Guns galore

This is a gun. That is my hand on the gun. I like guns. Get over it.

Many years ago I was house sitting for my paranoid brother and at some point a friend from college showed up and we did what people of a certain age did at the time, which was drink to excess and play with weapons. It was a time in American history where excessive drinking and gun play was really almost considered a sport.

So there we were, outside of my brothers mansion, late at night, firing off hand guns, just having a good time. As was often the case at the time, we started getting carried away, which in retrospect may have started when we mixed guns and alcohol, but then again, we were young and out of control, or something to that effect.

Soon enough police were called. Now, because my brother really did have a mansion is a fairly exclusive part of Northern California and because he had a hilltop mansion, we could see what was happening below us and on that late night, not much was happening, until we saw the blinking lights of a police cruiser. That was about the same time we decided to sober up and put the guns away, it may have been the exact time, if not, it was close.

Needless to say, when the chimes started reverberating around the large home, the gun play was over, the weapons stored in the gun closet, yes my paranoid brother really had a gun closet, my family is big on closets, and we were prepared to lie convincingly to the police.

The good thing about being in a wealthy area of Northern California, shooting weapons that were no longer in our hands, and answering a mansions door to some police officer, was the sense of entitlement that comes from just visiting such a lifestyle. When you are in a ten thousand square foot home on the top of a mountain, and police show up, the very last thing you are going to worry about is if they want to talk about gun play.

The officer asked about shots being fired and we mentioned some horny coyotes that we had to run off the property by pellet gun. See, even in our semi-drunken state we both knew that the last thing either of us wanted to admit to was shooting a real gun off a balcony, into the darkness. Plus, what we really feared was a police officer looking around the gun closet, because there were weapons in there that certainly had to be illegal, if unregistered.

The officer took great joy in the fact that we were drunk and shooting at coyotes. He gave us advice that now might be a good time to get some sleep, which was really quite wise.

Now, about that picture of me holding that lovely handgun. I am unable to say much about it, and even if I could, I am certain the vast majority of people who may be reading this would even believe it. Suffice to say, some professions feel it necessary to have guns in the office, "just in case."

Enough said already.

Pledging

War crimes

Ratko Mladic, renowned war criminal and all around evil guy was arrested last week. Now, on this blog, this would not make it on here since this blog seems completely focused on fashion and boogers, but for Ratko, we make an exception.

First, Ratko is the Osama Bin Ladin of white, racist, raping, killing, war criminals. Second he has the best name of any evil war criminal since Hitler. Now, I don't know how to pronounce Ratko's last name, but really, when your first name is Ratko and you kill people, rape people, steal from people and are charged with crimes against humanity, well, I think we can all agree Ratko is the perfect single name for you. Kind of like Madonna, only without the steroids and fake religion.

So, why am I thinking of Ratko this beautiful morning? Well, much like Osama, Ratko has been on the run for many years and unlike Osama, Ratko will face a judge and jury and will face some sort of life in jail and so on, the victims will not feel much better, at least the ones who are alive, but Ratko will no longer be a free man and in some cases, that is what the justice system does.

Now, the problem for me is that Ratko is now off my list of people I can claim to have seen at the local Macy's store. Oh, I know what you're thinking, I am one of those nuts who calls the police with witness accounts of dangerous thugs or suspicious rocks or something, no, not me, not at all.

I keep a dossier of Interpols top ten criminals, one that I keep with me at all times. I also keep the top ten FBI most wanted list, and with both of these, I keep a toll free number to contact the authorities when I see a person of interest. Now, the question you must be asking yourself is, what is the possibility that I, a guy in Pittsburgh, might just happen to run into a world famous criminal mastermind at a mall or Trader Joe's? Wrong question.

In the 90's one of the FBI's most wanted criminals was an unknown whacko who went by the name the Unabomber, a strange man who sent home made bombs to universities and businesses that this Unabomber character thought was ruining the world, or something. See, Unabomber man did not make a lot of sense, but then again, for a long time, he was able to send bombs to professors and inventors and get away with it. The FBI has a hotline, which is my favorite was of communication.

So for many years, I would call the FBI hotline and I would describe in detail the person I thought might be the Unabomber, often supplying a car license plate number or a couple of times, a home address. How was I able to get these things? Because the license plate and home address belonged to my brother, who it turned out was not the Unabomber, but for me, the fun was in the investigation, not the actual arrest.

Imagine my sadness when the actual loony Unabomber was arrested, charged and convicted. Sad times, sad times indeed. Now, I have had to improvise over the past few years. Homeland Security has visited my brothers house twice looking for Osama Bin Ladin and Interpol has both stopped him at the airport in London and watched his house for two weeks after I called breathlessly telling them that I saw Ratko Mladic hanging his laundry outside of my brothers house a few times.

The Ratkos arrest and the Unabomber behind bars and Osama swimming with the fishes, I am getting close to the end. Oh sure, there will always be an FBI top ten list, but much like Billboards top ten, there will never again be Michael Jackson and there will never again be Osama Bin Ladin, Unabomber and Ratko. Plus, my brother moved and refuses to give me his new address.

Re: are you good at get f*cked - 26

I get as much junk email as anyone, but for the past week or so, I have received one with the above referenced subject line about 10 times. First, this is the best subject line ever, because right off it makes you think.

First, how do you answer that question?

And, and....well, it has a "re" involved. Which mean, in theory, this is an email in response to something I supposedly wrote, so it demand my attention, because if you follow the logic of this email chain, I sent someone the original email with a subject line, "Re: are you good at get f*cked - 26."

The strange thing is, I often do send such an email, but that is neither here nor there.

Now, along with the above spam email, I also received this one, or at least this subject line, "Boobs as big as balloons" - which is of course very important to me. Now, these various emails end up in my spam email folder, which is where they belong of course, but it sure makes me wonder. One thing, who is stupid enough to actually open these? And second, if you are that stupid, then I guess you probably do have an answer to Are you goood at get f*cked or Boobs as big as balloons.

There is never a shortage of stupids, even stupids who respond to stupid emails.

One of those moments

New love, true love, is something we all know and respect, I think. I mean, it's kind of like when you see a pregnant woman and even the skeeziest of scummy people will hold a door open. Every where I have been in live, people get out of the way of pregnant women, they are honored on almost an animalistic level. Even crackhead pregnant women get the door held for them. There are parts of our world that we all just seem to understand. So when we see new love, we honor it, we look at it and hope for it. New love is better than old love because it does not have a history, yet.

So I was sitting on my porch and I heard this conversation. Since I did not see the conversationalists, I will call them S and B.

S; Well, you know, I think you're sexy as all get out.

B; You say that, but how do I know you mean it.

S; I'm here right now, ain't I?

B; Yeah.

S; And baby, you get your hair done, you will be so hot.

B; Thought I was hot.

S; Oh, you is, but get it done, you super hot.

B; Yeah baby.

S; You in my heart baby.

B; What's that?

S; You in my heart baby, you have a place in my heart.

B; Yeah? I don't know what that means.

S; You know, baby, you inside of me. In here.

B; Yeah. OK.

S; Serious.

B; Yeah, OK.

S; And baby, when we together, it's magic.

B; That much is true.

S; Magic.

B; You amaze me.

S; No, you amaze me baby.

B; Yeah?

S; Oh yeah baby.

B; You wanna go back inside?

S; Serious?

B; Serious.

Right around there I was feeling all kinds of guilty. I mean, obviously this was some sort of ghetto seduction I was listening in on, right there, in my own front yard, and dang if it did not make any sense at all to me. Baby this, serious that, not a word making a bit of sense. Kids these days.

Then I stood up to get another beer and I looked over the railing. Laying there in front of me, my lawyer, Beth Libitard, getting all sorts of cozy with Edith the slug. I wanted to throw up. My lord, if she was not my lawyer, I swear I would kick her out of my house.

80 Degrees and a cycle

Today is the day.

A perfect sunny day. My cycle is lubed, the tires inflated perfectly. It has been years since this cycle has been on a road and today is the day it returns to duty. If you page back on this log there are numerous entries related to a bike crash a few years ago, subsequent brain damage, treatment on and on it goes. The bottom of all those lines is that for a few years and for a variety of reasons I have been staying off roads when it came to cycling.

There is a track near Pittsburgh, paved and clean and well kept. I have never been on it, but I have driven past it. Today I put my cycle in my car, which I have always found ironic when I have seen others do it, but today, it is what I did. I drove to the track, got out, dressed and go on my bike.

I have never been on a track like this before, with the sloped turns and perfectly laid asphalt. There were a couple of riders circling the track, one slow and just out for a stretch, one in lycra and speeding. I just wanted to see what it felt like to be on pavement. I started slow, there was a decent flat so I peddled and the wind it my face was just a little shocking. I did a loop at a nice pace, only passing the slow guy, but most important for me, not being passed by anyone, which is often one of my internal goals.

Second loop my legs felt strong and I was not breathing any differently, so I decided to push myself a bit and shifted into a harder gear and started to peddle faster. I passed the slow guy again and on the flat, I passed the fast guy and as I approached one of the curves, with no warning what so ever, I was passed on the right so quickly it was shocking. It was one of those speed demons, on a bike worth more than my car, no fat on this guy and he was pumping hard. I pulled in behind him, as is my way. Find the fastest and try and stay with him. That lasted about ten seconds. I quickly realized I am in shape only indoors.

Outside riding is a lot more complex than indoor riding. Elements play a factor, there was a kids party in the inner part of the track, so there was human movement to keep an eye on, and always the bike and the road. Since it has been years since I have been on asphalt, I was strictly monitoring how the bike felt, listening for any new noises, strange little tweaks that might be coming from a chair or tire. A flat tire at 25 miles an hour can be very painful. I have been told by medical professionals once or twice that my brain might not respond well to another trauma.

I did the loop a few more times. I was riding the entire loop at a strong pace now, with discomfort in my legs and lower back. Every time I came near the parking area I started to think of ending my test day, but instead, I would talk myself into another loop. Then three cyclists joined. All lycra clad and obviously in cycling shape. Since they were just warming up, I passed them with ease and continued on my way. As I was approaching them to lap them the second time, they seemed to shift and all fell into a line and picked up their pace. I passed them on the outside and it took a lot of work. I did another loop without any of them passing me and I called it a day. The battery on my odometer is no longer working, so I could not say what my average speed was, how many miles I went or the fastest I was able to go. It did feel good. The sun and wind. The other cyclists. The road under my tires.

American pie

I am not sure why I love this video or why I am sitting here with tears in my eyes.

So be it.