The Willing Suspension of Disbelief.

I don't know whether anyone will ever read this, given the way I've abandoned this blog, but today I feel moved to write.  I'm going to try to balance discretion against the kind of vagueness that makes me hate Facebook sometimes. In short, I'll leave out some details, but I'll try to make some sense on the topic I've chosen: the willing suspension of disbelief.

You see, my beloved son, Thing 1, recently had a whirlwind romance with a young lady.  As is apparently the custom in the present day, they did not "go out" or "date"; they simply decided that they would be "boyfriend and girlfriend," exclusively monogamous and suitably jealous. Since his new young lady is a religious sort, Thing 1 decided that it would be best to blend in; he declared his love for Jesus and his devotion to the churchgoing life. I was tenuously supportive until I realized that he'd put out two versions of his newfound devotion:

• Parent Version:  "I've been thinking, and I think I want to try going to church with Young Lady. I think it might be good for me. Plus she says it's a lot of fun."
• Young Lady Version (paraphrased): "Who, me? Oh, hell, yes, I'm washed in the blood!  I've got the Son shining on me, baby! I have a close, personal relationship with Jesus; hell, He built my hot rod! I certainly know all about your particular brand of Christianity and endorse its tenets in full.  What are the odds, huh?"

It didn't take long for that to wear thin; without ever actually visiting a church, he decided about a week later that he would have to come clean. I don't know exactly what he said to the Young Lady, but he told me that he'd made it clear to her that "I'm an atheist so I don't go to church." 

Huh.

Now, I'm a fairly outspoken atheist myself, but that was news to me. He used to make noise about going to church whenever he wanted to rile me, and I'd simply suggest that he keep an open mind during the services and tell us all about it when he got home.  Somehow, it never reached the point of action, but I figured there were some vague notions of a vaguely Christian God and Heaven and Hell bouncing around in there. We talked about it a bit on a long drive, though, and he does seem to have come to the conclusion that he doesn't buy the Christian narrative.  Whether he sees the difference between that and atheism, an actual lack of any belief in anything that could be described as a god, I don't know yet.

And then . . . . well, last night he showed me that he's still capable of the willing suspension of disbelief.

He was explaining to me that an unidentified (to you, anyway) woman of our mutual acquaintance is actually, despite her decades of lies, abuse and neglect of children, quite trustworthy. I had just finished explaining that he should not take her words at face value because she had, and I think I'm quoting myself accurately here, "been lying both to and about everyone involved in this question since before you were born."  

This wounded him right in his most deeply compassionate feels, and he explained my error.  I had failed to take into account, you see, that she has now changed.  She's told him the truth about everything and made it clear how I, his mother, his grandparents and everyone else who loves him has deceived him.  Actually, when you think about it, she is clearly the victim, here. Unfortunately for him, he tried to prove it with a handy example of her honesty.  See if you can spot the flaw:

"She's been telling me the absolute truth about everything, dad. You don't know. She tells me everything, even when it makes her look really bad. She even told me about her DUI! She told me all about how it really happened, how she was riding in a car with someone else driving and she'd been drinking, and they crashed, and she passed out, and when they found her, she was in the driver's seat and the other guy was gone and she never found out who it was! Why would she tell me about all that unless she's trying to tell me the truth now?"

That's right; although he doesn't believe in God, and he doesn't believe in Jesus, the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus, he has clung to belief in one more supernatural force personified:  Sumdood, Punisher of the Innocent.  

Overheard at School (School's Out Edition)

Hypothetical Teacher and Hypothetical Non-Existent Student are lounging outrageously on a picnic table, watching the other students play basketball in the hot sun on asphalt.

HNES: "You drinkin' coffee? That shit's too hot for this shit out here."
HT: "Remember the part where we don't cuss here, but yeah, it's my coffee. My mother-in-law stayed with us last night, and she made coffee this morning. And it's good."
HNES: "She stay with you at your place? What for?"
HT: "My kids graduated from the eighth grade last night. She came down to see it, and we went to my parents' house for awhile, and then she spent the night with us so she could go home this morning."
HNES: "Ohhhhh."
A pause. The only sound is the breeze rustling through HT's mustache.

HNES: "Y'all got fuckin' wasted, huh?"

Overheard in the kitchen

Kids are flipping through a couple of gun reference books with one of their friends from school:

"Ah, the most basic name for the sniper rifle--the sniper rifle!"

"Sniper no sniping, sniper no sniping!"

"Aw, maaaan!"
I think I've been home with the baby too long. He doesn't even bat an eye when I have slips like that . . . . .

Tell me the truth:

. . . . is my font too light?

Would it be better if it were blacker? Or am I just getting too old?

Wait, did I just post a racist font question? I apologize sincerely.
Well, I apologize. Let's leave it at that.

And now, a random story from my youth. The other night, I was telling my parents about taking My Bride and The Boys across the Kampsville Ferry on our trip down to the river to see the replicas of the Nina and the Pinta (short version: it rained. We toured Renaissance caravels in the pouring rain, had a picnic in the pouring rain, went fishing in the pouring rain, drove a hundred miles in the pouring rain . . . then rode the ferry in the sunshine.) My mother assures me that this really happened when I was about ten years old:

"We were going to cross over the Brussels Ferry to go to the game area, not far from where you and the kids were at Grafton today. Grandpa was with us. You wanted no part of that ferry; the more we talked about it, the more you insisted that you wouldn't ride it, no way, no how.
'I'm not getting on any ferry!' you said. 'You can't make me ride a ferry! I just won't get on!'
'It's not scary, buddy,' your dad said. 'It's just like being on the road. It's actually a lot of fun.'
'I'm not riding a ferry! I don't ride ferries!' you said. You were almost yelling. I was afraid you might cry. Then your grandpa said something like, 'You like to go fishing in my boat, right? This one is actually a lot safer than that. You can't get hurt unless you jump over the side.'
You opened your eyes wide and looked at him like he'd just turned on a light in a dark room.
'Ohhhhh!' you said. 'You're talking about a boat!' And then you were happy as could be."

A Legally Binding Oral Contract

Overheard in the living room:
"Hey, you wanna move to Virginia? There are lots of special ed jobs in Richmond."
"Yes."
"No, really--"
"Yes."
"Oh, honey, we can't move. We couldn't sell this house."
"Why did you taunt me with the south if you didn't mean it, temptress?"
"When the boys are grown, we'll move."
"What?"
"I promise, when the boys are grown, we'll move."
"To the south?"
"Yes, we'll move to the south."
"And drink RC cola and eat moon pies on the porch?"
"OK."
"And sell all our shoes and buy banjos?"
"Actually, I was just going to say you might need a fiddle in some states."

If you're from the south, please don't puncture my dreams. I've listened to a lot of country music and Jeff Foxworthy routines in my life, so I have a pretty good idea what the south is like.

Shooting, shooting, shooting

I don't know what's gotten into my dad, but he's been shooting more this summer than the previous 20 years altogether. He's not competing or playing any gun games, he just screwed a long board onto a sawhorse out at his fishing pond and set it in front of a small hill. He plinks bottles and cans off that board for hours at a time from a range of roughly 10 yards, and the boys and I are usually invited. It's been awhile since I just plinked rather than practicing for USPSA or highpower, and it's a nice change of pace.

Just the other day dad brought out his old Winchester in 5mm Magnum. These things were made in the 1960's, but the caliber never caught on and it all but died out. Dad bought a few of the rifles when the ammo was impossible to find and stuck them on the wall. Now the 5mm ammunition is being made by a few companies, and he's got enough accumulated to feel comfortable shooting some of it up. It's a rimfire round, but you can tell it's hitting a little faster than .22 Magnum (dad's first love) even at such close range. Recoil is still nil . . . . it's a nifty little round. I can see why it was designed, but I can also see how .22 Magnum killed it off the first time. My guess is that without the internet, no one company would be able to make enough money on this caliber to justify producing it today, but happily, customers can find the stuff from across the country nowadays, so the relatively few people buying it can be exploited by one or two companies. Welcome to the future, where your dead old calibers are resurrected as terrifying rimfire zombies.

Today dad took his trap thrower out to the pond, and when his mowing was done, he taught Kane to shoot clay pigeons with a sweet little Stevens .410 SxS that's just about his size. He also stopped in at the local Military Surplus/Shrine to John Wayne (just look for the place with the 8-foot-long M16 on top of the sign) called "Birds and Brooks" to get more plinking ammunition. This time he came away with .32 Long for his MAS 1935 and 7x57mm for his funky little cut-down Mauser 1893 carbine.

And that's why grandpa's house is more fun than home, kids. ;)

. . . . and bait shop . . . .

"An Illinois Voter" says he found this and thought of me. I think that's kind of sweet. The only question is how to read the sign:
"Kansas Teachers Hall of Fame and Gunfighters Wax Museum," or
"Kansas Teachers and Gunfighters Hall of Fame Wax Museum."

It's not as far-fetched as it sounds. According to the early video records of the era I've been able to observe, along with print records such as The Virginian, gunfighters were often found in close proximity to beautiful but haughty school marms during the last quarter of the 19th century. It was almost as if there were some sort of trope at work.

Yay . . . arrrgh . . . yay . . .arrgh.

It's 4:45 a.m. and I've been awake all night. This is problematic. An hour from now I've got to be showered, awake and on the road with my family to go see the giraffes at the Saint Louis Zoo. But it's been one of those nights.

First, we took the Wee One and the Dust Devil to the park for a picnic and some fishing. Dust Devil caught two small bluegill, so he was hopping and twitching like a speed freak drying out at gunpoint. Wee One chucked some rocks in the water, which delighted him thoroughly. Good times.

Then, we returned to our home. The Dust Devil proposed that we order Chinese take-out; My Bride was sorely tempted. I compromised by making stir-fried chicken and vegetables with homemade sweet-sour sauce and lemongrass/ginger rice. Delicious even if I must resort to saying it myself, and I figure losing the breading on the chicken alone saved a lot of calories. Stir-frying in coconut oil is either a lot healthier or not worth the time (I forget which) but it tastes awfully tasty.

Later, as I told the boys FOR THE LAST TIME to go to bed because I REALLY MEAN IT, the radio went all noisy and I was forced to quit my happy home. Two calls tonight, two people not breathing. Two CPR sessions (not me, I was driving.) Two saves as of the time I went home. The first was an elderly lady. She's probably in a precarious state right now, but she's breathing. The second was an 11-month-old child. She opened her eyes right before we met the ALS (Advanced Life Saving, as opposed to our Basic Life Saving) ambulance. By the time we got to the helicopter, she was pink and crying aloud. I'm calling her a save unless I hear otherwise. That was one of the best nights I've ever had driving that old ambulance, but when it was done it was a strangely muted feeling. I was happy, but I was ready to go home and get some sleep. Alas, it was not to be!

Anyway, that last one kept me out till about two in the morning, and I really wanted to publish an Examiner column I'd started on the national right-to-carry reciprocity amendment coming up for a vote this week in the Senate. I'm going to be gone out-of-pocket all day, and I don't have a fancy internet writing/blogging/twittering laptop/netbook/telephone/implant like the cool kids, so I have to plan these things.

Sadly, I suck and the Examiner Publishing Tool hates me. So although I haven't quite given up yet, maybe you'd better check out some of the other Examiners in the meantime.

• National Gun Rights Examiner David Codrea
• St. Louis Gun Rights Examiner Kurt Hoffman
• Atlanta Gun Rights Examiner Ed Stone
• Austin Gun Rights Examiner Howard Nemerov
• Boston Gun Rights Examiner Ron Bokleman
• Charlotte Gun Rights Examiner Paul Valone
• Cleveland Gun Rights Examiner Daniel White
• D.C. Gun Rights Examiner Mike Stollenwerk
• Denver Gun Rights Examiner Dan Bidstrup
• L.A. Gun Rights Examiner John Longenecker
• Minneapolis Gun Rights Examiner John Pierce
• Seattle Gun Rights Examiner Dave Workman
• Wisconsin Gun Rights Examiner Gene German

Are We Forgetting Something?

Some of you may have read the last post about zoo time (and nuns, and assault weapons, and political fund-raising . . . .) and thought, "that's nice. Hope they have fun."

Well, here's the thing. We got the blue-tongued monster all cleaned up and sent the other one through the shower--I'm pretty sure most of him got wet--and were about five minutes from getting into the car when My Bride did the facepalm.

That's never good. "Peter!" she said.
"Uh . . . Paul!" I replied helpfully.
"Peter's birthday party at two o'clock!" she said.
"Oh."

Today was the day of our nephew's fifth birthday party. We had both completely forgotten the big event and didn't even have a gift for the poor kid (don't worry, we rushed out and got him a radio-controlled red pickup truck and a package of batteries, so he's all set now.)

The thing that gets me is that we arrived fashionably late with gift in hand, we ate birthday cake, we watched the kids play virtual table tennis and shot each other with squirt guns and threw a football around and my cousin got Peter's little dirtbike out and taught all the kids all the safety rules and a good time was had by all . . . . and then, as we were gathering up the baby to go home, My Bride couldn't contain herself anymore and she just had to tell Peter's mom how close we'd come to not showing up at all.

Sigh.

It's a good thing she's so pretty.

So, anyway, good times today, but no zoo. Zoo tomorrow. You come back then.

Zoo Time!

I'm about to go get dressed so we can take 2/3rds of the boys to the St. Louis Zoo for a day of riding trains and looking at giraffes and stuff. But I didn't just skate on you, folks. Check back tomorrow morning and you'll find the story of The Time Grandpa Discovered Something Amiss in the Nunnery. And if that doesn't grab you, check back on Monday when we'll be featuring The Worst. Book. EVAR. Controversial? Sure. Liable to start arguments? I would expect nothing less of you people. But I think when you see the book you'll agree that it's a special blend of snobbery and completely missing the point.

Over at the Chicago Gun Rights Examiner (which was #3 among Chicago Examiners yesterday thanks to all of you) there'll be new content up on Monday detailing the trouble the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Existence is having raising funds in Chicago. This does not bode well for them as the 2010 election cycle begins.

And over at the National Gun Rights Examiner today, David Codrea has complete plans for building your own assault weapon using commonly available parts. It's surprisingly inexpensive and I think a practiced hand could do it in one weekend. Take a look.

Nyeaah!

Overheard at Bedtime II: The Re-Overhearing

The family is gathered in the living room just before bedtime for the three sons. Son I and Son II, twins separated by mere minutes in age, are 13 years old and beginning to realize that the adults don't actually know anything worth knowing. Son III is two years old and beginning to realize that there are endless ways to stay awake an extra 15 minutes.

Mama: "Bedtime for Sean!"
Son III: "No."
Son II: "You hear that, Sean? It's your bedtime!"
Son III: "No."
Mama: "What?!"
Son III: "No."
Son I: "He said it's Sean's bedtime. Like it's time for Sean to go to bed."
Son III: "No."
Mama: (Wearily) "OK, fine, great, now go to bed. I was sure you said 'Sean's bath time' and he was going to thi--"
Son III: (Sprinting to bathroom) "My bafftiiiiiiiiiie!"
Papa: "You just said 'bathtime,' honey."

Son III: (Stripping off shirt) "My bafftiiiiiiiiiie!"
Mama: (Teeth audibly cracking like ice under pressure) "Yes, thank you, I know that.
Papa: "So now he thinks he can put off bedtime if he g--"
Mama: "YES."
Mama: "THANK YOU."
Mama: "I KNOW."

Son III: (Head peeking into living room) "Bafftie?"

Archery: As Unsafe as You Make It

New safety rule: Know your target and the ignorance of what is beyond it.

". . . another counselor started a potato sack race behind our targets. When I asked her to move, she said "It's alright, the targets are blocking us."

The trust implicit in that statement is almost sweet, but the ignorance is chilling. I don't mean to pick on her--maybe she really just doesn't know any better, and if you'd never used a bow and arrow before, how would you know?--but if there hadn't been one person on scene with enough experience to know a very unsafe idea when he saw it, this could have turned out to be a tragic day in St. Louis.

He's Hunting Zombies at a Kindergarten Level

Sean is getting the sounds of various animals down . . . . . but of course, I can't leave it at that, because I'm not really a well man, when you come to it.
You know, in my skull and whatnot.

(Sorry it's sideways . . . use your imagination.)

Overheard at Bedtime

Donovan's voice, from upstairs: "KANE! SHUT UP!"

My Bride: "I'm going to ignore them."
Your Hero: "Yeah, we--"
My Bride: "GO TO BED AND BE QUIET RIGHT NOW!"
Your Hero: "Uh--that isn't--"
My Bride: "I mean, I'll tell you this much, I'm not going to yell at them, you know?"
Your Hero: "But . . . ."
My Bride: "You know what I mean."
Your Hero: "Not really. That was the opposite of not yelling at someone."
My Bride: "Look, my side hurts, OK? Cut me some slack."
Your Hero: " . . . ."

Safety First . . .

Ever see the Peanuts movie where they all learned to ride motocross bikes? Same basic ratio of body to helmet.

Lineada, the New Blog on the Block

There's a new blogger out there, and, perhaps inevitably . . . . he's pimping a book.

He's also my son, Donovan, and he turned 13 yesterday, but don't let that fool you. He's got an epic novel under construction (working title: The Vampyre War Saga) which he'll tell you is "about love, betrayal, friendship, blood, war, and secrets." I should warn you that Donovan's vampyres are not sparkly, hunky, vegetarian teen idols. Donovan's vampyres live in the Shadow Realm, sort of an older Earth connected to our own dimension at only one point in London. They don't make friends with humans; they're quite clear on their place in the food chain, which may come from living in a place with a river made up entirely of human blood.

The "hero" of the book is Aethulwulf, both prince and sorcelock of the Vampyre race, and his antagonist is Theisis, a Vampyre traitor who turned against his royal family in one of those lineage disputes that so often ruin royal family reunions. Of course, when this happens in a Vampyre family, the stakes are a little higher than the standard "Everybody takes their own potato salad and leaves in a huff" that we humans face. The question is, can Aethulwulf and his friends get all the way across the Shadow Realm, cross in and out of the human realm, and make it back through the dragons, werewolves, zombies, giants and all the rest alive?

And if they manage that, and manage it quickly enough to give Theisis a battle before his army can take permanent control of the Shadow Realm . . . . is there any way they can win that battle?

Kane With An FN P90 at Hero Gear Shoot

Here's some fun that's hard to have in Illinois. And for anyone wondering about legality, this was shot in Tennessee, where submachine guns and suppressors are both perfectly legal.


I'm slowly getting some media together from the event. This is a video I shot with my cell phone; My Bride was on vacation in Minnesota with all our cameras at the time, so this was the best I could do, but I understand over 600 GB (that's GIGAbytes, folks) of high-resolution photos were taken this weekend, so as people sort through what they've made, we'll see more and more.

You can see Kane controlling the P90 with ease, though he did lift off the sights. My dad is standing behind him in the orange shirt with a hand on Kane (just in case) and the range officer is to their left. Dad and Donovan both fired full magazines from the P90 as well, and I do at least have photos of them.

Not Much Time

5:00 a.m. central. Heading back out to shoot many guns on top of a mountain. Good times to ensue.
Full report tomorrow.

Monday Morning Coming Down Update:

Anonymous, in comments, pointed out something important:

"Mountain? There are no mountains in the midwest."

This is true. You 'ave deduce correctly, my frien'. We 'ave slipped the surly bonds of Illinois and soared like hawks on the wind (only with significantly more turkey sandwiches and yard sales) into the loving arms of the mid-south, which is geographically near the midwest but requires an adjustment of state of mind.
I'll write it all up later (we're still in Tennessee and a hot shower is calling me) but this weekend the boys have done everything from exploring caves with an expert on the paleoindians to finding clovis-pointed flint arrowheads in a field (we found two almost completely intact and one large fragment) to driving a 4x4 "mule" to firing every weapon from our old favorite .22 Ruger to a suppressed Walther P22 to a P90 submachine gun to a shoulder-stocked M203 grenade launcher (with orange marker grenades) to a black powder mortar (yes, Kane fired artillery.)
Amazing friends, amazing food, amazing places, great experiences. We're all completely weary, and I think Kane had mild heat exhaustion yesterday, but life is good.

My only regret is that it looks like Smoky Mountain Knife Works is too far away to hit on the way home today. It would double the trip home, and I'm just not up for it. Once again the SMKW showroom eludes me . . . but my day will come.