and Peggy Beamer, parents of the late Todd Beamer. Todd spoke the words, "Let's roll!" on United Flight 93 that crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania on 9/11.

More than 105,000, tears dimming our eyes, roared for our heroes.

Mrs. KintlaLake and I left the stadium at that point, piled into the truck and drove 130 miles northeast for my 35th high-school reunion. It was our second such trip in 24 hours -- we'd joined a smaller group of my classmates on Friday night for a tailgate party.

This wasn't any sort of 9/11 commemoration, certainly, simply a gathering of aging men and women who remember being children together. We reacquainted and reminisced, laughed and cried, poked and prodded and pretended we aren't getting older.


We're the sons and daughters of dirt farmers, steel workers, meat cutters and firefighters, so we didn't reunite in a fancy hotel ballroom for a seven-course gourmet meal. We came together in a picnic pavilion (a big garage, really) to feast on fried chicken, take-out pizza, grocery-store cookies and cheap beer in 12-ounce cans.

Returning to my old stompin' grounds and seeing the faces of childhood friends -- coming home -- was the right thing to do, putting a perfect cap on my September 11th.

Where I wasn't
I didn't travel to Anchorage, Alaska for Sarah Palin's fundraiser featuring her "buddy" Glenn Beck.


Maybe you think it's ok for public figures to exploit 9/11 to line their pockets -- I don't. The only people who deserve less respect than Palin and Beck are the simple-minded groupies who paid a minimum of $73.75 -- that's $3.75 more than a ticket for OSU-Miami, if you're keeping score at home -- and as much as $225 to see the carnival act in-person.

They're the same people who see these clowns as "thought leaders." I have a question, though -- is "thought leader" the same thing as "attention whore"?

Of course not -- the latter is closer to the truth. And after their self-serving Anchorage gig, maybe we should simplify matters and just call Palin and Beck what they are...

September 11, 2010

Today I touch the memory of ordinary lives and extraordinary bravery. It's a day to honor 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.

Today, I remember.

Welcome to Fantasy Island II

"[The conduct of 'Pastor' Terry Jones, organizer of 'Burn-a-Koran Day'] is utterly irrational. It's pathological. There's a sickness... there's a sickness here."

"He talked with someone in New York. He did not talk with someone in New York. He was lying. And then to go from Florida to come to New York would be to put more gas on the fire. So he's still running, set the stage, and got all the media following him and now the government following him."

"I would have rather seen a group of ministers go to Florida at the behest of the White House and say, I hope he does not do it, would talk with him. It does not represent the Christian faith."

"...when you can engage the White House and they allow the secretary of defense to make a call, the secretary of defense -- I mean, Petraeus from Afghanistan makes a statement. Secretary Clinton makes a statement.

"You have given this guy awesome power. You have fed into all of his pathologies. It seems to me that somehow you must tone down the appeal to him, because, if he burns it, it does not represent the Christian faith."

"The church can isolate a heretic. The government cannot isolate a heretic. They cannot even distinguish between what's a heretic and what's genuine." (Rev. Jesse Jackson)

Welcome to Fantasy Island

"We thought about what would have to happen for us to call our event off. As we prayed about that, in the past we did have one idea.

"This idea we put out in prayer to God. That if he would want us to call this off, if we have accomplished our goal, then our thought was the American people do not as a whole want the mosque at the Ground Zero location.

"That if they were willing to either cancel the mosque at the Ground Zero location, or if they were willing to move it away from that location, we would consider that [a] sign from God."

"[Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf] has agreed to move the mosque. We have agreed to cancel our event on Saturday. And on Saturday I will be flying up there to meet with him." (Pastor [sic] Terry Jones)

"I am glad that Pastor Jones has decided not to burn any Qur'ans. However, I have not spoken to Pastor Jones or Imam [Muhammad] Musri [president of the Islamic Society of Central Florida, who counseled Jones]. I am surprised by their announcement. We are not going to toy with our religion or any other. Nor are we going to barter. We are here to extend our hands to build peace and harmony." (Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf)

"I am making this offer [to buy the 'Ground Zero mosque' property at a 25% more than the current owners paid for it] as a resident of New York and citizen of the United States, not because I think the location is a spectacular one (because it is not), but because it will end a very serious, inflammatory, and highly divisive situation that is destined, in my opinion, to only get worse." (Donald Trump)

Hey, Angelenos: This is how it's supposed to work

The quote: "We don't train police officers to take knives away from people." (Chief Charlie Beck, Los Angeles Police Department, defending his officers' decision to shoot Manuel Jamines on Sunday)

The background: Jamines, a 37-year-old Guatemalan "day laborer" -- it's not hard to decipher that label, is it? -- reportedly was threatening bystanders with a knife. When police ordered him (in both English and Spanish) to drop the knife, Jamines raised it over his head and advanced on the LAPD officers. He died of multiple gunshot wounds to the head.

Game over, drive home safely.

Since the incident, predictably clueless residents have engaged in angry protests -- not against the illegal who was swinging a knife at innocent people, but against police.

Welcome to California.

Got a match?

I'm gonna burn me some Bibles.

Why? To send a clear message to radical Christian fundamentalists. I want every one of Jesus' wacko-warriors to know that I will not bow down to their intolerance, their phobias and the violence they do in the name of their god.

Oh, I know that not all Christians are like that -- most are pretty harmless. Some are actually tolerant, even accepting of people who practice other religions. Many Christians perform good works and conduct themselves as proper American citizens.

So, to those Christians: Please don't take offense when I set fire to The Holy Scriptures, ok?

[pause]

Relax -- I'm not planning to build a Bible bonfire any time soon. I have a right to do it, sure, but I also respect my fellow citizens' right to worship as they choose.

Besides, torching a bunch of Bibles is a colossally stupid idea -- no more stupid, though, than this Saturday's "Burn-a-Koran Day" organized by Pastor [sic] Terry Jones of Dove World Outreach Center.

Jones has been all over the media the last few days -- have you seen this assclown try to defend his pyromania-for-Christ campaign? It's positively shameful (not that he and his brain-dead followers have shown the capacity for shame).

If a pile of The Holy Qur'an goes up in flames on September 11th, there will be fallout. Jones, knowing this, responds with typical arrogance:

"Let's just make one thing clear. A small church, in a small town, down a back road, burning copies of its own books, on its own property, is not responsible for the violent actions anyone may take in retaliation to our protest. Remember, Paul did not make the snake, the fire drove it out and he was bitten. If violence happens in reaction to this, the violence was not caused by us, it has just been exposed."

That's narcissistic bullshit.

Gen. David Petraeus, Sec. Hillary Clinton, et al are lining up to condemn Burn-a-Koran Day, citing the potential for retaliation against U.S. military personnel, diplomats and civilians who serve or work in Muslim countries. They're right, of course, but they're handing us the kind of "support our troops" rhetoric that gives cover to millions of otherwise-Islamophobic Americans -- not the best reason to lament the destruction of Muslims' holy book by some nutjob in Florida.

Here's a better reason: the First Amendment to the Constitution -- or, to be more precise, the principle behind the First Amendment.

People of faith should be the first to repudiate the burning of the Qur'an. Unfortunately, a growing number of radical Christian fundamentalists won't see it that way. That's their right.

If enough of those folks would be kind enough to send me a Bible, however, I'll start making a pile. Now where did I put my lighter?

The end of 'parade season'

Memorial Day and Labor Day serve as the summer's bookends. The two holidays also define what we've come to call "parade season" -- the house we've called home since May is smack-dab on our village's parade route.

We haul our folding chairs to the curb on Memorial Day, Independence Day, the last day of the annual village festival and, finally, Labor Day. There's something about these humble processions -- with their marching bands and Boy Scout troops, firefighters and law-enforcement officers, businessmen and local officials -- that epitomizes small-town life here in the Midwest.

We love it. This is home.

A couple of things linger with me from this morning's Labor Day parade. Notably, it featured more fire and EMS equipment than I think I've ever seen in one place -- and not just from our township, either, but from communities throughout central Ohio. It was impressive, quite a showing.

I'm also remembering a simple banner. Its aim was political, certainly, promoting a slogan we'll hear ad nauseum from the incumbent during the 2010 gubernatorial campaign, but the message struck a chord.


Those words crystallize the difference between a life I once lived and the life I live now. They capture the essence of a small-town parade, the spirit of a community.

They fix our position -- home.

EDC revisited

Assembling an array of EDC tools is a process, not an event. My personal choices have evolved (and will continue to evolve) as my awareness, needs and abilities change.

A Palm Pre Plus and a Victorinox Farmer are holdovers, for good reason -- they work. Another phone will replace the Pre in due course but the Farmer, which lives in a leather pocket sleeve, is a keeper.

I still carry a light on my key ring (I'm constantly amazed at how often I use it) but I replaced the cheap squeezer with a Fenix E01. I did audition two other single-AAA lights -- neither holds a candle (you should pardon the expression) to the little Fenix.

An iTP EOS A3 proved less than durable and a Mag-Lite Solitaire, while American-made and sturdy as hell, is almost laughably dim compared to LEDs. The E01, in contrast, is bright and stout. It stays.

A wristwatch is an indispensable EDC item, one that I haven't mentioned 'til now. Not long ago I picked up a Casio AMW330D-1AV Dive Chrono in stainless steel, and it's well on its way to becoming my favorite watch -- ever. It's everything I ask a watch to be -- analog, accurate, water-resistant, readable (even in low light), rugged and inexpensive (less than a hundred bucks).

When I got my concealed-carry license in April, I knew that my Glock 19 would become my EDC handgun. Just how I'd carry it was far less certain.

After some experimentation I've settled on a Kydex Comp-Tac Two O'Clock IWB holster. Appendix carry isn't for everyone, I know, and (depending on how I'm dressed) I often carry the G19 at 4 o'clock in a leather OWB rig, but right now I'm liking the Two O'Clock -- a lot.

Because two is one and one is none, I carry a spare 15-round mag, weak-side, in a simple Fobus paddle magazine pouch. My defensive round: Cor-Bon 115gr JHP +P.

I'll wrap this snapshot of my EDC inventory with the plain-edge Benchmade 556 Mini-Griptilian I've been toting since July. I bought it (somewhat impulsively) at a cozy gun shop over in Morgantown and, having come to love the full-size 551 already, the Mini held no surprises -- same great knife, downsized for more convenient EDC.

Perched

Ohio State's 2010 football season kicked off yesterday against Marshall -- on a Thursday night, of all things, which felt strange. It also was the first time in five years that my wife and I had been in The 'Shoe for a regular-season game and the first time in decades that I'd watched my Buckeyes from the thin air of "C Deck."

Our seats were (and will be for the remaining seven home games) ten rows below the rim of the stadium, roughly 120 to 130 vertical feet above the playing field. The American flag, waving atop the tallest flagpole in Ohio, fluttered at eye level.

Gulp. I mean, airplanes fly at lower altitudes.

Mrs. KintlaLake and I overcame our acrophobia enough to enjoy the annual TBDBITL Alumni reunion and the Bucks' 45-7 drubbing of the boys from Huntington, aided by a C-Deck-only breeze that made the muggy evening tolerable. (The temp at kickoff was 89°F, dropping to 86°F by the time we filed out of the stadium.)

We had a great time and, of course, it was a promising start for the Buckeyes. We'll know more a week from tomorrow, when #2 OSU hosts #13 Miami.


Observations: Security
As we approached Ohio Stadium last night, we noticed that the law-enforcement presence was more intense than we've come to expect. Now it could be, as a retired-LEO friend of mine assured me, that it's been that way since 2001 and we just haven't noticed. Still, I was struck by the veritable iron cordon establishing a 500-yard perimeter around the stadium.

Pedestrians were free to come and go from the area, but vehicles couldn't get close without weaving through "gates" created by parked tactical vehicles and maintenance equipment. At these roll-through checkpoints, SWAT and SRT officers eyed each vehicle as it passed.

I probably wasn't the only fan who came away with the impression, "Damn, this is serious."

I found the tight security neither disconcerting nor particularly comforting, though -- it is what it is. I tip my Block O cap to the pros who choose to pull such thankless duty, and I look forward to seeing them again on the afternoon of Ohio State's game with Miami.

The date: September 11, 2010.

Recommended reading for Palin's disciples

It's useful, as Marines often say of themselves, to be able to tell the difference between chicken salad and chicken shit.

Shortly after Sarah Palin burst onto the national scene two years ago it became obvious that she's the latter, not the former. The ex-Mayor of Wasilla isn't merely a charlatan -- she symbolizes the gullibility of the American electorate.

Vanity Fair's Michael Joseph Gross gave her more of a chance than I did. Gross admits -- as a journalist, believing that she may have been treated unfairly in the press, and "as a Christian" -- to being biased in her favor before spending four months around Palin, her family and her entourage.

The result, appearing in the October issue of Vanity Fair, is "Sarah Palin: the Sound and the Fury." It's not pretty.

"Warm and effusive in public, indifferent or angry in private: this is the pattern of Palin's behavior toward the people who make her life possible. A onetime gubernatorial aide to Palin says, 'The people who have worked for her -- they're broken, used, stepped on, down in the dust.' On the 2008 campaign trail, one close aide recalls, it was practically impossible to persuade Palin to take a moment to thank the kitchen workers at fund-raising dinners. During the campaign, Palin lashed out at the slightest provocation, sometimes screaming at staff members and throwing objects. Witnessing such behavior, one aide asked Todd Palin if it was typical of his wife. He answered, 'You just got to let her go through it... Half the stuff that comes out of her mouth she doesn't even mean.' When a campaign aide gingerly asked Todd whether Sarah should consider taking psychiatric medication to control her moods, Todd responded that she 'just needed to run and work out more.' Her anger kept boiling over, however, and eventually the fits of rage came every day. Then, just as suddenly, her temper would be gone. Palin would apologize and promise to be nicer. Within hours, she would be screaming again. At the end of one long day, when Palin was mid-tirade, a campaign aide remembers thinking, 'You were an angel all night. Now you’re a devil. Where did this come from?'"

Because Palin wraps herself in faith and family, Gross isn't shy about giving us some intriguing peeks behind her carefully crafted facade.

"In whatever remains of Palin’s inner circle...most people are following orders. Some details of the Palins' private life, however, suggest a reality at odds with Sarah's image. In speeches, Palin pays tribute to the man she still calls 'the First Dude.' One of the strangest passages in Going Rogue concerns post-election rumors that the couple was considering a divorce. 'That day in sunny Texas when the divorce rumors were rampant in the tabloids, I watched Todd, tanned and shirtless, take the baby from my arms and walk him back to the ranch house,' she writes, like a frontier Barbara Cartland. 'Dang, I thought. Divorce Todd? Have you seen Todd?' Locally, much speculation surrounds the marriage. Some say Todd is henpecked, and others see him as the heavy. One person who has been a frequent houseguest of the Palins says that the couple began many mornings with screaming fights, a fusillade of curses: ''F*ck you,' 'F*ck this,' 'You lazy piece of shit.' 'You’re f*ckin' lucky to have me,' Sarah would always say.' (This person never saw Todd and Sarah sleep in the same bed, and recalls that Todd would often joke, 'I don't know how she ever gets pregnant.')"

Gross exposes Palin's vitriol, her hypocrisy and her God complex. He largely avoids one particular topic -- her intellect or lack thereof -- but he does wonder aloud about a recurring theme in her speeches:

"('They talk down to us... They think that if we were just smart enough... ') To some, the message sounds like an affirmation. But is it really? Or does it seed self-doubt and rancor among her partisans, and encourage them to see everyone else as malign?"

It's the latter, of course. Like Caribou Barbie herself, it's chicken shit.