What's In Your Holster?

As many of you know, I am a gun owner, shooter and avid defender of a liberal interpretation of the Second Amendment to the Constitution.  Okay, take a breath.  In this context liberal is not a reference to a political ideology.  Rather it means I believe the intent of the amendment should be interpreted and applied in the broadest manner; every law abiding citizen, with the mental capacity to do so, should be allowed to exercise their natural right to “keep and bear arms”.  If your personal philosophy leads you to a different conclusion, that is perfectly your right. You’re wrong, but you have every right to be.

But this post is not intended to be a venue for debate of Constitutional issues.  My intent is to give over a brief primer on the selection of a personal firearm.  At this juncture, I would like to offer mine bona fides.  I have been a shooter since I was an eighteen year-old college student.  My first exposure to firearms was in a basic firearms class; part of the required curriculum for Criminology (now known as Criminal Justice Administration) majors.  My first acquisition of a personal firearm coincided with my acceptance into the Advanced Firearms class, which was the home of the school’s pistol team.  I have shot and owned a variety of handguns and long guns since then; having never been without a firearm since.

I have carried and used firearms for recreation, sport, personal protection and professional need.  While I do not consider myself a collector, I do own a small arsenal of about two dozen guns.  Yes, Tinker Belle, they are locked securely in a safe.  When I was a young man, my enthusiasm for firearms often led me to fantasize about owning one of everything ever made.  But with age comes economic wisdom and financial reality.  The number of guns I own today is limited more by the size of my safe than any other single constraint; I’m lucky that way.  But I digress.

In my lifetime, I have handled a wide variety of firearms types.  I have sent thousands and thousands of rounds down range.  It has been a point with me to keep reasonably current on design trends.  I am lucky to be part of a community that freely shares information and experiences on the subject.  Am I an expert?  No.  But except for a few readers of this blog, I am one of the most knowledgeable individuals you know.  And I am willing to share some thoughts on how to select a firearm.

The first step, and one that many enthusiasts completely overlook, is to define your purpose.  What are your firearm needs?  If you are looking to a single purpose gun, say home defense, you may direct your attention to a very small pool of possibilities and easily find the gun to best suit your needs.  If you want one handgun to protect hearth and home and also carry for personal protection away from home; your parameters have shifted the focus to a different set of candidates.  Add field carry for protection against animals; you will want to look at a whole new population of weapons.

There are other considerations: Are you young and strong or old and feeble?  Are you a weight lifter or a marathon runner?  Are you male or female?  Do you want to spend a little or a lot?  Given time, and a bunch of monkeys with typewriters, I could probably come up with an infinite list of questions (Et tu, Brute?) to answer before you truly know your needs.

But I don’t have the typing stamina.  You don’t have the time.  And I harbor an aversion to the lesser primates.

Oft times, when discussion steers to the question of, “What gun is right for me?”  The next question is, “What do you carry?”  And the best answer is, “It doesn’t matter.”  And that’s because our disparate needs are so far apart, that I don’t want my prejudice to lead you down a false path.  But the trick to finding the right gun is to shop like you are buying underwear.  What makes you the most comfortable?  If you are uncomfortable, you won’t be happy.  But unlike BVDs, a gun is a pricey purchase and one you don’t want to make hastily.

If you are considering a gun purchase, I would take the used car approach; test drive a bunch until you find something you like.  Mastering the firearm technique is athletic in its nature.  It takes practice to get good at it and if you don’t like your gun you will not practice.  In San Diego, we are blessed to have a very good privately operated public shooting range that offers a large and eclectic inventory of firearms you can rent.  They will take the time to answer your questions and familiarize you with the features of any gun you wish to try.  I think you would have a better experience if you enlist the help of someone you know who has shooting experience.  Just be careful not to let them apply undue influence by overlaying their preferences on your selection.

Now I could load you up here with a bunch of esoterica about gun types, manufacturers, ammunition performance, shooting technique and favorite ice cream flavors.  But it would just overwhelm you and not get you a whit closer to an informed decision.

I think that’s about it.  If I try to provide anymore advice, it will color your decision and I want to avoid that.  If you have specific questions, you can e-mail me and I will be happy to give you the best answer I can.  Also, if you are interested in visiting the range I described above, I will provide the name, location and other important information by e-mail also.  Now, get out there and shoot!

So then; you ask, “What type of gun should I buy?”  To which I respond, “Go back to the top of this posting and re-read it until you understand.”

Sexiest Women of the Monochromatic Era

If you have been reading this blog, it is no surprise to you that I am a fan of films.  You also remember that I am especially fond of the Golden Age of Hollywood, that period from 1930 to 1959.  Among the elements that make the movies of this era special were the actors and actresses that played the characters we now consider icons.

Movie making was a much different industry than what we have become comfortable with in the present era.  We can define today’s practices in one word, independent.  Today, movies are controlled by the production companies, which are in reality capital management firms pursuing money to finance film projects.  You may have noticed that before the credits introduce the technical and artistic talent, the viewer is entertained by slick, digitally-animated company logos.  You will recognize names like Weinstein, DreamWorks, Working Title, Lion’s Gate, and Dimension.  There are myriad others and for big projects, they will often team up.  They are the money finders.  Their positioning in the opening credits should convince you of their importance.  They own the story and the distribution rights; and the profits.  Everything else is rented or contracted from other entrepreneurial enterprises.

This is a significant departure from the Golden Age, or Studio Era, when the studio owned and controlled all aspects of movie making; including the human talent.  The studios would enter into contracts with directors, writers and actors that gave them total control.  The names are familiar; Warner Bros., Twentieth-Century Fox, Columbia, MGM.  The industry was a group of vertical monopolies, owning even the movie houses in which their movies were screened.  These companies still exist (in name) but have morphed into the aforementioned production/distribution enterprises.

The consequence of the Golden Age system was consistency.  When they found a successful formula, they would make their best attempt to replicate it.  So the movie patron would see Cary Grant play handsome sophisticate over and over.  Jimmy Stewart was always cast as the stammering do-gooder dealing with some crises lately shattering his naiveté.  Humphrey Bogart toughed his way through, well, whatever needed to be toughed through.

But the formula worked.  It created stars that were iconic.  The ticket purchasing audience was comfortable with familiarity; John Wayne was never the bad guy, Clark Gable was never a wimp.

However, this is all prelude to the point of my missive.  Today, I want to present my nominees for the sexiest women of the monochromatic period.   “Was that when the dinosaurs walked the earth, Dale?”  No, Tinker Belle, it was the days of the black and white movie and represents roughly 1930 to 1945.   While the first colored movies were produced during this period, most were shot in black and white.  For the true film aficionado, there is a certain mystique associated with the art of black and white film making.  All mood must be set by light and shadow.  The director can’t cheat by using a yellow dress to draw attention to the leading lady.  She had to draw that attention with her style, persona.  And these women had style.  Now you will probably note there are some remarkably talented actresses not included in this list.  That is because I am rating sex appeal and not acting talent or popularity.  I know, this is as subjective as you can get.  If you don’t like it, set up your own blog site and make your own list.

Katherine Hepburn – There are some women born to the lens.  They make their celebrity purely on physical attractiveness.  Katherine Hepburn is not one of those women.  Her sex appeal flows from her personality.  She possessed the rare ability to present a character as both strong willed and confident while being vulnerable to the whimsy of romance  Her four Oscar wins make her the most honored actress in American film.  In her sixty-six year career she appeared in forty-four feature films plus television and stage roles.  I am particularly fond of her early work (her career extended well into the 1980s.  My favorite Hepburn performance is Bringing Up Baby (1938 – RKO Studios).  If you are wondering how Katherine Hepburn makes a list of sexiest women, watch this movie and pay particular attention to the scene at the country club restaurant.

Myrna Loy – If you are familiar with Loy’s early films, in which she was often cast as an oriental, it might be hard to believe she was the product of a Montana ranching family.  Her exotic looks are cause enough for her appearance on this list.  But I find her penchant for turning the tables on male leads by carving holes in their incontrovertible logic her sexiest trait.  No matter her co-star, a simple question shaking the foundation of masculine reasoning would leave the male stammering in retreat.  While she played opposite many of the leading men of the day, her tour-de-force performances were with William Powell.  That partnership began with The Thin Man (1934 – MGM) and was repeated in fourteen films.  In all, she is credited in 138 movies from 1925 to 1982.

Merle Oberon – While Myrna Loy’s early career consisted of Asian characterizations, Merle Oberon was that person.  Born in Bombay, British India (1911) of mixed race, she lived an impoverished life until she moved to France in 1929.  That is where her professional acting career began.  Her real-life story reads something like a Dickens novel but would take too much space to include here.  Her earliest appearances were uncredited and began in 1929.  She continued acting until 1973.  Her most famous roll is opposite Lawrence Olivier as Cathy in Wuthering Heights (1939 – Samuel Goldwyn Co.).  What woman wouldn’t be sexy uttering the name, “Heathcliffe”?

Irene Dunn – Her early career was dedicated to musical theater.  That is where she was discovered in 1929 while starring with the road company of Show Boat and signed with RKO Studios.  She was the prototype female lead in everything from screwball comedies to tear-jerking family dramas.  If you watch her performances, then watch other female comedic actors of the period, you will see mannerisms that originate with Dunne; the squinting smile, the playful shoulder shrug, the feigned wide-eyed innocence.  As with several other women on my list, Dunne was adept at deflating the male ego while maintaining femininity and grace.  Her career included 50 credits spanning 1930 to 1962.  My favorite performances are opposite Cary Grant (three films), most notably The Awful Truth (1937 – Columbia Pictures).

Hedy Lamarr – This is a woman born to the lens; beauty suffices, no brains needed.  Ironically, she was a genius; more about that later.  She was born in Vienna in 1914.  Her early film career included a starring role in Gustav Machaty’s film Ecstacy, which included full frontal nudity and a realistically performed orgasm scene.  This was a rare occurrence in 1933.  She made the move to Hollywood from Europe and was starring opposite the era’s biggest male leads including; Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy and John Garfield.  During WWII, she collaborated with composer George Antheil (California neighbor) on the invention, frequency-hopping spread spectrum.  Now I have no idea what that means, but has something to do with limiting an enemy’s ability to jam a radio control signal by unpredictably changing radio frequencies.  While the original application was intended for controlling musical instruments, it was applied to protecting ship-to-torpedo control signals from interference.  If you are a histo-techno-geek, you can look it up yourself.  Her typical role was the glamorous seductress, and her exotic looks and European accent made her a shoe-in for war film parts.  One of the best examples is Comrade X (1940 – MGM) opposite Clark Gable.

Marlene Dietrich – Her sex appeal stemmed from her rolls as an aggressive suitor.  After a middling early career in her native Germany, she enjoyed a breakthrough in the German film Der blaue Engel (“The Blue Angel”) cast as… a femme fatale nightclub singer whose attentions create havoc for an elderly professor.  Do you think the mold was cast?  She moved to America and enjoyed success for some time but then fell out of favor.  In 1939, the Nazi’s courted her, offering state sponsored fame in Germany.  She responded by denouncing the Reich and becoming an American citizen.  From that time on, she was as famous for her entertainment of American servicemen as she was for her movie rolls.  She enjoyed a comeback in one of my favorite films, Destry Rides Again (1939 – Universal Pictures) with James Stewart.  As you watch this film, you will realize it is the inspiration for many of the Western genre clichés, leading to Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles (1974 – Warner Bros.).

Ann Sheridan – Hers was the clichéd story of the big break.  Originally from Denton, TX, her sister sent Ann’s photograph to Paramount Pictures (Ann was attending the University of North Texas at the time) which led to entry in a beauty contest which, in turn, led to a bit part in a Paramount film.  After two years during which Paramount did little to promote the starlet, she left them for Warner Bros. in 1936.  She was tagged the “Oomph Girl” and became a popular pin-up.  Between 1934 and 1967 she accumulated ninety-six acting credits while playing opposite many of the golden age’s most famous male leads.  She was equally adept at drama and comedy.  Two of her best films demonstrate this range: Angels With Dirty Faces (1938 – Warner Bros.); and The Man Who Came to Dinner (1942 – Warner Bros).

Jean Arthur – Sorry Lucy, this is the queen of the screwball comedy.  Beginning her career as a silent screen actress in the 1920s, she acted in many low-budget western films.  Arthur struggled to make the transition to talkies, finally breaking through when she discovered her trademark throaty voice.  It was still some time, although she continued to chalk up acting credits, before critics assessed her talents in a positive light.  She starred in three Frank Capra films, the best of which is probably Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936 – Columbia Pictures) with Gary Cooper.  Between 1923 and 1953 she amassed over ninety acting credits.  Her final film, quite opposite to type, was Shane (1953 – Paramount Pictures) with Alan Ladd.  Just as the critics had difficulty in accepting her talent, it took me a while to recognize how many of the films I enjoy featured Arthur in the lead female role.  Unlike many of the women on my list, Jean Arthur was not glamorous.  Her sex appeal is flows from her image as a real woman.

Jean Harlow – The phrase “blonde bombshell” was coined to describe Jean Harlow.  Her early film career was underwritten by Howard Hughes.  While popular with audiences, she was panned by the critics.  She became romantically involved with MGM producer/director Paul Bern who urged Louis B. Mayer to buy-out her contract with Hughes and sign her at MGM.  Mayer declined on the basis that MGM leading ladies were elegant, while Harlow’s persona was that of a floozy which was abhorrent to Mayer.  And that sums up the roles plaid by Harlow.  She was very sexual on screen.  She gave us the dumb blonde stereotype.  The rolls she played contained no slow-burn, below the surface boiling passion.  She was the champagne cork launched across the room.  Unfortunately, she died from renal failure at the age of twenty-six.  Her last film, Saratoga (1937 – MGM) was opposite Clark Gable, with whom she had paired for six films in total.

Maureen O’Sullivan – Although she had almost 100 acting credits over a career of sixty years, she makes the list for one performance; Jane Parker in Tarzan the Ape Man (1932 – MGM) opposite Johnny Weissmuller.  If you have seen the unedited, non-television version of this movie and remember her swimming in the lake with Weissmuller, you know why she qualifies. Hubba, hubba!

There a more than a few iconic leading ladies that are not on this list:

Betty Davis: Talented actress, but would you pick her out in a bar?

Joan Crawford: Important, but scary as hell!

Vivien Leigh: Beautiful… but whine, whine, whine.

Elizabeth Taylor: Way too young for this list, wait for the post-war period.

The Staff of Life

No, Tinker Belle, it’s not what you’re thinking, so quit snickering like a little girl.  I’m referring to bread.  I find bread an interesting phenomenon.  It is a universal staple, although varying greatly in design from culture to culture.  I know people who adore bread.  They would prefer it to any other food.  It seems to have a narcotic quality for some, generating a near orgasmic response.  Of course, as with most subtle nuance, I don’t get it.

My mother was the product of a large (fifteen siblings) farming family.  Whenever her brothers visited my childhood home, she served bread with the evening meal.  This was a change of custom compared to our nuclear family’s epicurean practice.  After some puzzling over this alteration, I stumbled (mentally, I didn’t really fall down) onto the driver.  It originated with my mother’s childhood home experience.  Her brothers (and I suppose sisters, as well) were the core of the agricultural work force.  They were all strapping lads (and lasses) who I am certain required a rather large calorie intake to fuel the physical exertions demanded by their chores.  Bread, being relatively inexpensive compared to meat and garden vegetables, and a fuel food (carbohydrate), they were encouraged to make it a key element of their diet.

When I was a young child, my mother baked all the bread consumed in our household, even though there were just the three of us.  It must have been a holdover from her days on the farm.  That practice ended when I was about five or six years of age; the result of an unfortunate car-door vs. finger incident that left my mother unable to knead the bread dough.  I remember being pressed into service; sent off to the local neighborhood store on my bicycle, a quarter and dime in my pocket, charged with the assignment of purchasing a pre-sliced loaf of Wonder Bread (or Weber’s, depending on the stock available).  Even after the finger was healed, our home bread baking practice was not reinstated… modern convenience had broken the chain of tradition.

Sharing this story with friends, while waxing nostalgic, always seems to evoke a response of pity.  “Oh how sad, you had to eat store bought.  Didn’t you miss that wonderful smell of fresh baked bread?”  Well actually no, I didn’t.  When you get fresh baked bread every day, the smell is just part of the environment.  And you don’t notice a smell that isn’t there.  Your brain reacts to present stimulus, not to its absence.  Think about it.  Have you ever suddenly wondered, “Where are all the skunks today?” And as far as I could tell, with my as yet unsophisticated palate, bread was bread.

Now don’t take this to mean I don’t appreciate bread.  As an ancillary food, it has many, many uses of great value to modern society.

·         Dinner rolls are very handy for eating butter without getting your fingers greasy.

·         Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would be impossible to eat without sliced bread. (see www.daleholbrookoutwest.blogspot.com – “A Sticky Test” 4/18/13)

·         Your deli sandwich would be little better than a chef’s salad without bread.

·         Rye bread has caraway seeds to get stuck in your teeth; hours of fun for your tongue. (see www.dalesoutwesttravels.blogspot.com – “Anza Borrego – 2014” 2/21/14)

·         Without the hot dog bun, you would get mustard all over your shirt.

·         Hamburger buns prevent burnt fingers.

·         Tacos would have no crunch without the shell; you’re gonna spill either way so that’s not a factor.

·         Although carne asada is the principal attraction, a burrito is not a burrito without the flour tortilla; if fact, it’s just a bowl of meat.

·         Thanksgiving wouldn’t be such a big deal without the stuffing: Thank you Mrs. Cubbisson.

·         For that matter, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be the same without the after-dinner turkey-on-roll sandwich; loosen that belt another notch, Frank.

·         How many people would be unable to hold a job without their morning ration of cream cheese?  Pass the bagel please.

·         You would leave sausage gravy on your plate without the biscuit to sop it up.

·         What would we do with all that cinnamon and icing without the roll?

So there you have it; from pita to croissant, bagel to biscuit, bread has a valuable roll (no pun intended) in a food delivery system (that’s getting the groceries from you plate to your mouth), but it is not a meal in itself.

In our next food posting (as yet unscheduled) we will discuss the value of creamed vegetables. 

The Stitches Come Out Thursday

An evocative pronouncement.  The mind reels from the myriad ominous scenarios that could generate such a statement, “How did you come to need sutures”?

“Are you okay?”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Is your career as a swimwear model in jeopardy?”

All will be answered in time.  As you read this the event is complete and all anxiety may be laid aside.  The fact that this blog has been published should be proof that your humble correspondent survived the surgical ordeal.  But this missive was penned yesterday and uncertainty lingered in the air.  Anxiety ran so thick one could slice it with a feather.

It all started with my annual physical performed by Dr. Melinda (we’re using first names here to protect the author from possible litigation), my GP.  Now some of you men may be silently wondering, “A woman doctor?”  I assure you I have no qualms about being ministered to by a physician of the fair sex.  No, no, it’s not that I am a progressive thinker that has evolved to a state where the vestiges of gender identity hold no importance in assessment of a person’s professional qualifications.  Quite the opposite.  In fact, my choice of personal physician was very much based on her physical attributes; most notably her slender, feminine fingers.  You men over forty out there know of which I speak.  If you don’t, you are not seeing your doctor often enough.  But I digress.

In the normal course of my examination I called Dr. Melinda’s attention to a mole on my left lower leg, just above the ankle, of which I was suspicious.  In this case, the object of my concerned had darkened in color over the past several months until it could be considered black.  She agreed that it should be removed and biopsied for caution’s sake.  I love novocaine, as it has several times in my life allowed me to affect a posture of heroic stoicism.

About two weeks later, I received the expected phone message from Dr. Melinda’s nurse advising me of the biopsy results.  To my surprise, rather than an all clear, I was informed that the results of the biopsy had been forwarded to a dermatologist, Dr. Agata (yes, still first names and for clarification, also a woman) for further assessment and treatment.  I contacted Dr. Agata’s office to schedule an appointment.

On the appointed day and time I met with Dr. Agata for a consultation.  The doctor could be best described as a German beer hall waitress in physical manifestation, but not the St. Pauli’s girl you’re thinking about.  No, I am referencing the traditional rotund frau with weight lifter arms that can grapple a half-dozen beer steins in each hand.  Not to leave any doubt, a woman whose boobs could suffocate a man under the appropriate circumstances.

“Ach! Mr. Holbrook, let me zee your file.  Ahuh.  Ahuh.  It zeems zhat der results of your biopsy show zhat your mole vaz not cancerous but did indicate zee presence of abnor-r-r-rmal zells.  I vant to per-r-r-r-form a punch biopsy to ensure vee have gotten all zee suspicious tissue.”

This seemed reasonable to me so I agreed, “Let’s!”

“Ahuh.  Ya, zhat is vhat vee vill do.  But I do not have time to perfor-r-r-r-m zee excision today.  Please r-r-r-emove your zhirt and trousers zo I may check your-r-r-r zkin for additional suspicious moles.” She examined my skin making the occasional humph sound.  When finished she continued the dialogue, “Ya, very nice.  Goot!”

“Well, I work out a little.’

“Was? Huh?  Oh, I zee, zhat was a joke.  Very humour-r-r-ous.  Vell, never mind.  I don’t like zhis shpot on your arm, here.  I want to do a punch biopsy on zhis as well.  Okay, goot zhen.  Put your-r-r-r clothes on und make an appointment mit zee r-r-r-receptionist for zee excisions.  Gutten tag!”

And so, I made the appointment for a week later.  The excisions were performed without complication and a few stitches applied at each wound.  An appointment was scheduled for their removal two weeks later and I waited for the biopsy results.  After about one week I received another message from the nurse.  The biopsy of the mole on my arm showed that the punch excision had not removed enough tissue to leave a margin of healthy skin.  The doctor would have to excise a larger area, this time with a scalpel.  The appropriate scheduling was completed and I awaited the day.

At the appointed day and time, I reported to Dr. Agata’s office for the procedure.  On this visit she was a bit more jovial.  Her manner was lighter, less serious than our previous meeting.  Perhaps she was excited by the prospect of wielding a scalpel.

“Ya, ya… Mr. Holbrook.  Zehr goot to zee you again.”  She reviewed my chart.  “Ya.  Vee are going to r-r-r-remove zum additional tissue from your arm.  Okay, Goot!  First, the nurse vill remove zee stitches from zee punch excisions und zhen vee vill pr-r-r-roceed, ya?”

This time they made me lie on a surgical table and wouldn’t let me watch the procedure.  There was copious use of novocaine.  While I can’t really say it was painful, there was a lot of tugging and sawing and muttering in what I will guess was German.  Maybe I have tough skin.  The procedure took about fifteen minutes and resulted in quite a pile of bloodied pads.  There are a number of self-dissolving stitches subcutaneous and six binding the surface wound.  It’s going to leave a bitchin scar.  “Well, doctor, is it okay to go to the gym with these stitches in place?”

“Huh? Vas?’ she looked at me quizzically for a blink or two, “Oh, I zee.  Another joke.  Ach! Mr. Holbrook, you leave me in stitches.  No… ha, ha, I leave you in stitches.  Oh, zhat is funny.  Ha! Ha!  Ya, stitches!  No, zhere will be no weight lifting while the stitches are in place.  I don’t vant you popping zhem out.

A week after the excision, I received a call that the biopsy indicated the doctor had successfully remove all of the abnormal cells and had achieved an acceptable margin of healthy tissue at the edge of the wound.  To be proactive, Dr. Agata will perform body examination every six months. I’m working on my shtick now to be sure I’m ready for the next battle for comedy supremacy.

Thinking back on those beer hall hands, I’m glad she’s my dermatologist and not my GP.  The stitches come out Thursday.

One Year (and Counting)

This week marks the first anniversary of my launch of a blog site.  For fifty-two weeks you have been bombarded with what passes as intellectual flotsam and jetsam emanating from the dark recesses of my diseased brain.   I don’t know if the malady responsible for this cerebral effluent is contagious, but as I’ve received relatively few actual responses over this time, I suspect not.  Those that have written (scant, meager, almost embarrassingly terse) responses I suspect were already infected with their own version of the writer’s malady.

Of the lessons learned, the most troubling is just how easy it is to post meaningless dribble on line.  Thanks to Google, and I mean that sincerely, a techno-slacker like myself, armed with nothing more than an over inflated sense of self, spell-check and an internet connection can publish nonsense available to the world… for free!

Some interesting facts (well, I think so at least):

·    Through February 1^st (last Saturday) my Dale Holbrook Out West blog site had received 2,944 hits. As of today, it is still 2,944 hits. C’mon people!

·     I do not have stats on how many countries total are represented but I do know that Germany (100), Russia (99), Poland (46), and New Zealand (45) round out the top off-shore readers.  Interesting thing is, I have only one German (Hi, Nicky) and one Mexican reader on my distribution list.  I have had hits from every continent save Antarctica, and I’m studying Penguin just in case.

·      By far, … and Taxes (4/11/13) received the most hits with 81. Of course, the blog had nothing to do with taxes and the timing (four days before April 15, tax day in the U.S. for you foreigners) was a total coincidence.  I wonder how many of those hits were people searching for last minute tax saving advice.  Oh, well, that’ll teach ‘em to wait ‘til the last minute.

·       Dopplewhat? (4/25/13) generated the most posted responses at six.  I really do wish I would get more reaction but, c’est la vie.

Some of the missives were personal histories that were mostly true.  Underscore mostly.  Early on, one of my readers, who doesn’t communicate any longer (!!!) asked me how I could recall events from so long ago with such clarity of detail.  The other writers out there are already chuckling over the response.   I make shit up!  (Pardon moi Francais.)  While the broader detail may have a foundation in real events, much of the detail that makes you smile (not all, but much) is pure comedic enhancement.

I imagine that some readers have been put off by my offerings with a scientific bent.  And that is too bad.  Because, I was really trying to convey a message:  Science knowledge is dynamic!  I tried to shine a little light onto what I believe are the gaping holes in current academic theories about space, time, evolution, etc.  If you watch documentaries, or read science related publications, you would think we know all there is to know by the manner in which experts in this field or that state opinion with such certainty.  That is, until you read a conflicting opinion.  Then, instead of trying to resolve the conflicts, the principals attack each others’ work, or worse, the person themselves.  Scientist can be very catty!

I will continue to opine on the state of humanity and its shortcomings. “Monsters are such interesting people.”  At least when I’m not absorbed in Merry Melodies cartoons.  If my insights offend, “Well, I hope you realize this means war!”

Well, that’s about all I have for you.  The self-indulgent nature of this piece, combined with the brevity, should have led you to the conclusion (rightly so) that I couldn’t dredge up anything substantive this week.  For some reason, I can’t imagine why, my thoughts have turned to music as of late.  So long!

Oh, and don’t forget to e-mail me with your request for “updoc”.  Supplies are limited!

Why We Run

If you have been a faithful follower of these offerings, you are aware that during my (first) college years I was employed as a Sheriff’s Cadet with the County of San Diego.  If you are not a regular reader, or like me, forget at least half of everything you learn on any given day, you may want to read the blog posts “A Rip in the Fabric of Society” (2/14/13) and “ACME Keyless Entry” (2/21/13).  They will bring you up to speed on the essentials and allow me to save key strokes and space here.

My second posting during this employment was to the Communications Center (CC).  The CC, more regularly referred to as the Business Office (BO… heh ,heh, heh) by the old-timers, was where the Deputies (oh yeah, and me too… performing exactly the same tasks for way less pay) would take phone calls from the public and, if warranted, dispatch patrol units by radio.  To learn more about this, you may want to read “The Greatest Invention of My Lifetime” (6/20/13).

The CC was located in the Sheriff’s Administrative office facility in Downtown San Diego. I spent most of my time thus engaged assigned to the second-half of the PM shift (7:00 PM to 11:00 PM) which meant the female clerical staff had gone home.  It was a boring assignment with little opportunity for exercising initiative, personal or professional.  And when such opportunity did arise, I usually ended up getting my ass chewed by a Sergeant, or in cases of especially creative thinking, a Lieutenant.

As the ultimate perk, Cadets could, on their own time, ride with patrol Deputies (as the Deputies’ were so inclined).  Hey, look at me; I’m dressed like a cop, riding around in a cop car:  Heady stuff for a nineteen year old. But alas, the department did not deploy units from the CC because it was a long way from areas of County of San Diego jurisdiction. So the opportunity to ride was not resident.  However, in the course of my employment, I had made friends with Cadets from other stations.  Through these connections, I was able to arrange for the occasional ride along out of one of the many Patrol Stations. Just such a ride along occurred one hot, August, Saturday afternoon.

My fellow Cadet, we’ll call him Bozo, arranged for us to ride with Deputies deployed from the Vista Patrol Station (where Bozo was assigned).  We thought we would ride with units in adjacent beats.  We could meet up during a lull at some eatery or Foster’s Freeze, cooling down (cop cars had no air-conditioning in those days) and listening to the Deputies try to one-up each other with war stories.  For reasons still eluding me this forty years later, Bozo was assigned to the Vista unit.  And I was not assigned to the neighboring beat of San Marcos, but to the Escondido car.  This is relevant because the beat does not share a border with Vista, and it is huge! It basically is the (at that time) sparsely populated unincorporated areas that surround the City of Escondido.  Even on the slow day we were experiencing, the travel time between calls ate up most of the time.  We never did arrange to meet with any of the other units that day to swap lies. But all of this is just background.

About mid-shift (B-shift ran from 2:00 PM to 10:00 PM) we received a radio call dispatching us to a 459 silent alarm at a residence.  The code 459 refers to the California Penal Code section defining burglary; a break-in.  A silent alarm indicates that the CC had received a call from a private security monitoring service informing them that the system at one of their customers’ homes was indicating a breech.  This is considered an urgent call for two reasons: the first is that the residents may be on-site and under threat from an intruder; the second is that it is considered a crime in progress and affords the responding Deputies the opportunity to apprehend a criminal in the act.  Take my word for it, it’s the kind of call Deputies get all dressed up in their uniforms for.

In this era, residential alarm systems were somewhat rare and often unreliable.  But we didn’t let that dampen out enthusiasm.  En route, we discussed our tactical approach.  As I was not a sworn peace officer, I was unarmed.  So my Deputy instructed me to make use of the shot gun (each car was equipped with a shortened shot gun) while he would rely on his service revolver.  The nature of this call would result in cover units being dispatched, but the distance they need travel to assist us would almost guarantee that what ever action ensued would be concluded by the time they arrived.

The particular residential area where our call took us was very common in the semi-rural areas of San Diego County during the 1970s.  As was often the case, the address of the residence was on a public road, while the residence itself was accessed via a private, commonly maintained road that serviced several lots that may run five or six deep from the public roadway.  The trick of locating the correct residence was to find the gang of mailboxes at the intersection of the public and private road and then explore the maze of driveways until the target was located.  We did not handle the trick very well.

The Deputy decided to park the patrol car at the mailboxes and have us scamper up the ice-plant covered slope to the yard of the first home, giving us the element of surprise by not announcing our arrival via police car.  Upon achieving the top of the bank, we encountered a family lounging by their pool in their best effort to shake off the August heat.  We were taken by surprise.  They seemed nonplussed.  Without prompting, they indicated that their neighbor experienced false alarms on occasion and pointed out the house.  A quick check of the address confirmed it to be the source of the alarm. Furthermore, the sunbathers informed us that they had been at poolside for some time and had seen no unfamiliar persons lurking about.

Wind completely knocked out of our super-cop sails, we decided to retrieve the patrol car and drive to the subject house.  Just to err on the side of caution, I retained possession of the shotgun as we approached the house.  A ring of the doorbell prompted no response from within.  The Deputy instructed me to remain where I could watch the front of the house while he checked the back for signs of forced entry.  He found a gate in the fence separating the front yard from back and disappeared around the side of the house.

After a few moments I realized I was hearing that sound so peculiar to a police officer running.  There is something about the gun belt and assorted accoutrements squeaking as his weight shifts from foot to foot with each step, in harmonic accord with beat of boot soles on a grassy surface that is unmistakable to the initiated.   And my young ears could discern that he was coming my way.  I raised the Remington expecting to encounter some miscreant fleeing my partner’s pursuit.  To my surprise, the first personage to appear was my partner.  I was somewhat stunned at this unusual sight.  I thought to myself, “What would make a Deputy Sheriff run in apparent flight?”

Then I saw the German Sheppard round the corner.  My mind raced forward to the inquiry that would be held to determine the fate of the Sheriff’s Cadet who had dispatched the faithful family pet.  To my salvation, the Deputy deftly reached out as he cleared the gate and pulled it closed behind him, trapping the speeding pooch in the back yard.  That’s when Fido began to bark. I learned two valuable lessons from this experience.  Dogs do not bark when seriously closing on their prey.  And we run because something with teeth is chasing us. 

Care and Feeding of Children

Many times I have been asked, “Dale, why don’t you want kids?”  And the answer has always been some off-hand, smart-alecky stab at humor meant to shock as much as entertain.  If you know me personally, then you are aware that my life philosophy can be expressed in a series of one-line quips that are tailored to the immediate audience and my sense of current affairs.  If you know me only through these writings, then you realize I am a deep well of wisdom, at the bottom of which is a sticky muck that’s hard to remove from one’s psyche once engaged.

The truth is, my life has been devoted chiefly to thought.  It has been my aspiration to resolve the great mysteries of human existence and construct a universal model of society.  The main impediment to success over this six-decade odyssey through the maze of human behavior is that every time I stand of the precipice of understanding my mind is hijacked by the aforementioned one-liner.

My friend and shooting partner Frank used to threaten to a carry a notebook just for the purpose of recording these frequent offerings of total crap wrapped up in a shiny facade of pseudo-wisdom.  I wish he had because I can’t remember even a tenth of the bull I came up with and they would make entertaining reading for you.  But alas, time and age have wiped many of these pearls of intellectual whimsy from the dry-erase board of my brain.

Probably first among the drivers of my thinking processes is to simplify things. I try to explain what I see in the least complex terms possible.  I avoid the question “why” in favor of the question “how”.  I am a dedicated follower of Occam and his razor of parsimony. If you are not familiar with the philosophical approach known as Occam’s razor I will paraphrase it as; keep it simple stupid.  Now this is woefully inadequate so I urge you to look it up.

I know what you are thinking, “Dale, what does any of this have to do with having children.”  And I respond, “Nothing!”  For you see, it is not the having children that is at issue.  That part was perfected by our genetic ancestors millennia ago.  You simply pick a comely female from the pride, lie to her about how many bison you can kill in a day, slip her the old spear of manhood and you’re done.  The rest is up to her… until the spawn of your loins is delivered.  Then you have to keep the little booger eater alive.

For some evolutionary reason that I have yet to fathom, we separated from the large cats.  Now lions have societal organization perfected.  Participation in the biological imperative assigns to him two roles.  The first is to impregnate the cub making machine.  The second is to defend his genetic territory.  Screwing and fighting; maybe the missing link is the Irish.  And a little discussed behavior in nature documentaries is that if the cubs get too annoying, the male eats them.

But we, in the much more evolved species known as Homo sapiens sapiens, have developed an ethic of communal family care.  Where did that notion come from?  I’d bet it was first germinated in the mind of a female.  Maybe we retain some genetic trace of the sea horse.

So, I think I’m on to something.  My total lack of interest in having and caring for offspring probably stems from my being a genetic throwback.  In fact, such condition could explain many of my personality features.  And you probably started a list of those as you read that sentence.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am not anti-kids.  I understand much too well the urges manifest in the biological imperative.  People are going to keep engaging in population increasing activity as long as there are people.  And, as I’m sure we’re headed for a day when universal socialism is the economic rule, I’m all in favor of there being as many of the little urchins available for labor as are needed to support me in my golden years.  And if we over breed, we can always eat the surplus.