Strays and Ferals

You want to piss me off righteous and proper? Let me catch you dumping a dog.

Considering how much I talk about the boys, you'd be justified in assuming that I'm a "dog person." Not so much, really - I always used to joke that I like other people's dogs, because dogs are needy. I like to visit them, spoil them like grandchildren, and then go home. My current situation started as simple circumstance, but I've been around these fellows long enough that they've become my family no matter what my original inclination. But I'm not, temperamentally, a dog person.

Even so, though I'm not always simpatico with them, I understand enough about a typical dog's psychology that I know the greatest crime you can commit against a dog is to take it out and dump it. Dogs are pack creatures; they tend to find their whole identity in their family. Dumping is the ultimate rejection; the ultimate betrayal. It's no wonder that so many dumped dogs simply die, even in a food-rich environment. It's no wonder that so many that live, turn mean. Dogs understand devotion: Hell, they embody it. And so they understand its flip-side; betrayal, sorrow, fear, and anger. Or maybe they don't understand such things, I don't know. But they can surely express them.

I'm thinking about these things this morning because of two incidents that happened yesterday. My neighbors, D&L, are attempting to adopt a dog that strayed onto their property. I forget just what breed he told me it was; some sort of short-haired terrier. I caught a ride to town with him yesterday to arrange for the delivery of the new generator, and visited the dog at his property. It wanted nothing to do with me; it still will barely tolerate him, but it accepts attention from his wife L. The poor little thing is a mess; skinny, tick and flea-infested, worm-ridden. It's got a couple of broken teeth, is afraid of men generally, and has certainly been abused terribly. But it still had enough desire to live to give joining a new family one last try, and for that I wish it well. That little terrier will never know how very lucky it is. It will probably stay with D&L, and so it will probably live. Someday it might even recover some small measure of happiness. I hope so.

While in town D and I visited the local vet, and the conversation naturally turned to strays in general. The area has had quite an infestation of them, and they've been forming feral gangs that have the cattle ranchers (literally) up in arms. The local cattle operations are shoestring affairs. They depend on open range and can't put up with much predation.

The most common predators around here are coyotes, but even in packs coyotes aren't much danger to adult cattle. They'll cheerfully eat a dead or dying cow, but don't hunt healthy ones. The only time coyotes get interested in cattle is when they're calving, but cows with calves stay together and do not tolerate coyotes. Coyotes are not animals that like to take a lot of chances, and they don't have to; there are plenty of other things to eat that they're fast enough to catch.

Dogs are not usually fast enough to live on rabbits, and the ones that survive long enough to become a problem are too big to live on mice and rats. So those that form packs often go after slow, delicious cattle. They're not terribly professional about it: They rarely kill a cow outright, but rather tear off enough chunks for a meal and leave animals so badly damaged the rancher has no choice but to put it down. So you can imagine the ranchers' joy and delight in their company. They'll shoot any cattle-chasing dog on sight, which is one reason I try to chase cattle out of our meadow myself.

The thing that makes feral dog packs more dangerous to people than any truly wild animal is that they don't share wild animals' instinctive fear of humans; that's been bred out of them. Some of them have an absolute animosity toward humans. Given their individual history I don't blame them for that, but the fact remains. Like any other creature that wants to live, I'm inclined to kill what I fear and I fear feral dogs. So a stray dog I encounter in the desert has a limited window of opportunity to prove that it's not feral; otherwise it's going to get a bullet in the head. This ain't no city park.

I'd like to tell you a story about a time when that almost happened, but this post has already grown too long. Sometime I'll tell you the story of The Noob. Not right now.

But know this: Most such stories do not end as happily as The Noob's did, or as that of my neighbor's new visitor is likely to. Most such stories end very badly.

Now I speak to those inclined to dump unwanted dogs. I speak, unbidden, on behalf of the desert people, the ranchers and the townie commuters and the cedar rats, the people who live here - the people forced to defend their children and livestock and pets from the results of your irresponsibility and immaturity.

When you dump a dog, the very best thing it can reasonably expect is that it will go down with one of our bullets in its brain, with a little dignity, like a warrior. Far more likely it will die a slow, agonizing death of disease and starvation and dehydration and sorrow brought on by your callous betrayal. The chances that it will find a new home before it's too far gone to save are negligible. If you're the sort to dump a trusting but troublesome dog, you can lie to yourself about it all you want. You can pretend you believe that it will find a new family, or live a free, wild and happy life. But it knows what you've done. And so do we.

And while we're shooting the dog you betrayed, or burying its pitiful remains, we're cursing you.

Just so you know.

New Generator!

Well, it's official. After a couple of days of emails flashing back and forth, my landlady has ordered a new generator for her hacienda in the hills. It's a bit embarrassing for a fellow who used to fix these things for a living to have to say, but though of course I've heard of the manufacturers I didn't know they got together to make this class of unit. The engine is a Cummins 4-stroke, and the genset is made by Onan which as far as I know is the finest name in RV generators.

Since it needs to end up in the boonies, the shipper doesn't deliver outside town, I (officially at least) have no wheels, and the whole thing weighs 185 pounds in the crate, the logistics are a bit complex. But it's all been worked out. Really!

Updates to follow...

What is a barrel shroud, and why should it be banned?

Here to explain the vital nature of this legislation is some self-important broad...



:-) Yeah, I mostly just wanted to see if I could embed a video. But it's still highlarious.

Assault on the North Face

Here and there in the more rugged parts of the desert, there are dark, deep places where water gathers and stays long after everything else has dried up. There is precipitation here, after all; snow in the winter and monsoon rains in the late summer. At least a few times a year the dry washes are dry no more: It's possible to get caught in flash floods, though it takes a special kind of foolish. I've awakened to the sound of pounding water and found a torrent rushing by at the foot of the ridge where I live. These floods can carve out whole new channels in minutes, push boulders before them, cause cliffs to calve and crumble like glaciers.

Mostly, of course, it isn't that dramatic, though I could show you places where the drama must have cataclysmic at the time. Still, water does flow. And when it stops flowing, it leaves its remnants in these dark, deep places.

I wouldn't presume to believe that I know them all, but I know four or five of them. One in particular always intrigued me. I discovered it quite by accident almost a year ago. It was higher than any I'd seen before, and more exposed to the sun, but full of water when others had already gone dry. In fact it was quite a climb to get to it; if I hadn't happened to see a bird drinking where I didn't think there could possibly be water, I'd never have suspected it was there. It was deep and apparently floored with rock, which also made it unusual. I wondered if it might not actually be a spring, though no spring had any business being there. I meant to go back and check it out during the dry time, but last year went bad and I didn't do a lot of hiking for quite a while.

Still, since we've been getting back into the canyons a lot more lately, I thought the boys and I should go pay it a visit. This would be an expedition of a few hours. You have to go deep into the big canyon and then climb a steep tributary. Once you've arrived, the most practical way to get back down is to climb the rest of the way to the plateau and hike about halfway back, then there's a reasonable slope that dumps you into the canyon.

We started out early. Since I had to bring water and was going to need my hands, I left the carbine home and wore my gunbelt. The boys were excited about the whole thing, because I loaded them into the landlady's jeep (they love that) and drove up the wash to where it ends and the canyons begin. I knew from experience that this indulgence would prove very welcome on the way back. It's a helluva walk.

So when we got to the canyons the boys spilled out and thrashed around for a while before settling down for the slog up the canyon. At first it's mostly easy sand, but then you pass between two almost identical boulders I call the gateway, and the fun begins. Rock is tumbled everywhere here; at one point there's a trio of standing stones the size of Winnebagos that mark the point where you stop hiking and start rock climbing. Then it settles down a bit, but there's always something that needs to be scrambled over. A few miles inside the canyon proper, you come to a steep, narrow tributary with nothing in particular to recommend it as a tourist attraction. That's where the hole is, and it's a climb. The boys and I mostly stuck to the canyon wall here; the going's easier that way. We finally got to the water hole, which to my disappointment really was as dry as all the others. As I figured, there was no spring here. But at least I got to confirm its configuration. It was just a really deep hole in the rock, with no underlying sand for the water to soak into.

Now the real fun started. From here it was fifty or sixty steep feet up the north wall, by no means all vertical, and neither the dogs nor I had any trouble making the climb. The plateau is the highest point around, and the view is amazing. In places it's virtually paved with flat, fractured rock, as if you'd discovered some huge, ancient highway. We'd been walking and climbing for maybe an hour and a half by now: The cold was immaterial since I was soaked in sweat. I'd only been here once before, but remembered the way well enough. Turn west and keep walking until you find the slope back down to the big canyon. I guess I was starting to get really tired - I'll blame it on the altitude, and not that I'm a decrepit old man - because even Magnus was pretty much bounding down the rocky, snowy slope and I was just trying to keep from getting killed. "Yeah, easy for you guys," I muttered. "You've got four legs and a lower center of gravity." The potatoes and toast I'd had for breakfast had pretty much run out.

By the time we got back down, I was running out of steam fast with a mile or more of rocks to climb down. But when we got to the gateway stones I figured I had it beat. Here the walls are vertical and very tall, and the snow is deep on the floor of the canyon. My carbon fiber foot slipped on an unseen rock. Tired and off-balance, I just fell right over. Naturally another rock under the snow was perfectly placed to smash into the one meat shin I've got left. I just lay there and said "ow" for a while, but I wasn't really hurt; just very tired. Magnus, bless him, trotted back and whined in my face; I braced myself on his shoulders till I could get back to my feet.

It was still a few hundred yards, and around a couple of bends, until the Jeep came into view. "Oh, ye beautiful piece of Chrysler-bred perfection," I breathed. We don't usually go that far, or that high. Magnus had come back for me before, and I hadn't even wondered where Fritz might be at the time. Addicted to 'going for a ride,' he was standing vigil by the door. As always, he was afraid he might miss his chance if he turned his back on the Jeep. I just sighed. "Dude, I've got the keys. It can't leave without me."

So now the boys are sacked out like they'll never move again, and I smell like a goat and have a lump on my shin the size of a chicken's egg. I think this evening we'll just stick to walking up and down the road.

Meditation on a Free Market

“There's no ban or edict that any government can stuff down its subjects throats that some people will not resent and defy.” J.D. Tuccille

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the “underground economy,” “black market,” “parallel economy,” or whatever you want to call it – let’s call it the free market. Not really knowing what to say about it, I started surfing to learn more of what has been written. About ten pages into Google, I finally realized that not a hell of a lot has been written – at least not about the free market in these united States. Among a lot of writing-type folks, the assumption seems to be that in this country the market is indeed “black”, is contrasted with the “legitimate” market, and is concerned entirely with selling dope or dodging taxes. More recent tracts – and I couldn’t find a lot that’s recent – fixate on “illegal aliens.”

As far as I can tell, dope and taxes do have a lot to do with it, at least as far as free market goods are concerned. The market for such things has proven pretty damned conclusively that if people want to smoke weed or snort cocaine, they’re gonna do it. Pass all the laws you want against it and be damned to you, it’s still going to happen. I found an amusing article here - well, I found it amusing - about what happened to New York State’s revenues from cigarette taxes when the powers that be decided that levying the highest such taxes in the country was a good thing to do.

I’m more interested in the ramifications of free market labor, though. Here again, I’ve no doubt that taxes and immigration have a lot to do with it. If you live on minimum wage or less, the bite withholding takes from your check is not insignificant. If, as is increasingly the case, you can’t get direct employment at all but only work as a 1099 contractor, you’re supposed to save up and send in your income taxes without that “painless” cushion that withholding provides. In such case the temptation to just give that part a miss must be pretty damned strong.

And then there’s all those “illegal aliens” the conservatives like to emote about. Now, of course I would never, ever advocate or even condone anyone doing anything the slightest bit illegal. Therefore, on its face of course illegal immigration is a great, great evil. It is, after all, illegal. For shame! And I’ve heard for years about hordes of swarthy ne’er-do-wells comin’ over here, suckin’ up welfare and joinin’ them dangerous gangs. I’ve no doubt that there are such people, but it’s funny – I’ve lived in those cities and never met one. I have met hundreds of Hispanics who clearly weren’t born here, who worked for cash only, many of whom spoke no English at all. I’ve no doubt, though I haven’t asked, that some of them are as illegal as freebasing. And yet … don’t ask me how I know, but I do know that nearly every one that I’ve ever met gave a damned good day’s work for his pay. And I’ve always kind of admired the chutzpa it takes to cross a border illegally, with all the difficulties and dangers that entails, into a country where you don’t even speak the language, and take whatever job you can get from day to day. I’ve also wondered at the home conditions that would drive a person to do that. Seems to me only a certain sort of person would go to the trouble – probably the best sort. Not, of course, that I would ever condone such reprehensible behavior.

Complaints about welfare whores, I understand and share. I’d have no business with any such person under any circumstances, no matter how much or how little melanin he exhibits and no matter the legal status of his residency. Of course the cure for such people is fairly obvious – ask any libertarian or anarchist, and he’ll tell you all about it. But the shrillest complaints about immigrants aren’t about welfare, they’re about people having the gall to sell free market labor. “They’re not paying taxes!” – actually a lot of them do, they just don’t hang around for their refunds. “They use stolen social security numbers!” – often true, but who the hell’s fault is that? I’m old enough to remember when an American would be offended at the notion that he had to prove a damned thing before he was “entitled” to a job, except that he could do the job. When I spent my teenage summers picking corn and squash, I didn’t need no steenking number. I just had to prove I’d show up and do the work.

Thing is, it seems very strange to me even now that anybody but me and my employer would ever presume to decide whether I was entitled to work, or that anybody but me and a seller of a good would presume to decide whether I was allowed to buy that good. These days, in the afternoon of my life, I find I have no patience for such presumptuousness. I make my modest living in a – well, informal – manner, and it suits me just fine. Sorry if it offends anyone else. I’m gathering materials for a more permanent lair. And if quite a lot of it comes from barter for services, whose business is that? How did it come that so many other people, people we don’t even know, people of no earthly benefit to us, believe that they get any say at all in such things? These are the things I wonder about.

Sometimes, in darker moments, I wonder what should be done with such people.

Of Star Trek Sets and Roller Coasters

This morning broke gorgeous. I mean, Oscar the Grouch couldn't be unhappy with a day like this. No way I was going to spend this day stuck in the lair, where I've mostly cocooned since mid-December. So the boys and I set out early to give that canyon another try.

Halfway up the wash to the canyon entrance, Ghost disappeared. I expected to meet him in the canyon; he's almighty good about knowing where I'm going before I do. The big fellas and I slogged through the wash and up the canyon till we got to the water hole.

Here I had a question to answer. I knew I could climb the rocks around the water hole, but I'd been worried that the big dogs wouldn't be able to follow. It turned out to be a non-issue; Magnus clambered over the rocks in front of me, and Fritz wasn't far behind. First hurdle cleared. Now we were in the canyon proper, where (I like to imagine) few people had ever been.

Think back to all those minimalist sets on the old Star Trek series, decorated with three foam rocks and an upside-down tree. That's what these places always remind me of, except that there are more rocks and no red shirted extra who won't be going home with us. The canyon walls are close on two sides, and there are generally some big boulders that must be scaled if you want to keep moving forward. Up the canyon, after all, is literally Up. There's always something to climb.

I still hadn't seen Ghost, but didn't worry too much about him. By now he knew exactly where we were, if he hadn't all along, and was just off having his own fun.

We came to some short rock faces that must be beautiful waterfalls during the monsoon. Snow melt had already filled several crevices, though this early most of them were still frozen over. In the deeper, shadier parts of the canyon the snow was thick and fluffy. It began to look as though this canyon might go on for miles like the other, larger branch does but I couldn't be sure of that because in spots it was quite a bit steeper. At some point it had to peter out and just become part of the plateau. Unless it didn't, of course.

But we didn't make it for miles. Probably less than half a mile in, we came to another rock face. To the left of the face was a cave, whose mouth was mostly covered with yucca. To the right, a narrow passage led to another water hole. This one was pretty deep, because it was filled (when the water was flowing) by a vertical fall higher than my head. I could probably have climbed out one side of that hole, but it would be quite an adventure and there was no way the big dogs were coming with me. This was the end of the road for now.

I looked around, just to see what there was to see before turning back. And at the top of the canyon I saw a sleek brown head looking down at me. Ghost had never come into the canyon at all; he'd been playing around on the plateau all this time. He made a move as if he intended to come down. Where he was, there was a vertical drop of maybe five feet and then some very steep talus. I didn't want to watch him try that. "No!" I yelled up at him. I pointed back down the canyon. "Go back!" I matched deed to word by calling the other dogs, scrambling out of the hole and heading back down myself. Hopefully he'd have sense enough to meet us further down.

Instead, a few minutes later I heard something running behind me. Ghost had, indeed, made it down that face without breaking his neck. And he apparently had quite a lot of fun doing it because he ran right past me, disappeared down the gorge, and a few minutes later appeared behind me again. Ghost had discovered the desert hills' version of a roller coaster, and he got to ride it for free.

Generator's RPM Woes

I'm going to go through this, really just in the hopes that someone knows how I can handle it better. I held the back-up back-up generator in reserve even though it's newer and has an electric starter, because it has engine governor problems I was never able to diagnose. I kludged it together in a way I'll describe below.

Several months ago, when it was the principle back-up generator, its engine overheated and stuck a valve. This is fairly common with B&S 2-stroke engines, and I fixed it at home with no more investment than a new head gasket. I had no reason to believe there was going to be any problem, since I've repaired dozens of engines in the same way. But this time, when I started it after the valve job, the engine firewalled. I mean it screamed. Nothing, but nothing I did to it should have caused this, and the only reason it didn't come apart was because I was standing right there and could lunge at the off switch. Poking around, I determined that, for whatever reason, the mechanical governor was no longer working. So we loaded the whole thing into the truck and took it to the shop where I worked at the time.

To get to the governor, you have to take the whole freaking thing apart. I did so, and couldn't see a thing wrong with it. My boss, a master with these engines, couldn't see a thing wrong with it. There was simply nothing wrong with it ... except that it didn't work. I put it all back together again, started the engine, and of course it screamed. Well, now I had a problem. I had already given my notice at the shop, and my time there was coming to a close. Taking it apart again, in addition to being pointless, was not possible - at least not at the shop. We tried everything we could think of, and finally we punted.

There's a spring that's supposed to pull the throttle wide open, which the governor fights against. That way when there's a load on the engine, the governor can back off and bump up the RPM to compensate. If the governor isn't working, of course that spring yanks the throttle wide open and holds it there. No good. So we reversed matters: We installed a spring that held the throttle closed, and extended the idle stop until the idle speed was high enough that the genset could produce 120 volts at 60 cycles. The problem with this, of course, is that when the controller demands more current it puts a load on the genset, which slows down the engine RPM, which causes the output electrical to drop below useful levels. So you can idle the engine too hot, which will give you enough juice under load, or you can idle it safely which will give you not enough power. Ew.

I've had nothing but trouble with this thing since the Coleman locked up. As I feared, I erred so much on the side of engine safety that it's almost useless as a generator. So today I snipped a loop off the idle stop screw's tension spring and bumped the engine speed up to where I'm making a little more than 125 volts with no load. The engine is running faster than I like, but hopefully not dangerously fast. I connected the generator to the electrical system, and the system seems happier now. But needless to say, I'm not real happy. Does anyone with more knowledge than me have any suggestions?

Walkin' Through a Winter Wonderland...

The morning broke cold but almost clear. Overnight we got maybe a half-inch of new snow, but the cloud cover had broken and when the sun cleared the hills it shined on a dazzling white carpet instead of the gray and forbidding phlump of the last couple of days. The coyotes found it encouraging, at least: Before full sun the boys got into a hell of a shouting match with a pack somewhere near the big loop in the wash, just beyond the meadow. I couldn't see any of them (I never do) but they sure sounded close.

We were out and about earlier than usual, walking down the wash toward the big loop. I stuck to the more level footing inside the wash itself, with nice hard frozen ground instead of the usual fatigue-inducing soft sand. The boys spent most of their time up on the bank where the scents are more compelling and there's always a chance of flushing something good to eat, or at least fun to chase.

At one point Fritz broke from the brush on the bank farthest from me and began charging toward me in his favorite game, Whack-a-Joel. When he saw me turn and brace for impact his gallop became a real rush; he doesn't have that much speed, but with all his bulk he can build up a great head of kinetic energy before impact. And the thing it's vitally important to remember is, he's not going to veer off. He really intends to impact. You can't hurt him by hitting him in the head, but you can knock me on my ass quite smartly by hitting me in the knees. He is aware of this.

I sidestepped and grabbed him around the neck and we went down together in a good wrestle, then he accompanied me closely till it was time to turn at the fence line. Magnus had disappeared up the far bank, following some scent. Ghost was in sight, but having his own party further along. I called Magnus, and after several seconds heard him crashing and panting down the slope. When I called Ghost he looked at me and then trotted along the line he'd already taken. "Yeah, I heard you. Go do whatever you're doing; I'm not done yet."

Somewhere in the flats to the west of our ridge is a pile of stones in the shadow of some tall junipers. It has become a game of mine to try and locate this pile of stones. It marks the first proposed location of Joel's Secret Lair, Final Edition. For various reasons this location got vetoed, and now I'm almost glad: Damned if I can ever locate that pile and those trees. The flat is not a very big place, but everything looks the same throughout it. I'd hate to go to all the trouble of building a cabin, then never be able to find it again. And of course all this snow doesn't help.

I never did find it this morning; sometimes I can and sometimes I can't. But the boys had a fine time helping me quarter back and forth, not knowing what the hell I was doing but pretty obviously not really caring. At some point Ghost joined us, as usual from a completely unforeseen direction. He seems to get a kick out of doing that, for his own reasons.

So what began as a short, quick walk turned into a sufficiently tiring hike, even though we didn't cover much ground. For an hour or so the boys were content to snooze, and now they're filtering out of the lair and back into the snow. We'll have to come up with some other games before too long, I know the signs. And anyway, it's turned into a beautiful day.

Purchase of guns and ammo wasted effort?

In a comment this morning to yesterday's "Buy, buy, buy", The Last Cause asked, "I wonder if all of the effort to purchase ammunition for firearms that will never be used is just misplaced effort."

Some of it will prove to be misplaced, no doubt. Ultimately, in practical terms, it's foolish to spend hundreds or thousands of dollars on tools you have neither the skill nor intention to use. But even if the larger portion of those guns wind up gathering cobwebs in closets, it's still a good thing. It shows me that there's still a "screw-you" spirit out there. Maybe only a spark of it, but there's hope in a spark.

Ten years ago, when I lived in Southern California, I watched a similar phenomenon on a more local scale. State laws against certain cosmetic features on rifles had just been tightened. A bit of deceptive hocus-pocus on the part of the California AG had just transformed thousands of people who had foolishly registered their "assault weapons" into felons. Freedom was most certainly not on the march, at least not in a forward direction. These new restrictions were due to take effect in a few months.

Californians' response? Gun shops couldn't keep'em in stock. Untold thousands of imported SKS rifles - just barely legal - virtually cascaded off the shelves. Anything black and pistol-gripped was a sure seller. I went to gun shows and watched the ammo dealers doing business as if they'd found a way to mint their own money. It was really something. I got a helluva kick out of it.

What was the point of all that, since probably few of those people had any intention of ever firing their guns? Nothing but the "screw-you" factor. And here's the beautiful thing: it had an effect. When all those previously-registered rifles became felony-worthy illegal by DOJ fiat, there was talk of door-to-door confiscation. And by that I mean Sacramento was talking about it. But by dint of sheer numbers, that talk faded away swiftly. Nothing was EVER done about getting all those heavily-armed felons to turn'em in.

Now, you know and I know that virtually none of those people would really have shot back. Nobody did in New Orleans. But we're talking about a lot more people here, and the key word is "virtually." Would you want to be the lucky cop who encountered the exception to the rule? To a bullet from a round of 7.62X39 ammo, Kevlar may as well be silk. So in the absence of any cops willing to enforce the new law, Sacramento just let it all go away.

No, I'm not suggesting that we can confidently count on that sensible reaction to mass non-compliance from the feds. But the existence of that non-compliance is heartening, at least.

In practical terms, beans are more important than bullets. I wish I believed that all those gun-buying folks out there were making other necessary preps. Probably most of them aren't. But this episode shows me that, if nothing else, the spirit of the raised middle finger is still more alive throughout this country than I have sometimes feared.

"American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan"

Yeah, yeah, I’m in a political mood today.

And when I’m in a mood to get really pissed off, I watch things like this – the latest “fireside chat” from the “Office of the President-Elect,” whatever the hell that is.

Lemme see: I’m looking it up in my pocket Constitution…Nope, can’t find that office. Ah, well. He’s the President-Elect, and no doubt he has an office. I had an office once. It was really cool. I had a great view of the parking lot, one of those toys you turn upside-down to see…well, that’s probably not what he means by “office.” Never mind.

Anyway, to The Plan!

“To create three million new jobs, more than 80% of them in the private sector.”

Never mind answering how he’s going to create the 80% of those new jobs. He can’t do that, and he knows it. He only hopes we don’t know it. It’s those other 20% that bother me. Do The Math.

“We will double domestic energy production and renovate public buildings to make them more energy efficient.”

The first is an old promise, made by every incoming administration, and we can safely assume it’s a lie. The second, if true, will cost money. Lots of money. Your money.

“To build a 21st century economy, we must engage contractors across the country to create jobs rebuilding our crumbling roads, bridges and schools.”

Which, if true, will cost money. Lots of money. Your money.

“To save not only jobs, but money and lives, we will update and computerize our health care system…”

Oh, my giddy aunt. Next time you meet your local doctor, be sure to say goodbye very fondly. “Your papers, please, Citizen?” An aside - I was really surprised when Hillary! became Secretary of State. I was expecting Health, Education and Welfare. Be that as it may, somewhere she's smiling.

“To make America and our children a success in this new global economy, we will build 21st century classrooms, labs, and libraries.”

Another old, expensive promise. Doesn’t say a damned thing about the way our Beloved Central Planners have already wrecked the curriculums of the Youth Indoctrination Centers, but I’m sure we can assume they’ll keep doing A Heck Of A Job.

And my personal favorite:

“And to put more money into the pockets of hard-working families, we will provide direct tax relief to 95% of American workers.”

Huh? How? Will he be financing all that other stuff from his left-over campaign fund? And – assuming a single syllable of any of this is true, (HA!) or that the above expensive promises are to be funded by taxes rather than inflation – god help the remaining 5%.

Oh, lord. God help us all.

Snowed In

Very heavy overcast and a little snow yesterday. We got a luverly bunch of snow overnight, so of course I lost electricity. It doesn't look like there's going to be any sun today. I just got in from sweeping off the solar panels, and now the meter is showing about a 24.5 volt charge which should keep the system up unless I do something stupid like use a lot of electricity.

See, there's amp draw and then there's amp draw. The laptop, modem, dish (I honestly don't know if it pulls any current or how it would work if it didn't) and wifi box pull a total of maybe three amps. That's sustainable with very modest input, and so is a single lamp. But if I use the coffee-maker, say, or (god help me) the toaster - well! Now we're talking 25 or 30 amps. The bread maker? No way: That has to run for an hour and a half, even if I only end up with dough. Three hours for actual bread. I don't even own a crock pot, though I used to love them.

Sunny days are good. But you take what you can get. :-)

"Buy, buy buy"...?

From Michael Gaddy's current article on LRC:

While we stumble along economically with bailouts, buyouts, and poor sales in almost all sectors, two products in America are seeing dramatic increases in sales: guns and ammo. People who never owned a gun before are buying; people are buying multiples of military style weapons and ammo is being bought by the case instead of by the box.

Many explain this away as folks simply worried that Obama will move to ban certain firearms, especially those referred to by the ignorant as "assault weapons," I believe the motivation to buy firearms and ammunition goes much deeper.

More and more Americans are becoming increasingly aware of the storm that is brewing on the horizon, a storm driven by the possibility of a complete economic collapse.

The more astute are reading the handwriting on the wall: military combat units being assigned for stateside duty to quell domestic disturbances, a militarization of law enforcement, and the fear of what will happen when the state is no longer able to provide monthly checks to the millions currently living on government handouts labeled as "entitlements."

A strong possibility exists, when the checks stop, those who no longer have will seek to forcibly take from those who do. The scenes from New Orleans after Katrina have not disappeared from the public memory.

He goes on to point out that national legislation is pre-positioned to exploit the next inevitable slaughter of disarmed victims by some sociopath who fails to adequately abide by already-existing laws against murder and assault, using a (gasp!) gun. The enemies of firearms ownership in this country can be confidently counted on to exploit every such occurrence. He also says - correctly, in my opinion - that the majority of those currently sweeping gun shop shelves clean will not resist when that new legislation leads to confiscations, a la post-Katrina New Orleans. It's a good article. Read it.

I think it's very good, and a very good statement to our would-be masters, that guns and ammo are flying off the shelves at this uncertain time.

But I sincerely hope all those buying folks out there are "buy, buy buying" more than guns and ammo, if they really want themselves and their families to get through a possible collapse. If they live in places that can turn into replicas of post-Katrina NO, I hope at least some of them are getting out of there.

We already know the government isn't here to help. We already know most won't resist confiscation. So don't be there when it happens, and don't put yourself in a position where you're forced to depend on government "help."

Does this contradict my earlier statement that retreating is not 'the only true path?" Maybe, but I don't retract the statement. Do as thou wilt, by all means. But at least look around you. If what you're doing is a true path to disaster, only you can get yourself the hell out of the way.

I don't know what the future holds; neither do you. But some things we do know. If you're even bothering to read this, chances are you do know that the incoming administration is not your friend, any more that the outgoing one was. Maybe it will be worse - it's shaping up to be. You do know that it will exploit all possible events to enhance its own power at your expense. You do know that the national, and maybe the world, economy has one foot in the grave. You do know that the people in charge of the next big disaster will do "one heck of a job," even if it leaves you starving and at the mercy of looters and local tyrants. You do know all these things.

But do you know the answer to these questions? If New Orleans comes to a city near you today, what will you and your family be eating two months from now? Where will you live? How will you stay warm? How will you defend yourself? These are the important questions, and you don't have to be a "gun nut" - or any other kind of nut - to be answering them for yourselves. Now.

Yeah, it's snowing again.

Not even the boys want to go outside today. Maybe the Buddha will grace me with wise things to say later. Probably not.

So in lieu of today's meaningful post...Funny Pictures!