Smoke on the Water

Airboss

One year ago today, the world lost one truly great man.

Stephen E. Herod, aka "Airboss".

This, from the handout at his memorial:

"Stephen was born November 2, 1945 in California to Newton and Willinette Hicks Herod.  He was a graduate of Kountze High School, and lived in Beaumont before moving to Warren three years ago.  He was a lumber broker for United Paneling and Plywood.  He was an air traffic controller, a pilot and a Vietnam Army Veteran."

To me, and to many of us, he was so very, very much more than that.

He was my friend, and I shall never forget him.

I give you now what I'd written about a half a year ago, in his honor.

Godspeed and Godbless, Airboss.

August 27, 2005

Master's Class

Dateline:  Area .45

I'm typing this from the office of the late, great Steve Herod.  Fact is, these words come to you via his keyboard and computer.

The time right now is quarter past ten, p.m.  I've just spent the day with Steve's widow, Elaine, and her son Dale.   Elaine has rented two display tables at the gun show in Port Arthur, Texas this weekend.  Today, the first of the two-day event, went of exceedingly well.  Many people, most all unknown to us, now own a piece or a bit of the assorted gunstuff that Steve had accumlated over the years. 

No, no guns were sold today.  Elaine had liquidated that collection brilliantly, effeiceintly and damn near instantly with the help of one of Steve's closest and most enduring friends in Tennessee.  The gear being sold over this weekend is the kind of things that we shooters tend to draw to us like a magnet draws iron filings. 

Holsters, various lots of ammo, cleaning gear.  Odds and ends of reloading items, unused for years.  Books.  Weighy tomes by Keith, Jordan and others of great stature.

Mine is the honor to sit with Elaine today and tomorrow, haggling the price of this holster or that bipod.  And with every happy purchaser, a bit of Steve walked away from that table and further into the ether of... memories, dreams and..........

Sitting here typing this, on Steve's very own keyboard, I'm infused with the certainty that Steve yet abides on this ranch.  This land was the land of his heart.  It was the region which he returned to from his youth, after a life of circling the globe, fighting wars both hot and cold, and leaving his mark upon enemies slain, and competitors vanquished at boardroom tables from coast to coast.

After enjoying a post-sales dinner with Elaine and Dale, an hour's drive found us back here at the ranch.  Area .45.  Twilight coming more quickly now than a month ago, tonight heralded by the steady approach of a cool front from the North.  Towering black clouds illuminated from within by frenzied lightning and the sound of the distant, but closing thunder announced it's advance.

The winds before the storm making themselves felt even indoors, Elaine and I retired to the North-facing patio of the main house.  Accompanied by a splash each of Steve's favorite single-malt, I set fire to a fine maduro corona. 

We each found a chair and ottman, and relaxed thereon to inhale the driving wind and to dwell in the presence of Steve, who was surely there with us, sending greetings from deep within the beautiful storm.

We talked of Steve, of his and Elaine's life together, of loss, of grief, of hopes and joys and love and stories of it all.  We talked of the day Steve died, and the manner of his passing.  It is private and I'll not speak of it here, but he died as he lived; a man, doing a man's work in the prime, green land of God's country.  Which he had bought and paid for by the sweat of his brow and the rewards of his consumate skills and intelligence.

Tonight, I'll sleep in the daybed that Elaine has placed next to the gunsafe and this desk in what was Steve's office.  When I arise, I'll drink fresh coffee poured from his brewer, shower in the office's tidy stall, and leave here freshly dressed, carrying my overnight bag, range bag and a laptop not even opened on this trip.

But I'll carry far more away with me than the mere possessions I brought in.  I'll carry in my heart the essence of this ranch, and a bit of that of the man who made it more special than any other fifty-two acres in Texas.  I'll carry with me my renewed dedication to stand unwavering as Elaine's friend and ally.

If I am to have any measure of worth in this life, a good portion of it will be due to the fact that a man like Steve Herod called me his friend.  One of my most treasured memories of him is of a phone call he made to me out of the blue one fine day earlier this Spring.  He said simply:  "I called you to tell you that I'm proud to know you, Jim, and to call you my friend.".  Stunned, I stammered some inchoerent reply, and Steve simply told me that one of my posts here had moved him to tell me that.

We talked of more, of course.  But I'll never forget that call, or those words. 

If we have the right friends, they'll help make us a better man.  Simply because we wish to live up to the standards they raise in the everyday conduct of their lives.

Steve was one of the right friends.  And I'm very, very fortunate to have known him.  I will say the same of friends like Dennis Cottingham, Doc Russia, Kim DuToit, Marcus Carpenter and Misha.  I know I can say the same of many on my blogroll who I've come to know by e-mail and phone over the space of nearly two years.

It's time I become as good a friend as they.  Time for me to write again, devils be dammed and to hell with the consequences. 

Steve Herod was one of the great teachers, if one would but listen.

I heard you tonight, Airboss.  Past midnight now; two hours before the screen.  And I got it. 

Lesson learned.

And that, from the keyboard of the master himself. 

Also honoring this day:

Geek with a .45

(Please notify me of any other blogs noting this day, and I'll note them here.)

Addendum:  About two weeks ago,  Area .45 was sold to new buyers, a young family who will inhabit it and love that land as their own.

I've no doubt, Steve looks down and smiles, and knows that all is right, that the land yet abides.

Ever shall it abide.  We've seeded it with cordite, copper and lead.

And with the love of brothers at arms.

Ever shall it abide.

Forever.

Dateline:  Area .45

I'm typing this from the office of the late, great Steve Herod.  Fact is, these words come to you via his keyboard and computer.

The time right now is quarter past ten, p.m.  I've just spent the day with Steve's widow, Elaine, and her son Dale.   Elaine has rented two display tables at the gun show in Port Arthur, Texas this weekend.  Today, the first of the two-day event, went of exceedingly well.  Many people, most all unknown to us, now own a piece or a bit of the assorted gunstuff that Steve had accumlated over the years. 

No, no guns were sold today.  Elaine had liquidated that collection brilliantly, effeiceintly and damn near instantly with the help of one of Steve's closest and most enduring friends in Tennessee.  The gear being sold over this weekend is the kind of things that we shooters tend to draw to us like a magnet draws iron filings. 

Holsters, various lots of ammo, cleaning gear.  Odds and ends of reloading items, unused for years.  Books.  Weighy tomes by Keith, Jordan and others of great stature.

Mine is the honor to sit with Elaine today and tomorrow, haggling the price of this holster or that bipod.  And with every happy purchaser, a bit of Steve walked away from that table and further into the ether of... memories, dreams and..........

Sitting here typing this, on Steve's very own keyboard, I'm infused with the certainty that Steve yet abides on this ranch.  This land was the land of his heart.  It was the region which he returned to from his youth, after a life of circling the globe, fighting wars both hot and cold, and leaving his mark upon enemies slain, and competitors vanquished at boardroom tables from coast to coast.

After enjoying a post-sales dinner with Elaine and Dale, an hour's drive found us back here at the ranch.  Area .45.  Twilight coming more quickly now than a month ago, tonight heralded by the steady approach of a cool front from the North.  Towering black clouds illuminated from within by frenzied lightning and the sound of the distant, but closing thunder announced it's advance.

The winds before the storm making themselves felt even indoors, Elaine and I retired to the North-facing patio of the main house.  Accompanied by a splash each of Steve's favorite single-malt, I set fire to a fine maduro corona. 

We each found a chair and ottman, and relaxed thereon to inhale the driving wind and to dwell in the presence of Steve, who was surely there with us, sending greetings from deep within the beautiful storm.

We talked of Steve, of his and Elaine's life together, of loss, of grief, of hopes and joys and love and stories of it all.  We talked of the day Steve died, and the manner of his passing.  It is private and I'll not speak of it here, but he died as he lived; a man, doing a man's work in the prime, green land of God's country.  Which he had bought and paid for by the sweat of his brow and the rewards of his consumate skills and intelligence.

Tonight, I'll sleep in the daybed that Elaine has placed next to the gunsafe and this desk in what was Steve's office.  When I arise, I'll drink fresh coffee poured from his brewer, shower in the office's tidy stall, and leave here freshly dressed, carrying my overnight bag, range bag and a laptop not even opened on this trip.

But I'll carry far more away with me than the mere possessions I brought in.  I'll carry in my heart the essence of this ranch, and a bit of that of the man who made it more special than any other fifty-two acres in Texas.  I'll carry with me my renewed dedication to stand unwavering as Elaine's friend and ally.

If I am to have any measure of worth in this life, a good portion of it will be due to the fact that a man like Steve Herod called me his friend.  One of my most treasured memories of him is of a phone call he made to me out of the blue one fine day earlier this Spring.  He said simply:  "I called you to tell you that I'm proud to know you, Jim, and to call you my friend.".  Stunned, I stammered some inchoerent reply, and Steve simply told me that one of my posts here had moved him to tell me that.

We talked of more, of course.  But I'll never forget that call, or those words. 

If we have the right friends, they'll help make us a better man.  Simply because we wish to live up to the standards they raise in the everyday conduct of their lives.

Steve was one of the right friends.  And I'm very, very fortunate to have known him.  I will say the same of friends like Dennis Cottingham, Doc Russia, Kim DuToit, Marcus Carpenter and Misha.  I know I can say the same of many on my blogroll who I've come to know by e-mail and phone over the space of nearly two years.

It's time I become as good a friend as they.  Time for me to write again, devils be dammed and to hell with the consequences. 

Steve Herod was one of the great teachers, if one would but listen.

I heard you tonight, Airboss.  Past midnight now; two hours before the screen.  And I got it. 

Lesson learned.

And that, from the keyboard of the master himself. 

Master's Class

Dateline:  Area .45

I'm typing this from the office of the late, great Steve Herod.  Fact is, these words come to you via his keyboard and computer.

The time right now is quarter past ten, p.m.  I've just spent the day with Steve's widow, Elaine, and her son Dale.   Elaine has rented two display tables at the gun show in Port Arthur, Texas this weekend.  Today, the first of the two-day event, went of exceedingly well.  Many people, most all unknown to us, now own a piece or a bit of the assorted gunstuff that Steve had accumlated over the years. 

No, no guns were sold today.  Elaine had liquidated that collection brilliantly, effeiceintly and damn near instantly with the help of one of Steve's closest and most enduring friends in Tennessee.  The gear being sold over this weekend is the kind of things that we shooters tend to draw to us like a magnet draws iron filings. 

Holsters, various lots of ammo, cleaning gear.  Odds and ends of reloading items, unused for years.  Books.  Weighy tomes by Keith, Jordan and others of great stature.

Mine is the honor to sit with Elaine today and tomorrow, haggling the price of this holster or that bipod.  And with every happy purchaser, a bit of Steve walked away from that table and further into the ether of... memories, dreams and..........

Sitting here typing this, on Steve's very own keyboard, I'm infused with the certainty that Steve yet abides on this ranch.  This land was the land of his heart.  It was the region which he returned to from his youth, after a life of circling the globe, fighting wars both hot and cold, and leaving his mark upon enemies slain, and competitors vanquished at boardroom tables from coast to coast.

After enjoying a post-sales dinner with Elaine and Dale, an hour's drive found us back here at the ranch.  Area .45.  Twilight coming more quickly now than a month ago, tonight heralded by the steady approach of a cool front from the North.  Towering black clouds illuminated from within by frenzied lightning and the sound of the distant, but closing thunder announced it's advance.

The winds before the storm making themselves felt even indoors, Elaine and I retired to the North-facing patio of the main house.  Accompanied by a splash each of Steve's favorite single-malt, I set fire to a fine maduro corona. 

We each found a chair and ottman, and relaxed thereon to inhale the driving wind and to dwell in the presence of Steve, who was surely there with us, sending greetings from deep within the beautiful storm.

We talked of Steve, of his and Elaine's life together, of loss, of grief, of hopes and joys and love and stories of it all.  We talked of the day Steve died, and the manner of his passing.  It is private and I'll not speak of it here, but he died as he lived; a man, doing a man's work in the prime, green land of God's country.  Which he had bought and paid for by the sweat of his brow and the rewards of his consumate skills and intelligence.

Tonight, I'll sleep in the daybed that Elaine has placed next to the gunsafe and this desk in what was Steve's office.  When I arise, I'll drink fresh coffee poured from his brewer, shower in the office's tidy stall, and leave here freshly dressed, carrying my overnight bag, range bag and a laptop not even opened on this trip.

But I'll carry far more away with me than the mere possessions I brought in.  I'll carry in my heart the essence of this ranch, and a bit of that of the man who made it more special than any other fifty-two acres in Texas.  I'll carry with me my renewed dedication to stand unwavering as Elaine's friend and ally.

If I am to have any measure of worth in this life, a good portion of it will be due to the fact that a man like Steve Herod called me his friend.  One of my most treasured memories of him is of a phone call he made to me out of the blue one fine day earlier this Spring.  He said simply:  "I called you to tell you that I'm proud to know you, Jim, and to call you my friend.".  Stunned, I stammered some inchoerent reply, and Steve simply told me that one of my posts here had moved him to tell me that.

We talked of more, of course.  But I'll never forget that call, or those words. 

If we have the right friends, they'll help make us a better man.  Simply because we wish to live up to the standards they raise in the everyday conduct of their lives.

Steve was one of the right friends.  And I'm very, very fortunate to have known him.  I will say the same of friends like Dennis Cottingham, Doc Russia, Kim DuToit, Marcus Carpenter and Misha.  I know I can say the same of many on my blogroll who I've come to know by e-mail and phone over the space of nearly two years.

It's time I become as good a friend as they.  Time for me to write again, devils be dammed and to hell with the consequences. 

Steve Herod was one of the great teachers, if one would but listen.

I heard you tonight, Airboss.  Past midnight now; two hours before the screen.  And I got it. 

Lesson learned.

And that, from the keyboard of the master himself. 

While the Libs Look Away.....

It's rare for me to give much credence or any credit to the MSM, and especially Reuter Rooters.

That said, it's nice to see 'em get one right for a change.  Even a blind squirrel can find a nut, they say.  And I think the tree-rats in the anti-American press are going to be tiptoeing through a veritable minefield of acorns in the coming weeks and months.

Reason is, the truth in Iraq is becoming more and more undeniable.

That truth is, we're winning, and we're helping the Iraqi Police and Military hand the jihadists their collective asses.

Today, this item of interest, found on the MSN home page:

.............Major General Rick Lynch told a news conference.

“We are not seeing widespread militia operations across Iraq. We are not seeing widespread movement of displaced personnel,” he said. “So we do not see us moving towards a civil war in Iraq. In fact we see us moving away from it.”

Sadly, I don't have the free keyboard time today to do justice to just how thourougly this smashes the favored memes of the Left.  Whether they like it or not, a free and representative Iraqi Republic is a reality, and is rapidly maturing towards increased stabilty and respectabilty, to both the Iraqi people, and the civilized world as whole.

“Because now you have got a Sunni politician who is standing up for the people of Iraq and saying let’s do the right thing for the people of Iraq and not worry about Sunnis versus Shias versus Kurds,” he said.

The whole article is worth reading, even as short as it is.  I think it may be the first of many such we'll see from the MSN.... even they won't long be able to deny the realities unfolding before them.

But I do expect 'em to spin it down to the last deafeatest R.P.M.  And then, they'll repeat the cycle for Iran.

They just can't help it.  It's not that they're against the war.  It's just that they're on the other side.

And One Time at Camp.........

Congratulations are in order to Val Prieto, proprietor of the vaunted Man Camp, and author-in-Chief of Babalu Blog.

Val and his Man Camp merited a great write-up in Sunday morning's Miami Herald.

Not only is Val one of the finest writers on the 'net, he's also the living description of what a loyal American ought to be, regardless of roots or origins.  Read that article, and you'll find that I'm right on both counts.

Steve of Hog on Ice also draws a fine mention in the Herald article.

(Steve's slender stand-in stunt-double is the one in the blue shirt)

Even though the New Dawn is more or less a self-contained Man Camp in it's own right, it just doesn't compare to the real thing.  Way to go, gentlemen.  I dip my ship's flag in salute!

Damn good to see a couple class acts like these two get such good notice.

Cheers!

CAPTCHA

Or, Capture, if you will.

I've long wanted to employ this tool as a spam reducer, and thankfully, TypePad has provided it.

From now on, immediately after you offer your comments, you'll see the above window, with randomly generated alphanumeric characters.  Just type what you see in the window provided, and in so doing, you'll prove you're not a spambot.

We hastes the spammers, we hateses them very much indeed.

I like this, because it requires absolutely no registration.  I hate TypeKey, and that with a passion.

CAPTCHA though, rocks.  I hope you won't mind the extra simple step it takes to use it.

So, you very few who still read Smoke on the Water.....  thanks!

You Know The Answer

A bit late to the blogosphere in posting an Easter greeting, but then, I've missed no small number of notable occassions these past few months.

But to think that I celebrate the Ressurection of my Lord and Savior any the less, would be quite incorrect.  For me, chief (#2 in line behind Paul, it would seem) of sinners....  abide in the hope and faith that is given by His eternal life, which He gives so freely to me.

Now, whether you believe with me that Jesus is Lord, or not, is of no matter to this particular post.  This is not a religious blog, nor am I a particularly sterling person to follow in the faith.

And so, even if you're the most Godless athiest who yet loves his country and cherishes this American society of ours for the freedom of religon, or the freedom to eschew religion, this essay, so powerfully stated by Mr. Gerard VanDerLeun.....  ought to resonate in your mind.  And in your heart.

For it exposes the Judases in our midsts.  Judases who even today, proffer their kisses of betrayal for their thirty pieces of silver.

Or fifteen minutes of fame.  Their quest of high office from which they can futher sell out this Nation, unique in all of history.

They have neither shame.......   nor courage:

Your gedankenexperiment for today is to ask yourself, regardless of your religious beliefs, if the editors of National Geographic, being given an ancient manuscript that "proved" the Koran was nothing more than the blatherings of some ergot-besotted Bedouin who had munched one too many hallucinogenic plants while hanging out in a cave near Mecca, would have published the same "proof" as loudly and as broadly? Would they have done so, or would they have issued a Press Release citing concerns for the "provenance" of the manuscript and their employees' safety? Regardless of your religious beliefs, you know the shameful answer.

You owe it to yourself to read the whole thing.

You owe it to our furture to ensure that others do, too.  As many as you possibly can.

And Build it High!

Over at the Other Side of Kim, reader seanmiller,  in his comment to this post mentioned a new initiative that I'm throwing my wholehearted support behind.

SEND-A-BRICK

One way or another, we've got to get the attention of  (supposedly "our") Representatives.....and get them to realize that their job is to represent America, and not Mexico.  I can't go toss a brick through their windows, but maybe U.P.S. can drop a few millions of 'em in the halls of Congress.

Would that U.P.S. delivered by B-52, but we can't have everything. *sigh*

Click n' Send, my friend.

A Provocative Pairing

What would you think if I were to suggest that the 13th Amendment to the Constitution might be repealed?  Or, at least rendered of no effect, and that in our age.

That the foul practice of slavery might once again stain our soil, that our fellow man find himself as chattel.  Less than a whole man, or woman.

Most would reply in anger that the white Southern rednecks have had their day.  That the battle to end slavery happened over 150 years ago.  And that one ought hang his head in shame for even thinking of reviving that peculiar institution; rightly seen as an infamous stain in our history.

That person would be right to find offense, yet so wrong in their direction of their ire.

For it is the apologists of the left, the useful fools of Lenin's unwitting fifth-column who now assidiously rally 'round the cause of the anarchy of unchecked, illegal immigration.  And it is the employer, oft on the right, who quietly ascede to the virtual enslavement of these millions, selling their soul and the heart of the nation, for naught but thier thirty pieces of silver.

Mostly Cajun takes the left, and the right before the mast, and his lash lies bloody on the deck, having flayed the hide of those who for their own gain, embrace the enslavement of their fellow man.

This isn’t a partisan issue: The liberals want slave labour to act as domestic servants and a captive voting bloc, while the conservatives want cheap labour to keep the costs of doing business down, thereby lowering the costs of goods. But, that’s not the end of the story.

The rest of the story is worth your while.

And will make you think.

Rivrdog has an idea for getting a handle on the illegal immigration problem. 

Think about it for a minute. There is somewhere between 20 and 200 billion dollars a year going across the border from illegals. Most all of it is sent via electronic means.

The phrase "follow the money" is never a bad lead for an investigator, as Rivrdog so ably illustrates.

We'll not solve the problem of a generation in a day.  Or, this year.

But solving it is not impossible. 

Black Jack

Folks, we've managed the problem of illegal border problems before, and did so in right fine style, if I do say so.

You see, back in May of 1916, a certain murdering miscreant by the name of Pancho Villa, who, being preturbed at the United States official recognition of one Sr. Carranza as President of Mexico, took it upon himself to wreak mayhem along our Southern Frontier with Mexico.

This of course, could not stand.

So, in a decisive manner quite unlike today's lack of Washingtonian leadership, President Wilson, (who I otherwise detest as prototypical globalist), dispatched General John J. "Blackjack" Pershing to the region, with orders to interdict Villa and his contingent.

Though ultimately directly unsuccessful, the Mexican Expedition did serve notice of the strength and will of the United States where her Southern border was concerned.  And we enjoyed decades of relative security in those desolate regions, only to watch Administration after Administration cede more and more United States Sovereignty in the affected region.

Which is where we now find ourselves.  Villa laughing in his grave, while millions upon millions of his countrymen raid our towns, cities and states throughout the United States.  And they're not satisfied to hit, pillage and run. 

Instead, they are an occupying force, one which seeks supremacy in these lands.  A supremacy of numbers and made fast by the the implied threat borne of hundreds of thousands marching in the streets of America.

But they do not have the law, nor the will of the American People on their side.

We do, and it is damned well high time that we exert that will, and do so resoundingly.

Let Pershing ride again.

Jimmuh's Worst Nightmare

If only we could arrange the introduction, this creature might very well rid us of the greatest National Embarassment to have ever sat in the Oval Office.

And it couldn't happen a day too soon.

Given that the first killer wabbit wasn't quite up to the task.........

......... perhaps we can get that German PanzerWabbit to finish the job.  And that, hopefully, before Jimmuh can overseas and bash America again, while simultaneously kissing some random dictaor's ass.

As the Reagan campaign bumper sticker said:

Buh Bye, Jimmy!

(killer wabbit found via Drudge)

Ripple Effect

Truly, there is nothing new under the Sun.

Pretty much, every blogger on the side of sanity has amply covered political issues such as immigration, Constitutional gun-rights, budgets & pork and many other such concerns.  There is little, or anything that I can add to the gathering of facts, analysis, pontification and argument.

What I can do though, is to add my voice to the chorus, stand shoulder-to alongside my brothers and sisters at arms, and to do my part to stand firm in the breach, against the onslaught.

Though each special interest has it's own reason, justifiable passion and is of dire concern to the future of We the People, and to our Nation, the sum of them as a whole paints a much more disturbing picture.

Before us, we have many skirmishes.  The sadly misnamed War on Terror, which rightly is the First Terrorist War.  And it has been engaged since at least the fall of the Shah of Iran.  And until we rightly struck back after 9/11, we had lost every battle in that war.  And those, sadly, by forfiet.

And even now, the left would have us forfiet the victory we've won thus far.  "Bring 'em home" they say, while remaining blissfully igrnorant of the fact that so doing would not only bring our own troops home, but would open the way to "bring home the jihadists" to these very shores.  It took them two tries to fell the World Trade Centers.  I prefer not to give them any more "at-bats" on this soil.

I prefer to not open the way for the erstwhile Caliphate to regroup and rearm on their terms, unmolested by the will and might of the Arsenals of Western Enlightenment.  Like a burkah on the mind, the mullahs wish to cloak the soul in darkness.  And the left embraces them, all while singing the praises of (un)-Holy Tolerance.

We have the battle of Individual Sovereignty versus Collectivism.  Which, though fought all through the twentieth century, still flares up in scenes of street radicals with their giant paper-maiche puppets, marxist protest posters and intellectually empty signs and posters making all manner of insane accusations against this Nation, The President, capitalism and corporatism.

Though small in comparison to their progenitors of the sixties and seventies, the offspring of the hairy-armpitted, Birkenstock-hooved swine of the left would still forfeit the freedom of the individual for their dream of an Orwellian State.  Though comedic and laughable in substance, they remain dangerous in fact; an un-excised cancer in the body politic. 

Most interestingly though, in this context, we now fight the Battle of Information versus Mis-Information.  And it is here that we find ourselves, in the front lines of the hot war.

Our enemies, and yes, I use enemies quite deliberately, are formidable.  They have the carriers, the air-power and the ability to project force unmatched in all of human history.  Their carriers are named CBS, NBC, ABC, PBS, CNN and to a lesser degree, Fox.... which vaccilates.  Their Air-Power is hundreds of hours of broadcast and cable hours, flooding incessantly outward and bearing upon their waves, lies, deceit and perhaps worst of all, the misdirection of the absence of good news, that which would bouy the spirit, bolster the soul and bring courage to the otherwise uninformed masses who like a blank slate, are written upon by the broadcasts.

And thier logistic columns of liberal professors, corrupt publications, periodicals and newspapers; formidable.

But I don't pretend that my puny blog will affect a single change.  I write this only to make my voice known to my fellow warriors in the cause, to add one strength to our line.

Make no mistake.  We are at war, and that with ourselves.  Though this Second Civil War has not erupted in fire and flames, nor have sides borne uniform and formed ranks, we are at war, one with another, in a War of Ideas, and Idealologies.

My battlefield truly is not here on this screen.  My preception is that largely, we find the 'net and the erstwhile blogosphere to be a point of refuge, to rally, re-strengthen and regroup, in order to step back into the real world, and wage the battle anew.

And that friends, is the battlefield.  The Real World.

The one in which you work, shop, bank, live.

I have found that I can point people to all manner of links, blogs, essays, argumentatives and polemics.  And all for naught, unless driven home by the power of individual persuasion, conviction and passion.  Much as taking a GFW to their first time to a range might open their eyes to the fact that the Right to Keep and Bear Arms is the hallmark of a free people, taking the time to discuss, persuade and otherwise enlighten even one Soccer Mom is a victory on the order of the Battle of.......  every one of the millions upon millions of namleess skirmishes which made up the whole of WW II. 

We know of the theaters of war, the campaigns, the major battles.

Yet ultimately, it was the inestimable guts and will of the individual soldier which turned the tide of the Axis hoardes, and defeated them.  Every shot was fired by a trigger pulled, and those, in the billions.

And along the way, hundreds of thousands of American and Allied Soldiers, Marines, Sailors and Airmen died, giving their lives in the ultimate sacrafice of freedom.

To which our media today would decry; "Too many!  Too awful!  We've lost, we must bring them Home!"

What an insult to those who died, to those who offered up their sons and daughters in the service of freedom.

An insult to us all, moreover, their declaration of war on the body politic, the very essense of Americanism, and our justifiable pride in our Nation, our People and our History.

So, like the lone troop in the foxhole, I implore those few who still read here.

When away from your screen, when not glued to your keyboard, Go Into Battle!  Find among the fringes of the lunatic left, those who can yet still argue with reason, who can give consideration to facts, who are not yet lost to the darkness and  paranoia  and rabid hysteria of the true-believers of their cause.

We'll not win this cause, fighting keyboard to keyboard with the kos-es and D.U.s of this world.  Those acolytes are gone and lost forever to the insanity of the left.

Who you can save though, do!  Be it your lawyer or lawnkeeper, find cause to converse with these people in your world, find the space in their mind in which you may apply your lever, and move their world.

And in so doing, save your own.

Our future demands that you do.

On This Day

On this day,  in 1958, the late Mrs. Berenice S. gave birth to a son.

Who writes now again, tonight.

A life hammered by trial, adversity, toil, and failure.

And success.

I find myself somewhat between the two these days. 

But having friends such as Kim, Misha and Marcus.   Well, from such friends, one draws fire and life, and inspiration.

So, I dabble again.

The fires have not died.  No, rather, the banked coals have caught a wisp of air, reigniting that which was buried 'neath the ashes.

Those who know me know I've not been absent, be it out on the 'net, nor on the firing line.  I have paid dues, and those in spades.  But I've been silent here; brooding.

My cauldron boils, churning the ingredients of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, versus the forces of our borders; invaded.  Our national budget; a whore's weekend.  And our Conservatism; muted by the politics of cowardice, appeasement, poltical correctness and accomodation.

The "New Tone" in Washington:  Meet the New Boss, same as the Old Boss.

Let me tell you something on this, the echo of my Forty Eighth year on this planet.

My anger at the bullshit is muted only by my love for Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

If Big Brother manages to wrest even one of those from my grasp, then all bets are off.

Then Cry Havoc!, and let slip the dogs of war.

Be warned.  The Sloop New Dawn yet sails.  And is armed to the gunnels, helmed by an older and angrier Captain.

Board, if you dare.