A brief note for Hawkeye

Do not feel sorry for this waste of DNA, Hawkeye. I see nothing to mitigate his conduct. I will not honor his name by mentioning it on this blog. I understand your urge to do the Christian thing, but in the case of this sociopath, it is totally lost. He is the bastard shooter. If ever someone came under the aegis of "he needed killing", it's this guy. Not a racial thing; I just have an aversion to people burning others down.

"Should I hate him, darlin'?"

“Tombstone” is one of my favorite Western movies. Val Kilmer stole the movie from Kurt Russell, and that’s hard to do. Of course, I’m from Georgia, and have a special affection for John Henry “Doc” Holliday. I overlooked Kilmer’s faux Georgia accent, and even his turn as Jim Morrison didn’t equal the energy he put into the Georgia dentist/gunfighter.

I bring this up because I thought of a fictional scene from the movie. There are a number of accurate historical recreations in George Cosmatos’s film, but I don’t think Doc Holliday ever squared off at Johnny Ringo the way Kilmer and Michael Biehn did in the film.

Nevertheless, the recent flap about Alec Baldwin put me in mind of the scene. Backing away slightly from Ringo, Doc asks “Big Nose” Kate Elder “Should I hate him?”

Kate replies: “You don’t even know him.”

That never stopped Doc. Confronted by a wounded Tom McLaury at the OK Corral, McLaury in fact said “I’ve got you now, you SOB.”

Holliday in fact replied in front of witnesses “You’re a daisy if you do.” He then killed the hapless McLaury.

I raised two girls. They drove me to distraction. One tried to shoot me when I grounded her for lying to her mom and me. Fortunately, it’s her sister that can shoot, and despite leaping a five-foot chain link fence and three strands of barbed wire, I escaped unscathed. When the firearms come out, I tend to beat feet. No hero here...

I think I’d have to Jap-slap Alec Baldwin for what he said to his daughter. Kim Basinger is not without blame in this mess, but you simply don’t unload on a kid like that. I suffer the peculiarity of getting quieter and quieter as my temper slips; by the time I am totally silent, you don’t want to be in the same voting precinct. Only one of them Baldwin guys is worth his salt, and that’s the born-again guy. (William? Daniel? I can’t keep ‘em straight.)

It was all group hugs when mama retrieved her pistol and had it safely back in her purse. My kidlet didn’t mean to shoot me in the back. She missed.

I didn’t yell, or do anything untoward. It’s my kid, and I’ll drive to Colorado in a heartbeat if she’s in trouble. I rather liked her spirit. I wish I could talk her into some range time, but it’s the younger one who appreciates the pistol I bought for her birthday.

I hear Alec Baldwin is a nasty actor. I’ve been through ugly divorce. Nothing excuses him.

“Excuse me, darlin’. I think I hate him.”

Don who?

Imus is so yesterday. I'd love to gloat on my picks, but...

I have two daughters who are traditionally college-aged. They have opted for other paths in life, and today I am thanking God that they have done so. Under no circumstance will I ever give the nod to their attendance at Virginia Tech.

It’s ironic that I’m in the middle of reading The Sociopath Next Door. . . The Ruthless Versus the Rest of Us by Dr. Martha Stout. Her main focus seems to be people without conscience, who compose about 4 out of every 100 people in the general population. Her stats are astounding; “crazy” people are more common than cancer victims.

I have done some nasty things in my life, but the horror at Virginia Tech is a jaw-dropper. I’m awaiting further investigation, but if this one shooter is responsible, I see nothing but what us hicks call “pure-D evil” rearing its ugly head. The shooter not only falls under the Southern maxim of “he needed killing”; he did everyone a service by taking his own life. Unfortunately, he did it at the end of his shooting spree, instead of from the jump. If people are so dissatisfied with God’s gift of life, why can’t they cancel their own ticket without taking others with them? Dr. Stout offers insight, but we can never truly profile a socio- or psychopath, and predict their behavior.

In a perfect world, someone would have been carrying a sidearm, and burned the bastard shooter down after he fired the first few shots. A lot of kids would have lived. Psychologists can lean back in their comfortable office chairs and scribble notes, but where the rubber meets the road, there are mad dogs who need to be put down on the spot.

When I attended college decades ago, someone called me out for carrying a sidearm. I was licensed and perfectly legal, but it was deemed to be the wrong thing to do. I complied, and always left the pistol in the car when I reported for higher learning.

This is the age of “non-competitive” sports. The lack of a will to win is a disturbing trend. Pundits have stated that people won’t run for fear of being shot in the back.

I am a wheelie; a person who depends upon a wheelchair to travel any distance. I prefer trains to planes for long-distance travel; they don’t search me for sidearms, and I know the vehicle can only go forward or backward. If it breaks, you are on the ground. No falling from 30,000 feet and saying the last prayer before impact.

If some lunatic threatened my kidlets, I think they would stand up and beat him down. I hope I taught the kids rightly. Never, ever, kneel down and take it. If confronted with a killer, go spitting, clawing, and cussing.

I took a break from the news on Monday. Virginia Tech was described as “a domestic shooting”. Okay, that’s tragic. All loss of life diminishes me. I hate to hear it, but I turned the TV off.

At 2300 [11:00 for the unfamiliar] the timer clicks. Instead of Left Coast O’Reilly, Greta the Vampire and Geraldo are blathering. It’s not a domestic shooting, it’s a “massacre”.

Standing by for the body count, it was a slap in the face when it came. It was 9/11 all over again.

I am withholding moral certitude until they figure this squirrel out. I want to hear means and motive; he certainly had opportunity.

I can do or say nothing for the dead. I’m sorry; that’s it. For the living: fight them into the ground. If they’re going to kill you anyhow, what do you lose by fighting? Never give in; I can still manage a struggle from the confines of my wheelchair. Push a gun in my face, I will grab the front of your shirt and hoist myself out of the aforementioned chair.

I might die in the effort, but the Brits have it right with their commando ethic: “Who dares, wins.”

Never surrender!

Breaking news, every minute!

Since we’re suffering through the coldest April on record, I decided to sleep in and catch up on the news today. Aside from quickly checking the headlines for news of thermonuclear war on the weekends, I normally maintain a moratorium on the weekends. I knew it was darn cold yesterday, and my dog and electric blanket once again proved to be my best friends.

Stick a fork in him. Don Imus is done. What he said was stupid and thoughtless. He can apologize from now to breakfast, but the Rutgers basketball team hammered the last nail in the coffin of his career today.

I don’t consider Al Sharpton or Jesse Jackson to be moral compasses. One is guilty of perjury and inciting a race riot; the other is an adulterous shakedown artist who spat in the food of customers while working in the service industry. I don’t consider these to be ideal credentials for alleged “leadership”, but then, if I refused employment based on their pasts, one would lead a boycott and the other would round up a gang of thugs to burn my business down.

Speaking of gangs of thugs, there is one issue that has gone virtually unaddressed in the Imus brouhaha. Much of the “gangsta rap” that pollutes the airwaves today routinely refers to women as b----es and “’hos”. When called into question, such language is routinely dismissed as “a cultural thing”.

Oh, really? Exactly what kind of culture is being founded, based on a 76% illegitimate birth rate, and rountine acceptance of women as b----es and “’hos”? Why does 15% of the American populace make up 49% of prison inmates? Why does the rest of this morning’s news consist of taped footage of armed robbers from coast to coast, all of a certain ethnic persuasion? Am I missing something here?

Just asking; I know I’m skating on thin ice here. White people are forbidden by political correctness from asking such questions. I don’t work for a high salary at NBC, and I sleep on my sheets instead of wearing them, so there!

And then we come to the Colorado community of Littleton. If that name rings a bell, it’s because Columbine High School is situated there. You remember Columbine; Michael Moore milked a lot of mileage out of it a few years ago.

More recently, a hero name of Dietz from this same town died doing his duty in Afghanistan. Now the town wants to raise a statue in his honor, and some touchy-feely types objected to a portrayal of this Navy SEAL with his rifle. At last report, before I slapped the power button on the TV, I hear these tender folks are “in hiding” from the outcry in the town. Mr. Dietz’s statue will be dedicated on 4 July. What happened at the high school was a horror, but there is absolutely no cause-and-effect between a hero’s death and the acts of heinous teenaged punks. A tad more parental supervision might be more effective than dishonoring heroes. What were those people thinking about?

And then, we have ravenous coyotes in New Jersey, and of course half the world is waiting with bated breath to discover the paternity of Anna Nichole Smith’s baby. The ex-wife used to be fond of Anna, and by default I found myself watching a few episodes of her “reality” show. There was the occasional glimpse of Daniel. I’m sorry the poor woman’s dead. I’m sorry that her son had an abbreviated, troubled existence. Howard K. Stern was always a vague figure in a baseball cap, hovering in the background. He’s getting creepier by the day. Greta Van Susteren feasts on this like the vulture she is.

So much for a round-up of the news. It’s time to light up the electric blanket, and hope that spring may finally arrive by the end of the week.

The book, and other misadventures

I haven’t been attending my modest blog. Some of this was due to a much-anticipated hospital “procedure”. It was more embarrassing in the work-up than the actual execution. However, I have way too much past history with doctors and hospitals, and while they have saved my life in the past, I get jumpy just checking in. I had a friend who clocked in for a “routine” procedure; he shot a clot and didn’t check out until they pulled the plug. I’ve signed my organ donor form, but I’d just as soon not have some doctor standing there saying “Oops!” I’ve had a lifetime of misadventure, and should’ve been dead years ago. The longer I live, the more I begin to think that God has some undisclosed purpose for my sorry self. I also played loose and fast with my life in Ye Olde Days. Having been places and done things, I now realize the value of life.

Another reason I haven’t paid proper attention to the blog is my feeble attempt to rewrite my novel. Yes, friends, we all have at least one book in us. I actually thought I might have two or three, kind of on the order of Robert B. Parker’s “Spencer” novels. I have re-written this turkey six times, and it still ain’t right. Men don’t birth babies, but I have an idea what the ex-wife went through delivering our daughters. Books take on a life of their own once you make the leap, and they are harder than the worst homework assignment you ever had in elementary school.

I’ll be glad to hand out samples of this work in progress to anyone who asks or posts a request here. I have most of my Constant Reader’s e-mail addresses. The original manuscript was written in 1986, following my father’s murder. One editor says it sucks, and should never see the light of day. Another says parts of it soar, and the use of the dreaded blue pencil would be superfluous. I’m just trying to tell a story here.

Gimme a buzz if you want a copy of this thing. It won’t be on sale at Wal-Mart in the near future.