Best Laid Plans
“Tomorrow, I will see step two of my plan realized. Then nothing can stop me.”
Bullet Points:
** Tonight is the first night of Ramadan for those blog followers who celebrate. It’s like Quaanzaa on a larger scale, but that’s just me.
** The Roman Empire became a church. The British Empire became a bank (think City of London – as opposed to London). What will the American Empire evolve into?
** It might seem strange that life would exist on the crust of a ball of molten (liquid) iron that, in turn, surrounds a solid iron core that is just as hot but is under tremendous pressure. Think of a solid core somewhat independent from the rest of the planetary structure.
** Digital Currency – the motive (Tucker)
** Kamala – kungfu fighting.
Meme (h/t Frank)
A Look Back
This was the first week of Covid 19 in Hawaii in 2020. I was at the Marriott Ko-Olina with some of my grandsons (+daughter and son-in-law). You’ll note that there was nobody else there.
Some people are saying that we’re due for another plague. Please wait until I make my vacation plans. It’s quite lovely with everyone else locked down, wearing masks, and shaking in fear at home.
From Sun Tzu
“An evil man will burn his nation to the ground to rule over the ashes.”
There is too much hair on his head. It must be a wig.
Passion
A Non-sequential Fictional Short
(Reprint)
The origin of her passion seems hard to pin down. Some attributed it to an underprivileged childhood in the poorest part of a poor state. Others suggested it resulted from a previous life where karma earned put her in this very place, at this very time based on the merit of her actions. I can’t discount the relative value of either position, but I suspect that she was driven to be loved by that inner force that impels us all. Except in the case of Susan Brock, it was the same sort of gnawing, boring creature that lives in the soul of an alcoholic or an arsonist. Her passion was compulsive, far beyond her own control, and she focused it on art and sculpture.
Her finest work was also her most controversial. She portrayed Jesus Christ as a man of ordinary stature and demeanor instead of the chiseled or gaunt features favored by Renaissance masters. Her efforts earned her the derision of the clerical community, notably since they commissioned the work and paid her far above what was reasonable. How, they asked themselves, could such a gifted artist go so far wrong in portraying their glorified savior as an ordinary man with a common touch?
Another painting in the lobby of the sports center had been torn down. She never finished it, but I saw part of it while it was painted. Her eye captured the essence of modern professional sports. The athletes were bloated parodies living decedent lives, indulged and pandered to with the enthusiasm of adoring crowds and parasitical agents and promoters who created and lived from the hype. When I saw it, I was awed by the scope of the emotions that she evoked. In its way, it was the ceiling of a Sistine Chapel, but it was also an indictment of the system, cutting completely to the quick. Did she think she could pull it off? At least, that was what I asked myself when I gazed at the huge mural under construction. The answer, of course, is that she didn’t care what anybody else thought. Genius, like water, seeks its level.
The move began on Martha’s Vinyard in one of those large estates that spilled out onto the ocean. It once belonged to a Kennedy but was bought by a software tycoon fondling for liberal politics. My invitation came circuitously, hand-delivered by a former colleague whom people thought I might have liked and trusted. I attended out of curiosity. White-tie affairs can be stuffy, but while probing the guest list surreptitiously, I found half a dozen beautiful, noteworthy women widely renowned as nymphomaniacs. Though I didn’t intend to partake, the social dynamic was bound to be more interesting than the gathering of rich and powerful people.
I arrived in an airport rental, a Honda, and the valets nosed it in among the Bentleys, Bugattis, and Ferraris. They gave me an odd look when I asked them not to scratch the car.
Those who wished to get my attention probed at the party, where drunk movie stars and politicians groped the willing nymphs. Older society dames, mutton dressed up as lamb, tried to cut a sharp young man out of the herd. Waiters circulated with expensive champagne. I kept my back to the wall and just took in the scene. The opening was somewhat elegant for them, an attack du fer with a balestra. Mike Anderson, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, saddled up next to me and asked, “Who invited you?”
“I thought the invitation strange because the couple that threw the soirée hardly knew me, and we moved in completely different circles. I came because I heard that Susan Brock would be here, and I wanted to meet her personally.”
“What do you think?”
“Of the party? Hors d’oeuvres, a glass of excellent champagne, and two boring conversations with people I’ve never met before and hope never to meet again. Except for the President and First Lady, the standard Martha’s Vineyard party didn’t show up to work the room and drag the sack for donations. I heard that they poured the foundation of the Presidential Library. But why do you care what I think, Mike?”
“Just curious.”
He left to be replaced by a seventy-something dowager with a narrow chest and a wide ass. She wanted somebody to take her home. Turner grabbed my right bicep from behind, followed by a sincere handshake, eyes locked. Sincerity was never Turner’s strong suit. I didn’t mind. He saved me from the diamond-encrusted crone.
“Did you come to meet Miss Brock?”
“Did you arrange to have the invitation sent?” Turner looked away. He was not an accomplished liar.
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Why – did you arrange to send me an invitation?”
Turner nervously turned and spoke into my ear, “Outside.” Louder, “I need to take some air. Care to join me?”
I followed him through French doors to a cobbled patio and through a glacis packed with vines to an area that was, if anything, less secure than the party with its crush of people and myriad competing voices.
“She embarrassed the boss.” Turner came to the point immediately, which is typical of Turner.
“The President?” I wanted to know which boss we were talking about.
“Don’t you follow the press? She is gifted and has some remarkable credits to her name, but lately, everything she takes on commission turns out to be, well.” He paused for a word, “unsound.”
“You know I follow her work, or you wouldn’t have arranged my invitation.”
“She’s got to go away—a very long trip.” Turner used language I understood: “A wet trip.” He emphasized what required no emphasis.
“And you want me to be the travel agent?” I asked, incredulous. “Why me? I’m a fan of hers even though I never met her. Get somebody that isn’t involved with her…charisma.” I turned and walked back into the party with Turner straining to say something, not daring to say more. I heard Turner say something about how Ubango Carter was about to be embarrassed.
Ms. Brock never appeared at the party, so I went looking for her.
The sculpture/painting she did at the behest of the National Endowment for the Arts depicted the president, representing the United States as a snake eating his tail. The sculpture was set amid Roman columns that formed a bank. It took some doing to set up a private viewing before the work was unveiled. I’m good at arranging things like that. It’s what I do.
If you weren’t Ubingo Carter, egocentric president, Susan Brock’s work was downright funny. I laughed when I saw it. Susan Brock stood there in an old, paint-stained t-shirt under blue cargo pants that accentuated a perfect ass and looked at me while I looked at her art.
“Who are you, Mister, uh Franks? People usually don’t pull those strings to get in to see my work before it’s unveiled.”
“I’m an art lover, a connoisseur of beauty, a fan of yours,” I replied. “I’ve noticed that the focus of your art has changed lately.”
Susan Brock looked at me with piercing blue eyes that burned like smoldering cornflowers. “I’m done being a whore. Now I call it the way I see it.”
“Even if it makes your employers angry?”
“Especially if it does that.”
They came at me the second time corps-a-corps, a physical contact between the two fencers during a bout, illegal in foil and sabre, but legal in the world where I live since it’s more or less all legal, or illegal depending how you look at it when you’re the one who fixes things.
I was eating a roast beef dip sandwich when they came. How can I forget the day? I dipped the face of the sandwich in some horseradish sauce, took a spicy bite, and washed it with a beer as the tall, fat man and the short, thin man walked through the café purposefully in my direction. Tall/Fat had credentials. I’d seen those creds before and knew what legitimate credentials looked like. Short/Thin had a set of his own. It didn’t impress me. I had a purloined set from back when I worked for the same agency.
“You guys want a bite of my sandwich?” I asked Tall/Fat. Too Short/Thin, “Wanna beer…of your own?”
Both declined, slipping their credentials back into off-the-shelf sport coats. “You need to come with us.”
I motioned toward chairs across the table from where I was eating. “I’m not done. And I’ll decide when I’m done whether or not I’ll be going with you. The more I think about it, the better I like conducting whatever business you have in mind right here.” I dipped the corner of the sandwich into the horseradish sauce, took a bite, and then forked in a dollop of potato salad from the plate behind the bite of the sandwich. A swish of beer and the taste sensation was complete.
Both of them shrugged and sat down. “A pitcher of Dos Equis and two more glasses,” I ordered from a passing waitress.
“The beer is on the way. What do you gentlemen have on your mind?”
Short/Thin said, “Turner wants to speak to you.”
“Again?”
You can see where this is all headed. I know what you’re thinking. You want to see if I acceded to the will of the Chief Executive. You want to know where Susan Brock is because she dropped off the world stage. There are no more Susan Brock exhibits, parties featuring the artist, or provocative art.
I guess you’re entitled to the truth. I did send her into retirement. But it’s not what you think. It didn’t happen the way your dirty mind works. Her bones aren’t bleaching in the desert, and her corpse isn’t wrapped in heavy chains at the bottom of a lake. She lives with me now. Before I ever fell in love with Susan Brock, I fell in love with her work. She’s expecting our first baby in three months. She set herself to create an exciting environment for our baby daughter. And nobody is trying to send her on a vacation anymore because she’s with me and safe.
Identify the SPA
1
Identify the Aircraft
2
3
Fighter aircraft
4
It fought in the Spanish Civil War and WW2
Who wants a street taco?
Identify the SPA:
1. Soltam L33 155mm howitzer
Identify the Aircraft:
2. Myasishchev M-4 Bison
3. Avia B-534
4. Fiat CR.32
Slam!
Geez, that’s some nomenclature…and here yesterday – with the “long range” ammo chat – I was trying to decide if my Remington was a .270Win or a 270Win…didn’t want to look like and idiot. (…did know that both .270Win and 30-06 are from the .30-03 case)
If you were to have one firearm, I’d say the .270 would be it. You can argue for another 6.5mm cartridge if you would like to. I own more than four 6.5mm rifles. Too many? I inherited them. The point is that I’m heavily biased in favor of the .270 as an all-around rifle. I load my own ammo. .25 Soupers from .308 cases and .270s from 30-06. Necked down, fireformed, reloaded for serious work. There are ranges when they fall off. The .300 WinMag and the .338 Lapua can be used out there. Or the .50 BMG.
I view the .50 BMG as a better anti-material weapon with Raufoss Mk 211, AP, or API rounds than as a pure sniper weapon. The long-range purists may prefer the Barrett .416 or the Cheytac .408. They all work well in the hands of a trained marksman with a tuned rifle.
I’ve seen (with my own eyes) my father shoot a mule deer buck at a full run across a canyon at (later measured) 650 yards offhand and call the shot. My father was the best offhand marksman I’ve ever seen. I have never been able to do that. I’d sit and strap up for a shot like that. Some people brag about bipod shots at that range. To throw the rifle up, and take the shot after hiking and call the shot is simply marksmanship.
Shot made with a custom 6.5 mini-mag with a 6 power scope.
Worked for RamLine (member them) designing “accessories” (the no wiggle folding .22 synthetic stock and 30 round Combo Mag were mine, cir. 1985). Boss – who had worked for Redfield and designed the Illuminator scope – was a Nam Vet (never talked about it, guessing he was a sniper). Before my first elk hunt he helped me get the Winchester 70 270 with a decent scope. Took my last elk (moons ago) in the Flatttops at 400 yards (good rest). One shot. Freely admit I got lucky. The following year we were up on Mt. Evans, he’s shooting uphill above treeline for a massive bull. Takes the shot, later measured at 700 yards, drops the animal. A few seconds later a very surprised guy who was too well hidden stands up, he was 300 yards out and said he had no shot and despite being “shot over” (not close, but still) was astounded at my boss’ shot. Boss was shooting…if memory serves…a 7mm Mag (might have been a Weatherby, don’t recall, other that it was heavy) set up with his custom hand loads.
I took my time with a good rest and got lucky, his was serious practiced skill.
My Dad was the same. On the range I smoked him. Hunting he rarely missed. A box of ammo would last him two or three seasons.
300WinMag is fun to shoot…..a few times, and then my shoulder starts to complain. Guess I have to learn to really make that first cold-bore shot count….
A twist on Sun Tzu: Keep you enemies close, keep your targeted artists who speak truth, closer. Terrific “short”…Tucker needs to be careful, people who hate the truth are rabid.
Nice to have the beach all to yourselves…timing is critical to success, so is using your noodle when one doesn’t fear so easily. Well played. The question is, and it’s a conundrum…very similar to Dem run cities, if We The People boycott vacation places that blatantly ignore Constitutional freedoms, will it matter? Can they – will they ever – feel the pain of their demented actions? Heck, Harvard is still clicking along despite crapping in their own bed multiple times.
Onto more important things, where in Laramie can I get a plate of tacos like that? It’s 3:29am (feels like 2:29am…because dopey government time keeper geniuses) and now I’ve got a hankering for proper street tacos…guess that microwaveable Trader Joe’s breakfast burrito will have to do.
I have no complaints with microwavable burritos. However, conflating them with a well-constructed street taco is a stretch.
The time never changes in Arizona (we’re just not woke enough to do that), and while everyone else struggles with the change, we yawn, roll over, and squeeze out another hour of sack time — unconcerned.
The real money is in Wall Street, governments who are able to print money backed by ‘full faith and credit,’ big pension funds, Silicon Valley, the military-industrial folks, big pharma, big oil, and sometimes big mining. When they’re allied against the public (and I’m not saying that they always are) in the form of elites vs fly-over, it’s difficult for the non-elite to chip away at the armor.
Back when I was hanging with 95 Holsteins, we would alter their milking time 15 minutes a week for four weeks to try and condition them to the dopey guvment time keeper, as Paul M so succinctly put it. Nobody wants to encounter a high producing dairy cow with an extra hour of milk in her already full udder, let alone 95 of them!
Good point.
I have no idea why the government changes the time. As mentioned, it doesn’t change in Arizona except for the Navajos, who want to be cool like other states, Hawaii or the Pacific Islands.
It’s a Psy-Op, TPTB are messing with us, otherwise they’d take up the measure that gets proposed every year, then pass it, eliminating this moronic regulation. Think about it, (yeah, I’m whining), who the hay are they to foist this idiocy on the mass? Besides, the Ag reason is beyond needed, we have lights on tractors, corrals, and milking sheds.
I’ve pulled the stems on all my watches except for the EDC’s…I’d rather fix the time and date once when I use that particular one than changing it back and forth twice a year…plus saves on battery draw. Come to think of it…hmm…the EDC Casio Pathfinder uses the sun, that makes me “green and sustainable”. One dress watch is an auto-winder, so that’s also easy on Gaia. The rest are all socially acceptable EV’s, and I have yet have one catch fire.
It’s been a long time since I’ve worn a watch.
I have some nice ones to play dress up.
I have an innate sense of time that’s usually good to ten minutes (Ok maybe an hour) and a phone.
Like Reacher, you just know. Me too. My ONLY man accessory is a watch, feel nekked without one. Had a video of something, said, “happened at Noon…but don’t quote me on that” (us married guys tend to say something happened two weeks ago when our wives correct us that it was 3 years back). Pulled up the video…12:00 Noon on the dot. Credibility obtained (but mostly a blind squirrel).
I don’t wear a wedding ring either.
One, I don’t want to be ID’d.
Two, rings and watch get caught on things at the most awkward times…
Ed, when I got married for the second (her first) and last time, now single. I wore a gold wedding band and about two weeks into the marriage I removed the ring to work on my new wife’s pick up and she came out and saw the ring gone and had a stroke out and started crying… I had to explain to her that I enjoyed my fingers and so should she. Too many things under the hood, on the work bench and working around farm animals can remove a finger or a hand if they got caught. Bad enough to leave a blood sacrifice, didn’t want to leave a tissue sacrifice.
That story was good, the ending unexpected!
I’m ready for some tacos…make a good breakfast! But in reality today’s breakfast is going to be grits, bacon and scrambled eggs.
Grits, bacon, and scrambled eggs are a fine breakfast. I like shrimp in my grits (yes, you can say that I like to eat bugs in that context) but not at breakfast.
Shrimp are hydroponically sustainable bugs, that’s elevating the enviro-sensitive cuisine. BUT…the wheat and corn and butter (because…cows) are a blight on the planet…as I’ve been told by the Hyperventilator’s.
If you blend sustainable bugs and sustainable cow production do you come up with an acceptable blend?
One would assume so, cows being the ultimate vegetarians…vs. humans who try to emulate them only to look gaunt and pale while pining for a burger or proper Street Taco’s. That aspect gives cows a big chip in the enviro-game. Plus! they leave fully processed chips behind as they graze on non-GMO, sustainable, organic pasture, including invasive weeds…they ARE the ultimate Lefty processing plant. I mean, why leave a pasture to fallow, that’s not good.
Vat grown meat is an abomination in the sight of God.
This guy is braver than me…
https://youtu.be/wqRJsIiPTmg?si=vpEks5udiDrGVDbp
He wanted to make the video. I can’t imagine eating the plant based steak unless I was starving to death. Even then, it might be better to simply pass to the other side without polluting my temple.
Gotta draw the line somewhere, especially when those Street Taco’s are on the menu, why wouldya even try it? Gak-age would ensue after one slimy mushy bite. Those who partake are not welcome at my campfire, sorry, too weird by half…and at this point I have little patience for social justice crappola. (in case you couldn’t tell)
Tacos. the food of the gods.
Well put.
A fair question to the blogging public is, “How many street tacos can you comfortably eat?” I’m not asking how many you can eat and then go barf (and maybe return for more).
I used to go out with the guys and over the course of maybe two hours of tacos and beverages, I could eat a dozen street tacos. Is that an example of gluttony, or is it emblematic of a hard-working man in search of nourishment?
Parameters matter…”Hollow-Leg” Me or “More Seasoned” Me?
Then (40 years ago), probably a dozen without a whole lot of trouble. Now? maybe half that as I have become more efficient in food consumption as I have gotten older (which I call “discipline” – heh)…gotta leave room for the peanut butter cream pie.
Today 5 or 6 street tacos will top my tank completely. But I’m an old man now.
Not the age but the mileage (h/t Indiana Jones).
We older more seasoned gents are more fuel efficient than our younger selves, more like a motor that uses fewer cylinders when cruising, not like a Prius or Geo Metro. Altho some days after working on “projects” I feel like the Top Gear Boys’ destroyed Hilux; every panel dented, a few missing parts, uncomfortable, tires a little wobbly…but still running and driveable.
There was a time I could have consumed an endless supply in a sitting. Those days are past.
The basic issue for street tacos should be three each.
At the Tacos El Brasero food trailer parked at the northwest corner of Wendover and Arita, easy off I-80 in Wendover on the Utah side, Exit One, the basic issue might be more than that. But then again, I was famished, so not necessarily a neutral observer.
I may never drive through Wendover again, but I will remember this for possible future use. When I quoted a dozen over 2 hours, that was different meat from an exceptional hole in the wall taqueria/butcher shop.
The El Toro Butcher shop in Santa Ana, CA on first street makes the best carnitas taco I’ve ever had, but they are BIG. 3 is enough. There a few great taco joints in Santa Ana.
SoCal had the best Mexican food I’ve ever eaten. We *finally* found a good little place that’s only a half-mile from here. Best chicken mole I’ve had in quite a few years, and we go there often.
Ramadan-In the Saudi sandbox 1980’s version, no Infidel smoking, eating, drinking in public areas during daylight hours of Ramadan. Us Infidels designated one office at the end of a corridor where the door was kept closed and the window open. Inside was a coffee pot, extra full water container for making coffee, sugar, cups and ashtrays. Lots of infidel traffic down that hallway. Upon entering that office, even with the window open the cigarette smoke was so thick you had to cut it to find the coffee pot. None of the Arabs with offices in that building were fooled, but we Infidels weren’t publicly tempting them to follow our “bad” example. After sunset Arab feasting began in earnest and for some, until sunrise.
Cletus
They do feast seriously.
In honor of Ramadan: I take my hat off to you, M. Hebdo.
A number of people noted that I, too, clanged when I walked, but that was 30/40/50/60(?) years ago
I’m thinking that perhaps the American Empire might evolve into a large hedge fund
Vlad Ţepeş, perhaps the earliest proctologist, did not suffer fools gladly.
“Take a seat,” he commanded, “while we discuss you transgressions.”
I’m just wondering if the core is 100% iron; which isotopes of iron might are present in what percentages in the core? What other elements are likely present, in what percentages?
The story’s great; I wasn’t surprised by the ending and enjoyed the lead-in. I an’t figger out “fondling”.
I have to admit: I hate tacos! much prefer blinis. (cultural upbringing thingy)
You…hate tacos…
How is that even possible, Boron?
Do you hate Mom and apple pie (served hot with vanilla ice cream) too?
blueberry pie (chilled, please) with chocolate ice cream – thank you
BTW, really liked the story; it’s one of those that (even reading slowly and carefully for whatever reason) you just can’t wait to read the next line
x2 (Fruit pies…apple, bb, cherry, or “wildberry”…mom made a perfect apple pie from our own tree, crust took 20 years to perfect but better than French pastry. Vanilla bean ice cream tho…and plenty of whipped cream, not that light stuff, the full heavy duty whipped cream…life is too short and unpredictable for dessert nonsense, especially lately with the demented in charge.)
Tacos.. excellent 24/7. Blinis.. for breakfast with eggs, bacon, sausage links, hash browns and strawberries with whipped cream on the hot blinis.
I’m sure Ms Brock eats tacos and would only have blimis for breakfast. Or maybe on occassion blimis with caviar.
I like a happy ending.
Tacos.
You need front teeth to properly enjoy them. Breakfast is two slices of thick cut bacon and three eggs. Both the bacon and the eggs cook in the microwave. Scramble the eggs, add cheese or salsa, cook 1:20, stir then another:20 minutes.
Banner is always conflicted. Does he pre-wash the bacon plate first, or the egg bowl?
Banner is spoil’t…as any good doggy pal should be despite the “plate” dilemma, one is none. And a perfect daily start, good for you despite the gubmint ninny’s who flip flop every 10 years..not that I care what they say. Just cook the bacon crispy as that Florida guy discovered with his newly discovered brain maggots from eating some too raw.
I’m in with 3-4 more pieces of full length bacon cooked in a cast iron skillet, 1 more egg all 3 fried in the skillet with bacon grease, home made biscuits, buttered and side of buttered grits. Molasses syrup for the dessert biscuit.
Cletus Valvecore
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
You just made me drool, Cletus!
Covid beaches. Down in FLA (escaped Gretchen the Great’s lockdown by two weeks) and managed to use the gate key for a private beach on LBK where I had rented years earlier. (DeSantis left it up to the locals on public beach access, which meant all the blue areas, and most with old folks running the show, were closed) Nice though chilly weather (March), nice beach, except for all the Yankee escapees who were cheek-to-jowl around the fire pit drinking Yuengling (really, they couldn’t at least try something local????) and laughing about the lock downs. Of course they were all good lefties who just didn’t want to live under them rules. Which didn’t stop them from trading stories of bitching to the manager at those restaurants here that had some semblance of indoor seating. (Karen’s in the flesh, of both sexes, too.) Sadly couldn’t shoot them all, but was sorely tempted with a couple of Bostonians.
Hmmm!
LBK. There are quite a few beach access paths on LBK: the problem is finding a (very limited) parking space: unless you have a friend who invites you to use their condominium parking lot; if not, we denizens would be swamped.
Florida law (on LBK due to beach renourishment pacts made with the condominiums) is that all sand below Mean High Water Line (wherever that is) is public. Besides which (I’m not a lawyer), I believe all sand in the U.S. below the MHWL is public: sometimes, though, the access may be limited.
If interested, you may find further information here:
https://privateernorth.com/tbex.php
and contact the webmaster the next time you’re down here if you’d like to have a guest parking spot.
I have always found beach access controls (tags, gates, private, etc) to be a conundrum. Ocean City, NJ started requiring beach tags in 1976 for anyone over 12, as requested by Residents to offset beach maintenance costs…despite “shoebee” day trippers paying additional sales taxes for the same. Me, always thought it was beach access control, no tag get a ticket. Problem is people are stupid so some access control measures are appropriate.
Ps. Longboat Key is excellent. We’re St. Pete Beach area vacationers (family condo), and often stop there on our way out of a day trip to St. Armand’s Circle, a favorite haunt for gear we don’t need (but hey, The Daiquiri Deck is great).
Street Tacos are life. SLW makes outrageous street tacos…….