Dear Apple Iphone Programmer,

This afternoon, as I was driving home, the following playlist came up while listening to music on ‘shuffle’ on your device:

1. Metallica, Enter Sandman (Sweet!)
2. Guns and Roses, Paradise City (Rock on!)
3. Pearl Jam, Jeremy (All Right!)
4. Slash – Something off the new album that made my windows vibrate
5. Ozzy Osbourne, Crazy Train (AHAHAHAHAHA!)
6. Jimmi Hendrix, All Along the Watchtower (SWEET!)
7. AC/DC, Shoot to Thrill (ALL RIGHT!)
8. Metallica, Wherever I May Roam (GRAAAHHHHH!)

And then just as I was about to start banging my head and smashing my fist against the headliner of the van, the following pieces of ‘music’ came up:

1. The Jonas Brothers – Something whiny
2. Miley Cyrus – Something grating
3. High School Musical – What the !@#$!@#!@#$?

Luckily, I was able to fast forward through all of that dreck.

OK, children, listen up.  If I am listening to a shuffled music library, and I turn up the volume and don’t fast forward through any songs, that means I like what your little piece of electronics is doing.  That does not mean stop playing stuff that rocks to switch to stuff that makes me want to drive into a concrete barrier.  If IOS doesn’t handle that kind of logic, then fix it.  Code, monkey, code!

Robb Allen has it.  He also makes a good point.

The ATF is expected to restrict the importation and sale of such guns as the Saiga shotgun today, due to a perceived notion of whether or not it has a “sporting purpose”.  While there is an argument that if such firearms are manufactured domestically the ATF won’t be able to do this, I still have problems with a government agency capriciously deciding that something becomes illegal because a subjective determination is made without congressional action.  And who’s to say that even if someone gets the patent and starts making them domestically, the ATF won’t come up with another administrative roadblock to stop them?

The net effect of this action, if it unfolds as expected, will be to make sure that there are no Saiga-like shotguns on the market by the time the ATF steps up to the mike, and all of those who own one will immediately see their value go up.

Personally, I hope that this is a head fake on the part of the ATF, and their announcement is not what is expected.  But then, I’m a starry eyed optimist sometimes.

For the record, I don’t own a Saiga.  I like my Mossberg, and will probably continue to buy from that manufacturer.  But those who want to have these firearms, which are legal as I type this and may very well not be by the time I come home from work tonight, have the right to do so without government interference.    If this goes down as expected, then letters to my senators and congressman will be in order, and I suggest you do the same.  Robb uses hyperbole, but I agree with him in that if the government is allowed to infringe on one right by fiat, then they will try to infringe on all of them.

Or stretch your arm out over its enclosure to take a cell phone picture apparently.

A young woman in Ukraine tried to take a picture of the crocodiles in her local zoo when she accidentally dropped her cell phone into the reptile’s pond.  The animals of course swallowed the fool thing, and now doctors are considering how to get it out of the alligator’s digestive tract.

This is a good lesson for why you should always back up your data and have a lock on your cell phone.  You never know when it’s going to be eaten by a predator, and who knows how many minutes are being eaten up in this situation.

Apparently, the phone is still in working condition, since doctors can still hear it ring occasionally.  Part of me wants to know what brand of phone it was that it can take a dunking in water, being swallowed by a bloody great crocodile, and survive in its stomach for a couple of weeks.  My kids can destroy a cell phone with a wet towel.

Hopefully the phone will work its way out and the vets won’t have to take the extraordinary step of doing surgery on a large, carnivorous reptile to get it out.  On the other hand, how many vets can say they’ve done thoracic surgery on a crocodile?

A brand new ceramic knife is sharp enough to cut the tip of your left thumb off without it hurting.

Second Thought of the day – Onion juice really hurts in a deep cut.  That’s how I knew I’d cut myself.  Once I rinsed it out, it stopped hurting completely.

It’s a good thing I know how to do a compression dressing one handed.  On the plus side, that’s a good sharp knife.  I’m sold.

DB – No, Boo.  Koshka kitty doesn’t want to go outside and play in the snow.  Now put her down before she disembowels you.

A couple of months after Junior Bear was born, I was sent away for training.  During my absence, his mother’s mom and aunt came over to Germany for a couple of weeks.  They helped her out with the baby and saw some of the sights in southern Germany.

After I got back, I had a few days off, so we decided to take a train to the Black Forest.  So we all trundled down to the Bahnhof in Augsburg to catch a fast train.  Our fast train led to a semi-fast train, then a slow train, then a train one step up from the kind with two men working a lever to move it along.  Think “The Little Engine That Could” with a crying infant.  I’m pretty sure we rode on an example of each and every kind of train the German train system had to offer that evening.

We got into the little village my ex had decided to visit at about 2 AM.  The bed and breakfast she had reservations at was about a block from the train station, so we walked down.  Imagine a tall man pushing a baby carriage and wearing a humongous backpack, a short woman carrying a diaper bag, and two middle-aged women pulling along their own luggage.   Looking back, we must have looked like refugees looking for a place to flop.

The owner of the B& B had stayed up waiting for us, and made sure we were settled in before going to bed herself.  We got through the night OK, but Junior was over stimulated and cranky, which meant we didn’t get a lot of sleep. Since the inn was someone’s home, it’s a safe assumption that a lot of other people didn’t either.

Next morning, after feeding the baby, we went downstairs for a good German breakfast of cheese, bread, pastries, sausage, and tea.  The females, none of whom spoke much German or know a lot about German cuisine, didn’t understand that this was a pretty good spread, and wasted much time talking about the food instead of eating it.  I tucked in like it was my last meal.   I’d lived on chow hall food and MRE’s for a month.  This was manna from heaven.

The rest of the day was spent pushing the baby around while the ex and the in-laws searched for the cuckoo clocks of their dreams.  I had a good time taking care of Junior.  His mom had been a single parent most of the time I was gone, so no grudge there.  Lunch was at a little restaurant in the tourist area, so the food was good, but not huge.

After acquiring their cuckoo clocks and getting their pictures taken in front of every ornate house we saw, we retired to a restaurant across from our little inn for dinner.  Since our other two meals were on the small side, and we’d trekked up and down the square looking at ornate carved thingamabobs all day, we were all starving.   Junior, having been carted all over heck and back that day and been given a good warm bottle for dinner, was already asleep in the pram, so the adults were able to enjoy our dinner without interruption.

The restaurant was serving neuwein, which is a weakly alcoholic, very sweet wine that goes down like good soda pop.  My lightweight self drank almost an entire caraffe by myself as we had an appetizer and drinks before ordering.  By the time the waitress came around to get our dinner orders, I was feeling pretty warm and happy.  Not drunk, but definitely very relaxed and social.

We looked over the menu, with me providing translation service to the two ladies and my ex-wife.  They all settled on pretty basic German cuisine like schnitzel or chicken dishes, but I wanted something new.  I saw something called “Reh Ragu”.  I couldn’t remember what a “Reh” was, but deduced that the dish was pieces of “Reh” served in a spiced tomato sauce over spaetzle.  After the women had ordered their dinners, I asked about the “Reh Ragu”.  The waitress had limited English, but explained in German that it was a game animal that lived in the forest.  I started down the list of animals I knew from high school German.

“Hase (hare)?”
“Nein”
“Kaninchen (bunny)?”
“Nein”
“Schwein (pig)?”
“Nein”
“Hirsch (deer)?”
“Nein, kleiner, wie Bambi!” (No, smaller, like Bambi!”

Reh, apparently, is one of the names for what we call roe deer.  These diminutive herbivores do indeed live in the Black Forest, and I remembered one of my sergeants talk about hunting them like they were rabbits.  Since I was a little tipsy, and wanted something new, I nodded emphatically and ordered Bambi in a red sauce over noodles.

Turning around, I met six very wide, very shocked eyes.  Apparently, even though they didn’t speak much German, they had heard me order Bambi.  I picked up my glass of wine and made a toast to being adventurous.

Conversation continued until our meals came out.   At the sight of a large plate of homemade noodles with a wonderful meaty sauce on them, my dinner companions avoided my glance and concentrated on their own dinner.  I ate with gusto, practically licking the plate clean while I drank neuwein like the antidote was in it.  It was one of the best meals I have ever had.

To this day, I always say that I made the best impression I could have ever made on my ex’s family by having the guts to order  a plate of Bambi in front of them.  To this day, my ex-mother-in-law, who I still regard as a wonderful and gracious woman, talks about the night I ate Bambi.

Betelgeuse, a star named after a character in a Michael Keaton movie,* seems to be in its death throes.  Scientists predict that when it blows, it will be a very bright light in our sky, even as bright as a full moon for a period of time.

This could be very sweet.  Imagine being able to walk back to the hunting stand in thick woods without a flashlight if there are no clouds.  Or being able to read the bloody map/owner’s manual/treasure map without ruining your night vision.  Don’t want to do the yard work during the heat of the day?  Then do it at night by the light of the distant burning star!  Feral hogs gone nocturnal on you?  No problem.  Get some tritium open sights or an illuminated scope, and you’re good to go.  No night vision goggles needed!

Yeah, this could have a lot of plusses.

Say it with me now:  Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse……

*Yes, I know, I know, the character was named after the star, not the other way around.  It’s a joke.  Feel free to laugh.  I’ll wait.

Recently, while trying to give some reality to their studies of the World War II Battle of Britain, administrators of a school in England told the children that London was being bombed, took them to an air raid shelter, and set off fireworks to make the children believe that they were being attacked.

Now, I grew up next to SAC bases.  Bombers flew over my school all the time, and my best friend’s farm backed up to the missile fields.  We knew that if the balloon went up, we were all toasted cheese.  We went through regular and frequent “civil defense” drills, some announced, some unannounced.  Basically, they taught us to all get into the basement cafeteria/fallout shelter in the event that the Soviets and the Americans ever came to blows.  Even to an elementary school kid, they were sobering reminders that the world is a dangerous place, and the only way to survive was to go down to the lunchroom and sing “This Little Light of Mine” with the 1st graders until the principal re-opened the 3 foot thick concrete and steel doors and let us out to swing on the monkey bars.

But even the unannounced drills didn’t include authority figures telling us that Washington was a smoking hole and that we were under actual attack.

I love history.  I want my children to love it and learn it as much as or more than I do.  But I don’t want them to have their wits scared out of them. There are better ways to bring the reality of history to a young person.

If these educators want their students to learn something, why not re-enact the manner in which Londoners sought shelter during the Blitz?  Go to London and sleep in the subway stations.  Trust me, they’ll learn more from one night in the Picadilly Square tube station than they will crying softly in the dark thinking that their families are dead.  You might not like what they learn, but trust me, it’ll be educational.

Dear Kentucky People,

Let’s all take a deep breath here.  In….. and out.  Feel better? Repeat that if you want to.

OK, now that we’ve all stopped hyperventilating, let’s get some perspective here.

It’s January, and it’s going to snow today.  Qel Surpris!  We’re going to get a not insignificant amount, but it’s not the end of the world.  No-one is going to drown in the white horror, and glaciers are not pushing their way through Indiana on their way to hit the Ohio River.  If we all keep our heads and look out for those of us who are less fortunate, no-one is going to die.

Here are a couple of tips:

• Slow the hell down.  Yes, you’ve got four wheel drive, but that means precisely diddly over squat on snow and ice.  
• Drive courteously.  Yes, I see the big number 8 decal on your back window.  I know that you fantasize about being a NASCAR driver when you grow up. Today is not that day.  Quit tailgating the school bus, cutting off the little old ladies, and driving up the median/shoulder when traffic slows down.
• Dress properly.  Yes, you’re smoking hot in those low-rise jeans and crop top. You have great abs and men have a hard time not looking down your shirt.  But it’s not August.  Put on a couple more layers.  You can still look good in boots, jeans, and a sweater.  Trust me.  I lusted after many young ladies in the winter when I lived in North Dakota.
• Learn how to shovel some darn snow.  Yes, you bought that Acme brand Ultra Snow and Ice Destroyer.  That crackling sound you hear when that stuff gets wet is your $15,000 aggregate driveway dissolving.   Also, that stuff probably melts the ice and snow great when it’s 29 degrees out, but won’t stop the resulting water from re-freezing when it dips down to 15 degrees at night.  Good luck driving down that hockey rink.  Get yourself a $20 grain shovel and a broom, scrape the snow off your porch, driveway, and sidewalk, then use the broom to brush off what’s left.  You may have to do this a couple of times, but you need the exercise.  If you’ve got a kid living with you that’s old enough to push a lawn mower, they can push snow too.  Builds character.  And for heaven’s sake, unless we get 3 to 6 feet of snow instead of the 3 to 6 inches we’re projected to get, you do not need the Binford 4000 Fuel Injected V8 snow blower. 
• Check on your neighbors, both old and young.  Times are tough.  People are turning down their thermostats in an effort to save a few dollars.  Sometimes they go too far.  Walk over to the homes near you and see how folks are doing. If it seems chilly in their home, ask them over for dinner or a cup of coffee.  The warm up will do them good and you probably need the company.
• Either send that teenager over to shovel some snow for the older neighbors or do it yourself.  They lived through the hard times of the Depression, World War II, Woodstock, and the Carter administration.  They deserve better than to die of a heart attack clearing off their driveway.
• And finally, for the weather and news people on the TV and radio, please stop scaring the hell out of the Kentucky people.  I know, good news or non-dire predictions don’t grab eyeballs and ratings, but you’re freaking out the herd.  Kroger was Lord of the Flies last night.  Schools are being closed because of a couple of inches of snow.  Stop sensationalizing normal winter weather.  What you people hype as “The Great Blizzard of 1994” is what we called Wednesday back home.  Get some perspective.

Now, if we all stop, think, and act rationally for the next day or so, this is going to be fun.  Please don’t make it worse than it needs to be.