Words have Power, they really mean something...

I have a rule in the library, that none of the crew may use profane, vulgar or obscene language while working. This is the base, zero tolerance for uttering foul language. Although I haven't ever fired anyone for it I will call their name out loudly, tell them that they should watch their language and clean up the conversation. I know I am in a prison, and I know men are prone to use such language to be tough and I know that "everyone" knows that it isn't to be taken personally. I should know that it isn't meant to be anything but common and it should roll off my back, but I am offended by it.

I once worked with a nice German woman, and was always irrated by her using American vulgarity in her language for emphasis. So I asked her why she didn't use the fine German vulgar language, she and sometimes I would be the only ones that could understand it. She told me that her mother wouldn't accept nor allow it, so she never swore or cussed in German, only in English. Ah, so most parents don't teach their children how to use bad language, and normally stop the first uses of it quickly. Washing one's mouth out with soap was a possibility in the old days. I am sure they didn't teach it in Sunday School, the Mosque nor the Temple. It wasn't on the list of spelling words, reading assignments nor was I permitted to be as creative in my writing. So I think I understand that such foul language that can be considered profane, obscene or vulgar is not beautiful, beneficial nor blessed by civilized society, so when it is used I am offended.

I personally came back from Vietnam, and was telling a great war story of my time there and a word most miserable popped out of my Army mouth - and my mind went into shock. This was in front of my parents in their home and I had used the most common verb for fornication as an adjective. There were so many wrongs at that moment, but my story continued, I remained in shock and apologized in my mind many times, but cowardly pretended it hadn't happened. My Army language improved from that day forward, I could make you miserable in so many ways with much better words and you might even think I was praising you. Telling the truth to trainees, when I was a Drill Sergeant, was much better than living out their Hollywood image of our relationship and what I could or couldn't say to or about them. It scared the trainee much more to have me whispering how pitiful his push ups were than calling him an evolutionary mistake on the Government's Scientific breeding program, in some vulgar or common way. So, just a common Noncommissioned Officer in the United States Army was aware and in control of himself enough that he didn't use foul language to communicate, or threaten, or demean the people he was talking to - because that language offended him.

Now, it is true that in the prison I expect that bad men will try to hurt me, intimidate me or make me feel bad or just a fool - but expecting it is only reality, accepting it is playing dead - I am not dead and I don't accept being hurt, intimidated, degraded or someone else's fool. Maybe it is the tie I wear, or the way I speak to the patrons and inmate clerks and corrections staff, but no one uses foul language around me without my calling them on it, gently, and lifting us out of the muck we were almost mired in.

I was recommended to find a Cranky Professor, a college Professor in English in a fine University, and I went to visit that blog. And this learned lady, warned me that she liked to use a vulgar term. I was not impressed - but knew immediately she wanted attention, hated me for my virtues, and will be quite happy living in the sewer of her life with muck hanging all over her. No wonder she is cranky, but then I do reserve my personal right not to read her much nor wallow in her muck. Those crude common misused words do offend me, and by lifting my workers up from the more common prison language as they perform their work and good customer service I am making this part of their world a little better. Too bad one day they might meet that learned college professor and have their dreams of polite perfect society smashed, but then they aren't supposed to improve are they? Well, if they don't improve after working with me, I will be offended.

Sunday Sharpening

Fighting knives today, with my current carry boot knife on the far right for a size comparison. The one next to it is a NATO fighting knife, which when most NATO rifles are issued with a bayonet, makes me wonder who gets issued the fighting knife? The officers with their 9mm pistols won't wear a knife, so who gets the fighting knife? Maybe machine gunners and medics? I don't know, it is a lower carbon blade and gets sharpened with a file like a bayonet and can't be used to shave. It will cut in a slash and loves to be a stabbing weapon.

Next to it is the Gerber, with the angle so the handle would stay away from the body and sheath. It was one of the surprise great things that came out of Portland, Oregon. It came with a sharpening steel, and the serrated wasp waist edges in both directions - a great design but not necessary, a bit artsy for the true cutter and gutter - but one has to have soul. Gerber doesn't get made there anymore (Gerber isn't really Gerber any longer either). I picked it up during the Vietnam years, but it didn't go there with me, the Army and mail order got me many other blades, all left in country.

The famous Fairbairn from Britain, mine is marked England, but without the British Armory marks so it is only a great copy. A fully functional, if I had one worry it would be that the blade might snap near the point under pressure of the moment and a bone or hard joint in the way. Simple design, sharp edges in both directions and a point picked for ease of entry - slides into meat well.

Last is my prized possession from Fort Bennings School for Boys (Infantry OCS), a real Randall, from Orlando, Florida. My first "made for me" knife. I ordered it in 1967 and waited, went to Korea, and waited and finally got it in 1969, before Nam. I didn't take it to any wars, it with the Rosewood handle is waiting for that maple inlaid library desk, to sit posing as a large letter opener for the day some fool thinks I am under-armed. Nice knife, but an inch too long, I didn't know as much as I thought did then and I ate more ice cream, too. Eyes bigger than my stomach or any good sense. Still a lovely weapon, utility is important but I will never love an electric carving knife nor vaporal blade as much as my Randall.

RULES? well, Gravity Rules... all other is pretense.

the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. No cheating!
2. Find page 123.
3. Find the first five sentences.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people

1. Picked up
2. Found
3. Found first five
4. Posted:
"I did not see how this was possible but did not challenge Ali's claim. If anything, I encouraged him to increase his boasting as the pool shot up to positively astronomical sums. A kind of fever gripped the division."
from "Matches" by Alan Kaufman, from the McNeil Island Corrections Center Library branch.
5. Tag five people, sigh, I am not that kind of a guy - I could in good conscience recommend the book to those thinking about military life, the Israeli-Arab question and where are all the good men gone. But I hardly know five people on the internet to tag. But here are five that would benefit from the reading: Toy Soldier, Ka-BOOM!, Iraq: The Purgatorium, Rogue Gunner, They should have asked. A finer bunch of people would be difficult to find and they have their own reading and writing to do. Anyone else thinking this is a good thing may hop on and blame Breda for trying to make me a joiner... time to go get some fighting knives to save, sharpen and shoot.

Rituals and wrinkles...

I start my day, the entry into the world of work portion, by getting the Regimental coffee mug turned into Regimental Shaving Mug down from the medicine cabinet. I take out the brush and turn on the hot water and moisten the bristles and start whipping up a froth of shaving soap. I have whipped up a froth or two elsewhere and in more exoitic places but not for my shaving, but stirring up hornets' nest has nothing on getting men to rise up and charge into combat in foolish gallantry and certain slaughter.

Just an old man's thoughts, as he whips up on the soap. Of other times and other places, which is probably why he has never seen the real face he wears in public. Once preparing to play an old man's part in a church pagent he thought about adding wrinkle lines with some eye liner or grease pencil - then looked and saw that the lines were deeply etched already - a miracle of God? or just a true measure of the blessings bestowed in his life? He remembers when as a teenager he carefully shaved with a straight razor, while his father swore by his electric, and after the careful application of English Leather or some other scent sure to succeed, and the long combing process to get his hair rolled up just right he would pronounce himself still very ugly but one of the toughest boys in school, never backing down. The old man smiles as he thinks about the fool's focus but fine false courage, no wrinkles then but lots of fears fought off.

Stop and put down the mug and brush and get a good double handful of hot water to rinse off the sleep and soften the skin and stubble. Hot water is so wonderful, remembering cold water shaves and showers or helmet baths in frozen places, so warm and loving. Time to apply the shaving foam, twirling the foam and touching bristles to beard - well, it would be a beard if he didn't cut it off. Doesn't get kissed any more for shaving than he does when whiskered - why does he cut it off? Trying to stay young? It is easier to remove the whiskers than to maintain a civilized image with a ragged beard, so he maintains the ritual. Time to prove he is still a man, must shave and make ready to meet the world. If one is going out to die make sure he has clean underwear and he has shaved. He has now a white foamy beard, he always knows what it would look like if it grew and hid the face under it.

Quickly taking up the razor, he expertly slashes soap and stubble away, wondering to himself why do all those models and actors with no hair on their chest always have two days or better worth of stubble to pose in maturity, sexy or just psuedo-sexy? Slash and rinse the blade off to slash away again. A nice close shave, drawing the sagging skin tight so the razor glides along the lubrication and cuts cleanly the hair. Check after rinsing, soft skin waiting for the woman's touch - ah, he will never ask and will always appreciate her touch. Which her? his memory asks, and the old man laughs - there were never that many that got that close, count them on one hand and happy that they were all wonderful and very special. Distracted he cuts slightly and starts to bleed a bit, must be time to finish and greet the world. Slapping on some after shave to stop the bleeding . Normal morning = spilling a bit of coffee and blood, offerings to the little gods of chance and luck.

Looking again into the mirror - and really looking - he sees a deeper crease that he doesn't remember being there yesterday. Wondering how the ten pounds of new fat hasn't found a place to hide in his face, but happy that the wrinkles all lift and crinkle around his eyes when he smiles, he must remember to smile more, his heart will be happier and yours will, too.

What is picked up and what got left behind...

Monday was a good day, my foot was bad but better, my attitude positive and work went well for such a small crew. There are rumbles of things getting done. I went home and didn't turn on the computer, I already knew what was in the email and could answer it later. So I spent time with self, thoughts and worn wife watching wrestling. Wondering if the Divas get the same pay scale as the male wrestlers. She slips gently to sleep so softly snoring. I get the dishwasher loaded and soaped up then push us off to bed and better sleep under downy comforters - such little old people.

Dreams of military and large family and I get so much younger there, a celebration and a toast - and my parents disapprove of my using water to toast with - so I decide to show everyone what a drunk I can be after toasting with wine and then pouring much more alcohol upon it. I woke, because that was so not my parents, not me and definitely so young - but I did recognize that fool drinking to drunk to prove something, he was destroyed somewhere along my way.

I take my morning medications (I take everything at once - short memory) and putter around making coffee and weighing self and taking blood pressure. Then I start to unload the dishwasher and put stuff away, I could leave it for my wife - some of the stuff only she knows where it goes - but I have time and will like being thanked for it later. I notice the strange spoons, not part of the sets we have been given or we purchased, not belonging but with our stuff now. As I do coffee cups I notice the variety and the marking from different places and times far away and so long ago. Even from Grandmother's after I returned from Vietnam, but I think professional military types pick up coffee and beer mugs along with strange ways of looking at life. I know I drank lots of hot tea with honey and lemon from the beer mugs - not being a beer drinker, not being an alcohol drinker at all most of my life.

I sent my first HERO mug from McNeil Island to my son in Iraq, he complained about lack of ceramic mug for coffee - or what the Navy says is coffee. I got myself another later, I liked helping the war effort and it was just another item he could leave behind as he packed out to return to normalacy, if one ever does. We leave a lot behind, moving quickly between postings and operations and deployments and detachments. We miss some of our loved one's best moments, we are there for the other times, and it is like that dance sometimes too close and sometimes too far away, but we dance and leave behind a touch, a look and make a memory.

Fashion for Carry Concealed Pistol, WA

So among my things done today was figuring out how to walk around with a pistol and be comfortable and keep it concealed. Remo Williams' instructor in assassination told him that anyone that is carrying a weapon walks differently because of it - and since that is a pulp fiction series I paid attention because it could be true. So I took my smallest forty-five and holsters and hung them around my waist - which as soon as I lose the love handles will give me room to hide things under the loose skin folds no longer containing fat. Okay, I don't want to wait that long.

Putting it inside the trousers still gives it away, and one has to have trousers that allow that much room to put a pistol and holster inside them. I have some, but if I want to die pretty it looks bad, I would rather put the pistoled holster on the belt outside and then put sports coat, long leather jacket or car coat, or rain coat over them. Still the weight of the pistol will drag the belt down on that side, but not enough to be concerned over. The most comfortable carry is with the weapon on an inside pocket of the heavier jacket, or in the back pocket of my blue jeans - but the concealment issue rises again. In the end a shoulder holster is the only way to go, daily, in comfort and maximum concealed - hidden in the arm pit (almost) with broader back muscles and pects helping hide the pistol. Just have to get those extra muscles from the prop shop that Johnny Carson used for his Rambo spoof.

Then again I was struck by sixty years of living mostly without ever needing to carry a firearm, and when I did need one I always had lots available. I keep thinking that I won't be carrying soon, and then realized after having dressed twice to leave the home and both times making sure I was carrying sharp knives - for whatever they would get me, that I would carry a pistol concealed as long as I wasn't going to court or work at the prison. I had best get that shoulder holster rig, for ease of wear and ritual. One magazine in the weapon, one on the harness and one knife on the harness. Dressed for the worst. No one will ever know, they need never know, and the rules say they must never know.

19 April, 1775 where would I have been?

The British Army was marching to Lexington and Concord to seize munition stores and take Samuel Adams (not the beer) into custody. Not too unusual in modern sense - they would have been just like Americans in 'Blackhawk Down' sent to take out the opposition leadership - but then things do go wrong after first contact. Today's Americans don't grab their guns and meet on the common to line up and be counted when the King's men are coming, nope, all our demonstrations are done without military organization. We are much better armed but certainly not organized, we seldom do stuff together, there is no interlocking dependency for survival and assistance - it seems the experts and the government are providing it all and the people need to stay indoors, watch their televisions and await emergency messages and response teams. So it becomes difficult to imagine myself going out to wait in the darkness for the Lawful representatives of the King to show up, and do battle? Why? Presently I pay much more in taxes than the patriots of 1775, and I am less in touch with my local leadership than they were. King George the Third and President George Bush the Second were far from my choices and real voter selection - no difference and I am not standing armed, in line, waiting.

What was it that was worth getting the guns out, standing in line and opposing the government might? Their wives, families and homes were not threatened by the British Army - until they went into rebellion, and it was too early for rebellion. These were law abiding citizens, standing up for their lawful rights and against intrusive government. I guess I would have stood with my neighbors, and expected not to have to shoot anyone and I would have been surprised as most that day when the blood flowed and the bodies fell - and then I would have roared in righteous anger and chased them back to Boston, for they had killed my neighbors, my friends, my family or they had killed me. They were so wrong, government gone badly. Worth pondering about, my law abiding neighbors, few friends and fellow human beings.

The British forces marched in order back to Boston, they were professional and I admire the American Armed Forces in the same way, very professional. But the day is about the enraged citizens; betrayed and attacked by those professionals - would you have been armed, in line and waiting for that attack and betrayal?

Friday and the house is full of laughter...

Well, I rode my motorcycle on Thursday, to work and to choir practice, did all of Wednesday and Thursday's mail and stuff and Friday was clear. I wasn't feeling well, the right foot still hurts in moving but bears my weight just fine. My sinus problem comes back with the cold weather or the total pollenization by growing green stuff and the fungus and mushrooms blowing up in the yard. Still I am the guy in the home, and I get to move the furniture for the little woman - what were all those pushups and chin ups for, more than my looks. So the home is shifted and reworked and set up, and cleaned up. This is the time I notice all the STUFF we don't need, but are so fortunate to own (or someone would say). I also vaccum and try to make the computer cave organized enough not to shame my wife. Then sleep for tomorrow Winter will return to Western Washington - Global Warming anyone? that bear over there is white for a reason. I sleep restlessly with a clogged head that hangs so heavy.

Still, with the new morning of the LAST workday of the week, I get up to get going, no motorcycling this morning - Seattle is threatening rain and snow - and King County thinks they are in charge, who are we to protest? I don't do the walk to the dock either, my sinus problems won't get better in the whipping cold wind. They cram everyone on one ferry - to save twenty thousand dollars this month - the budget is rapidly running out. At work we put thirty-two new books in circulation, and twelve new CDs. I have thirty-nine donations that I download the MARC records for, three British publications I haven't found records for will have to wait. Our last morning hour the cabinet makers show up with the new nine foot long Staff Reference desk, only needing one more hole drilled for power cables. It is impressive - I keep thinking I could get a castle built for me if I wanted it, but this will do. I empty the old desk and then decide I don't want all that junk going into the new one, so I could organize it couldn't I? That and all the normal library stuff for closing out Friday, seems I have to schedule interviews and testing for new inmate library clerks - I must drive them away with my lack of charm and personality.

Home and my wife is happy and worn, she has been finishing the home, and cooking and preparing. At six I start opening the door and greeting everyone in my best Korean - and it isn't that good but I always tried to learn the polite phrases and the proper time to use them, so the person listening to my poor pronounciation won't be totally lost. Total audience of eighteen women and one man (token male leadership from the church - the women have their own leader of the group, and his wife is here, too). I get to eat, the picture above, squid, clam on half shell, spiced pork, mixed vegetables and noodles, rice with barley and seaweed soup - Coffee from America. I am always well fed. They celebrate one lady's birthday, I print out two copies of the picture (aren't computers wonderful?) and I talk about Army Service and military careers with the Deacon, he did twenty-three years in the Republic of Korea Army as an officer, but I was a paratrooper and in the American Army. The devotions start with singing hymns, prayers, small sermons and the good gospel message. My wife hands me her mobile phone to talk with my daughter-in-law in San Diego, her husband is coming home on Sunday - from a long deployment on the other side of the Pacific, she is excited and happy and it adds to the joy of the day.

We have a pile of cars outside, sixteen pairs of shoes on the porch, and happy well fed people about to depart - taking the extra to their homes to share. Life is good, even for reclusive almost monklike Library Keepers.

Boy's Night In...

Ah, my wife is gone, off to middle of the week church, so what am I to do with the time -- I read a blog from Iraq about boredom, leave a promising comment but I don't want to suffer that. So I take the motorcycle out for a spin to see if any gun shops stay open after six, or is it only Big Kmart and Walleyed World if one wants to be seen on camera buying a gun... I have enough guns, but why do they close so early? The ride is nice, I will go to work on the motorcycle tomorrow, smiling.

Back home I drag out the pistols and stuff, I wanted a shoulder holster, and will likely still get one, one day, but I need to check what I have for utility. NRA sent me a 5.11 vest that can be used for concealed carry - with an embroidered NRA on it (I hate wearing advertising) but the stuff has a velcro holster that fits my short pistol well and only I and everyone that is really looking would know I was armed. I also have an inside the pants with belt clip that works and I try it out - better lose those fifteen pounds to make it fit best. I am happier about my preparedness for wearing a pistol concealed - heavy dark trench coat and wide brimmed hat and shadows in my future life as the anti-super hero. Okay, just kidding.

I start cleaning pistols and love the oil and the clean and the functioning after reassembly - where can I shoot this late at night? No where around here for the now and the darkness. The weekend is only a couple days away and I have miles to go and promises to keep.

In the mail yesterday...

Comes the stuff of my other life, or so it seems. My sister sends my Grandfather's tattered Bible, my baby book kept for many years by my mother, My father's High school yearbook (class of 42) when he was a junior, and a Victory Album 1941-1945 Freeborn County, Minnesota. From his wallet I get a picture of self and siblings around 1955, his Selective Service classification from 1951 (we were fighting in Korea then), his original Social Security Card (mine is long lost), and a copy of his Honorable Discharge from the Army and his Enlisted Record and Report of Separation. The last has his medal and ribbons, places he was and dates starting and ending. He only shot Sharpshooter with the rifle, but he was a Heavy Equipment Operator with the Engineers.

Different world we live in now, while he was in high school he knew he was going to war when he graduated, I knew I was going to Vietnam if I didn't go to college (went to college for one semester) then I went to the Army. While he was out earning a living, flying airplanes and trying to feed a growing family - the Korean conflict came up and he was eligible for drafting again - anyone feel that pressure in the current world situation? Nah, we spend lots of dollars on bonuses and perks for the less fortunate to grab and gain the glory of government service. But then that is what those Presidential candidates are going for - the glory of government service, and that isn't what the military does for the Nation.

It is a much more comfortable world now, I can pull my credit card out and have things fixed for me - no longer required nor tempted to try to do it myself. I am so well off (LAZY?). I finally woke up and fixed my own flat tire on my motorcycle - because no one would do it for my credit card and their liability.

Looking at the Victory Album I see that all the men were in uniform from Freeborn County Minnesota, or a bit old, working farms or not fit for duty - and if you weren't in uniform you knew more people that were than weren't. Which is why the last war the United States declared, fought and won was World War II. The Nation went and was at war, from Ivy League to Little League the Nation was at war. Now we hype the words, and the mission, but it rings hollow to my ears -- the Nation worries about entitlements and comfort - FREE, SEXY, EASY.

I have only fifty-eight minutes...

Busy week, did right well on Thursday and Friday. One inmate library worker returns from being imprisoned in F-unit, did thank me for sending him "Lord of the Silverbow" by David Gemmell and "Birds of Prey" by Wilbur Smith. He started working again on Thursday afternoon. I put the new books and all the new CDs into the system, linked with barcodes and new Call numbers, and found I have a security problem among my inmate library workers - since three of the new CDs were checked out to a patron that had no access to the CDs nor circulation stations - someone is working for themselves. I restricted the patron but the problem is the inmate library clerk - which one of three could have done it? (Don't you love Library Mysteries?) The rest of the day was normal, and I did turn in my reports for last month. I drove home in the Caravan wishing I had riden my motorcycle, but then I had choir practice so after a nice dinner with the television off and talking with my wife - I get to ride my motorcycle to the ATM and the Church and back home again. What a lucky guy!

Friday and I wrapped up well, fired up the motorcycle and rode into the thirty-six degree "cold enough for you?" morning. Yes, it was, but I know the weathermen are promising almost pure sexual-extrascy with temperatures of sixty-eight and SUNSHINE! So one has to ride to work, if it were warmer (like fifty-five at six in the morning) one would have to ride right on by the work and get into living lovely... Fingertips did provide painful sensory distraction, but I am a guy and that is what I do, ignore pain for the pleasure. I was almost doing wheelies with my throttle and clutch syncronizations... okay, I amplify my riding, but I was smiling then and now when remembering.

Normal Friday, I want to finish all the big stuff and get the place ready for opening Monday. Focus!, and I find my first distraction - one of my inmate library clerks - wants to talk to me in private, so we go into the workroom and close the door. He confesses to stealing some mylar bookcovers for another inmate. His walking with Christ and getting closer to God has him struck with GUILT, and after two days of prayer, talking to his preacher and more prayer and signs from above -- he came to confess and try to make it right. I fired him, congratulated him on getting right with God and himself and wished him lots of luck in the future - that he was on the proper path. He snuck back before lunch and returned the mylar. I tell the other three that he has been fired, and we get to work. Shipped books to camps, did ILLs, made copies of tax and other forms, received supplies, answered email, suggested that replacing broken CD jewel cases with more jewel cases didn't make sense, I would rather softer plastic (from China). I contact the new person at the Job Center for another worker, that may happen by Tuesday of next week.

I have my lunch alone: a pickle, sandwich (with sliced tomato - my wife loves me!) and an apple. The workers return and we open for inmate patrons, I talk with the Corrections Officer assigned to watch the movements, the Food Service manager stops by and talks to me about what I might need in the library - I ask for an espresso machine and doughnuts, but he was already burned by Ken Schram (KOMO4 NEWS) over the idea of a Latte stand in the prison. In Starbucks country it is a real living and skill, but we wouldn't want prisoners learning skills that might come in contact with the Latte drinking public, would we? I have been really supporting his Baking students, in new books and recipes, and buying their cookies and pies for my crew, and some bread for take home.

I talked books, found information and filled requests for assistance and filled my last book cart for purchase from this year's money, all gone. I sent that in for approval and purchasing, with the weeding done the library wasn't perfect when we closed and locked up, but pretty close for a bunch of men without women directly supervising their efforts. I locked up, dropped off distribution for the inmates, and walked to the dock and the waiting ferries. The tide is really low, and I imagine that the closer ferry might get stuck in the muck if the water disappears a few more inches - what was that Global Warming rising sea levels thingy? It isn't going to happen, but I am yawning so much by the time I an seated I collapse on myself and the bench and fall soundly into sleep - it is Friday.

When I wake and walk up the steep gangplank I start thinking of the beauty of the day, it is warm, the Sun is OUT, and I have a motorcycle waiting in the parking lot. I fly home, much better than the American Airline company - I buy my eleven dollars worth of fuel for the next hundred and fifty miles. While there a patient from Western State Hospital politely asked if he could admire my machine and ask about it, and he did. I know he is from the hospital because he is very polite and he tells me that he rode a Triumph in the 1970s just like mine. A driver filling his SUV (and costing him his paycheck) comes across the pumps and admires the bike, too. Of course he rode one in the Sixties when they were hot. I am pumped, because I have a bit better than only memories and bask in their admiration for my fine steed. The patient asks if he can listen to me start the bike up, and I ask if he is going to listen now, and I hit the fuel valve, key and starter switch - they both wish me safe riding and I cruise out to be waved on by a policeman waiting to give someone a ticket. Not me, but I roll on and lean left and am going, going and gone.

I could bore you with the brunette in the Mustang convertible with the top down that looked at me (she didn't but I know she put her turn signal on to cut in front of me - she knew I was alive) or how much I wanted to run with the coed that was in her tanktop, shorts and high speed running shoes (she is much too serious and fast for me - but lovely). I did count sixteen parked motorcycle in front of Eagle Leather and lots of motorcycles on the road doing their best to better me - nah, I ride alone -- always happy to see other two wheelers with engines winding along giving me the V signals that I have to flash back or nod approvingly if my clutch hand is working. One of the club, and I am laughing or smiling at the way the lean goes deep and the throttle roars in answer and straightens me out without dropping to the gravity well of Earth. I think I have my machine broken in now, it wants to leap up on the rear wheel and paw the air - or I do and I am not a trick rider but a sane safe fellow wearing a four-in-hand tie under his leather jacket. It is Friday and the Eagle flies or the Dragon...

Riding my motorcycle, alone again...

Seems I am too willing to brave the cold and foggy mornings and everyone else is waiting on Global Warming of Washington, but the rides were worthy - such an old man thing. I drop by the blogs and leave two cents, worth only twenty-seven mills today.

I figure that seven yards is too close to be proud of, and the targets don't hold up well to being blasted by bullets from my trusty .45, gift from my wife - while in Germany, such a nice gift. Well, the doctor's office tomorrow morning, but I get to ride the motorcycle again and then work the afternoon away.

Nice thing about being dangerous is...

Not too much. I think babies have it right, the first line of defense is a smile, the second is the loud red faced crying to gather helpful adult attention. I did grow out of the baby thing, and took to being me - fighting wasn't automatically a sin in a boy growing up - so I fought for fun, dominance or fright. I often wished I was still working on that smile, but other boys don't tolerate boys smiling at them... but they respected me when I could take my lumps or dish them out in return. I started carrying knives somewhere along the Cub Scout Boy Scout period, by junior high and high school there was no doubt that I would have a folding knife in my pocket, even owned a switchblade once, but never carried it - that was against the law.

I did get cast out of my second family's home for almost a year, because someone said I had used my knife in a fight or scuffle - I hadn't, and I don't really remember a fight or a scuffle with the people that said I had been there and had pulled a knife. When I was growing up a knife was something a Mexican would use in a fight, and like kicking (before Martial Arts boom) wasn't a MANLY way of fighting. The truth came out and I was re-invited to my second family's home again - which was always wonderful for me.

As an Airborne Artillery First Sergeant I allowed my paratroopers to carry knives and drape them on their combat gear. For three years we never had difficulty doing rigging nor de-rigging our equipment for or on airborne operations. Of course there would be excesses in size of the blades, cost of the blades, numbers of the blades - but I never had a problem with the blades being used in anger or assault of another paratrooper. Two First Sergeants after me didn't change the knife situation, but finally a good First Sergeant showed up and in six months he had them back to a proper size, and number of blades for real work instead of posing as some really bad airborne dudes.

In Hawaii, when my mother wanted to peel an apple she asked for my knife, my brother wondered how I had gotten a knife through the airport security, and I wondered how my mother knew I would have a knife to borrow. Some things are probably certain about some people, and I will have a blade or a reasonable replacement - I have been watching inmates with their house key, what they can cut through is almost amazing... technique not edged. Rogue Gunner has a nice blade and story I think worth the time.

So now in the days of the Second Amendment, and the contest between the gun lobby and the anti-gun gaggles (yes, I am allowed to chose the terms I label them with - they will do it to me) I am still encouraging responsible knife ownership and use. You see, I know about cutting flesh and blood flow - do it every time I really get to sharpening my blades, and I also know that one must get close and personal to fight with a knife - Jim Bowie is one of my heroes, he was great with the blade. The problem I see with pistols, in today's age, is that most people haven't gone to that level where they understand death done with guns, bullets striking flesh and breaking bones, and such -- too much Hollywood, and not enough time in the field taking down animals in the hunt (then picking them up and gutting them or butchering them for food). Somethings just don't happen as cleanly nor as ugly as film has made it.

But to be really dangerous one should know how dead a human will be when shot properly - they won't come back in next week's episode, or the next blockbuster hit - they will be waiting for you when you go to sleep and dream, as you start to accept them being there -- then you will be dangerous.

Gosh, I found another, one long legged redhead...

Armed and dangerous - actually I hope she is a very nice young lady with a good heart. I only ran into her because I went looking for Alien II targets at The Glock FAQ where I had been sent by the idea I would shoot a Postal Match from the Conservative UAW Guy. Like I need an excuse to go and shoot some targets.

I spent time with my wife doing administrative duties (getting a new ID card) sharing the laughter at the movies watching Leatherheads, and I got jealous that Mr. Clooney gets to ride old motorcycles with sidecars and call it a business expense. I read the write up in one of the weekly new magazines and I don't really need people being shot up and bleeding to feel entertained and enlightened. Then I felt guilty enough to cut my lawn completely and lend my mower to my neighbor so he could do his, and I raked the clippings and trash so it looks pretty good now. We are preparing for Spring and Summer and work makes my wife appreciate me a little more (she will miss me when I am gone).

I wander the blog sphere reading and commenting and thinking about what is worthy and why it doesn't match the evening news, maybe because what I find worthy is unique to me and those few somewhat like me, but always not exactly like me. Well, my jog has been gently run and it is time for the shower and slow down, maybe a little glass of wine while watching foreign films.

Wondering about the end of Summer?

the first work week in April is done and I can see June is almost over and only half a year to go... for those folks in the frozen and wet north and east, there is a chance that Winter will wind down and go far away... to bother the other hemisphere or somewhere else. The rains seemed to let up and by Wednesday I was ready to ride out on my motorcycle, I have been spotting soaring and dropping Bald Eagles and their power and freedom make me envious. Can't fly outside my dreams but I can ride that Triumph. So on Wednesday and Thursday I rode to work and froze my fingertips and fogged my face shield, still I was swooping and soaring and making my heart beat faster, or beat happily. On the afternoon trips home the Sun was breaking out and the
'only good weather' riders were joining the frollic on the roadways, flashing that inverted V with their clutch hand - I will never know what it means, just that I am not alone in my fun. That works for me. Friday, a sixty percent chance of rain, the morning temperature was above fifty and no rain. I figure that God loves me, I rode the motorcycle and walked to the dock without rain, and on the trip home the heavy black rolling clouds must have had orders not to do it on my parade - for they didn't and my roadway was dry and I was cranking out some power and pushing my envelope to minor rapture... Home in time to see my wife and smile and talk with her before she goes off to a church group meeting. She will be back.

At the Library we started the week with the last day of the previous month, which means reports and data to compile. I lose an inmate clerk on Monday because he took out his anger on another inmate in the Unit, a chapel porter, and rumor has it he got the first punch in, but after the table turned over and they got on the floor without room to move around the porter cleaned up on him. Prison humor, sorry. They both ended up in F unit Seg, and by Wednesday I had picked some thick Historic novels for his reading, twenty-three hours alone is twenty-two too much for one's mind. I can't start the hiring process until his hearing and the judgement is given. His chances of staying in Minimum Custody and on McNeil Island are very slim. I did the inmate clerk payroll on Tuesday and turned it in, everyone will get something for their best efforts last month, less than forty-five dollars and more than thirty.

Three inmate clerks mean that we barely kept ahead of the patrons, and seem to have lost control of at least four items, don't know if they were improperly checked out, but they aren't where they should be. I suspect I have a frazzled circulation clerk that isn't looking at the computer screen because he has too much going on and there are more big ugly guys waiting for his attention. It is important to check that screen, we are about to receive sixty-one CDs and they will be hot items. The first CD we had was gone in about thirty minutes and no one let on that it had arrived. Our audit by the Corrections Oversight team was published and I made sure that my supervisors had a copy to feel very good about, I printed a copy for my historical record. I am identified as Earl Dungey Librarian (which I am not, but Library Keeper is too special for publication).

On Thursday my supervisor visited and was distracted by the amount of Reference material behind the circulation counter, so she weeded, and I ordered up to date replacements, withdrew old and ugly stuff, and discussed future purchases. I have less that six hundred dollars to spend and three hundred of it is in the current book cart with Baker and Taylor. She also approved my last book cart and it will go through Acquisitions. I was thinking as I wandered the library looking at books, that our Westerns are worn and weak, they just don't write enough of them any longer - well, the traditional ones - cowboy or gunslinger rides horse saves ladies in distress and then rides off.. we seem to have too many of the "urgently romantic" men without honor on the shelves now. What I would love to see is somebody donating Leatherbound Louis Lamour and Zane Grey to our shelves. I am sure someone out there bought them and has out lived them. I do live in a fantasy world, don't I?

Once upon a time,

There was a gang in my neighborhood, two boys and a wild young girl, they ruled our street and made life rough in the bedroom community. They threw the fallen apples at each other and didn't care that they bounced onto the golf course green-like lawn of the family across the street. That family was upset and wanted the sherriff deputy from down the street to do something about it, and he just wanted to come home and sleep - he worked with real criminals all day. I thought the family was a bit extreme for both being school teachers but maybe they had enough tiny terrors in their lives, too. Well, I went out and met the hooligans one day and took some grocery bags and suggested, like it was a game, that they pick up all the busted and tossed apples from the yards where they had thrown them. They did, and the street was cleaner and they could ride their wheels up and down again. I suspected the two boys were foster care, they had lots of toys to play with and little adult supervision, the girl was from "renters", probably subsidized by the state. Not bad kids but looking for adventure and some guidance. They asked me to play catch, and I noticed that Brady (the only name I ever got for any of them) never had shoes that fit, or half the time he had them on the wrong feet. I worked with him on that. He would go back home and get different shoes and on the right feet. We would play catch with a Nerf football or tennis balls. He would knock on my door and ask if I would play, and I would go out and play catch for awhile until he and his brother would be called to supper.

They all moved away, about six months later, that is what happens to the renters' homes and families. More children have come and gone, but they aren't worrying the streets, they are safe in their television or video game world. The apples fall from the tree and no one throws them around anymore, and there aren't big battery powered toy cars parked just off the street where the gang of three left them.

I've been asked to play, Start with rules:

Here are the rules for this little task:
1. Write your own six word memoire.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play....

Warrior, wheels and wenched World's wonderful!



I find myself tagged by Breda, because Christina LMT had decided to share her touching (look hard for word/work play) generously.

Now the toughest part, not being very social I find it difficult to reach out to anyone and ask them to play, those that I could or would don't have blogs - sure sign of an ancient technologically challenged generation (MINE!). Curt, Wyatt, Jerry (looking for the Falkenberg fellow always), ToySoldier, and MC (because my son thinks if I had skated I would be doing what you do) would be my choices but they are busy folks with real lives beyond the blogsphere.

Just the boy at the back of the room, don't pay him any attention - he fades into the wallpaper neatly...

The Government isn't going to save us... it could try

I'm from the government and I am here to help, is the joke and for some reason some people think it is true. The President and the Treasury are going to fix Wall Street Bankers, the credit problems of those of us that think borrowing money is good for us - beyond temporary it never was. Anyway, to make this short - the President of the United States and the Treasury are supposed to make the dollars sound... I am sure there are appropriate words in the Constitution - but they aren't paying attention to that are they? If, and they won't, they made the American dollar worth what it was in 1948 and held it there... I must have lost my faith in government, but then they only think they are in charge and can do it all, so faith in government doesn't really get me anything. I have other things I can affect to work on - lots of work awaits me. Bye! Such a beautiful lady and a nice sized heavy coin to sew behind one's Airborne Patch on the garrison cap. Back when a dollar was worth something besides a soda.