I Am Iron Man.

I got home at 0100, which is what happens when you go to the double-feature at the drive-in.
It is a Marvel movie and I was not disappointed. This is the first time that's happened since Hugh Jackman was cast as Wolverine. (Sorry Scott, but I think Marvel has weak stories and popcorn characters, making it impossible to make them look any better in a movie...) Not that DC has made any of their characters translate to the big screen either:(

Iron Man fights Bullies, terrorists, Arabs and Jeff Bridges; how can I not admire him?

I rained like a cow, pissing on a flat rock. I never conceived of sitting outside in 40 degree rain and high wind to watch a movie; still, I kept thinking that this is something I might well have done if I were already in the field and happened to roadmarch past a drive-in where I could change my socks, rest my feet and lay back on my ruck while drinking coffee. I am compelled to applaud the grit of Andy and Ed as they built their shelter in the cold and rainy night, then proceed to cook hotdogs and sit outside next to my warm truck while Ohana and I reclined peacefully and listened to the movie on the truck radio. The hotdog, as interpreted by Paul, with 'The Works' was incomparable; there was something spicy on it and I got to sit in a warm truck and share it with my dog.

The second movie was 'Drillbit Taylor' with Owen Wilson, a ne'er do well, homeless, army deserter who probably would jump the fence to sit outside and watch a movie in the rain because he had no other option. Taylor is on a quest to beg or steal enough money to fly to the Canadian wilderness and be a Canadian ne'er do well, homeless, army deserter who probably would jump the fence to sit outside and watch a movie in the rain. He takes on 3 high school freshmen who are bullied by a spoiled, emancipated senior who reminds me of a cross between that kid who hung around with Ferris, and Ed Norton. It all turns out, of course.

Ed and Andy knew all of the writers, directors and actors; actually, I think they know about all there is about movies,if not expedient shelter construction.

Blue Oyster Cult knew about PTSD

VETERAN OF THE PSYCHIC WARS
By Eric Bloom, Michael Moorcock

You see me now, a veteran of a thousand psychic wars
I've been living on the edge so long
Where the winds of limbo roar
And I'm young enough to look at
And far to old to see;
All the scars are on the inside
And I'm not sure if there's anything left of me.

CHORUS:
Don't let these shakes go on
It's time we had a break from it
It's time we had some leave
We've been living in the flames
We've been eating up our brains
Oh, please don't let these shakes go on

You ask me why I'm weary
Why I can't speak to you
You blame me for my silence
Say it's time I changed and grew
But the war's still going on dear,
And there's no end that I know
And I can't say if we're ever, ever gonna be free

(CHORUS)

(GUITAR SOLO)

You see me now, a vetaran of a thousand psychic wars
My energy is spent at last
And my armor is destroyed
I have used up all my weapons
And I'm helpless and bereaved
Wounds are all I'm made of
And did I hear you say that this is victory ?

CHORUS:
Don't let these shakes go on
It's time we had a break from it
Send me to the rear
Where the tides of madness swell
And been sliding into hell
Oh, please don't let these shakes go on
Don't let these shakes go on
Don't let these shakes go on

This is not, in any way, a commentary on the War On Terror

Men do what we see needs done when not everyone can arrive at a touchy-feeley concensus and sometimes the cost is more than the market will bear.

John Stuart Mill, in his essay "The Contest in America" observed:

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things: the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth a war, is much worse. When a people are used as mere human instruments for firing cannon or thrusting bayonets, in the service and for the selfish purposes of a master, such war degrades a people. A war to protect other human beings against tyrannical injustice; a war to give victory to their own ideas of right and good, and which is their own war, carried on for an honest purpose by their free choice, — is often the means of their regeneration. A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. As long as justice and injustice have not terminated their ever-renewing fight for ascendancy in the affairs of mankind, human beings must be willing, when need is, to do battle for the one against the other.

Will we, as a society understand the price being willingly paid by our troops? Can we grasp this, in the moral vacuum of relativism inherent in the Marxist philosophy of our universities and public institutions? I do not believe so. When the good of the individual is not supported, but subverted by each act of public policy heaped upon us in the interest of the majority welfare, then the concept of 'The Individual' as recognized by the founders as being central to the value and sanctity of life is effectively abolished. God did not create us to be part of an amorphous identity; we are to be accountable as individuals and this through a personal relationship, one-on-one with God in the Person of Jesus Christ. This is the meaning of life; this, the purpose of existence that cannot and need not be explained to a cow, regardless of eloquence or volume, but must be communicated to men if we are faithful to Kingdom mandate.

Man-lunch

Double-decker peanut butter and banana sandwich. In a word, yum.

The Boy Scout Motto: Be Prepared.

Swampy's Survival tip #42: What to do when attacked by Carniverous Lizards of Unusual Size

step 1: Un-sheathing your knife, hold it at your side, sharp edge away from your body. If you haven't a knife -shame on you- grasp your hairbrush firmly in your hand and step on the head while twisting and pulling the handle. This should give you a jagged and pointed edge.

step 2: Curl the fingers of the hand not holding the knife and extend that arm toward the Carniverous Lizard and assume a crouch as you prepare your lunge.

step 3: Sprint toward the Carniverous Lizard while yelling "Kristi for President!" This will cause the Carniverous Lizards' mouth to drop open, allowing you to dive past the poisonous teeth and directly into the moist gullet.

step 4: Move quickly down the slippery maw, making your way to the stomach. Once inside the stomach, stab into and through the skin. You will have to wedge and wiggle the point of the blade to get past the scales. Lift and slice an opening large enough to allow your passage. Before you emerge, secure a firm grip on as much of the entrails as possible. Slide from the opening you have created and pull the entrails with you.

At this point, any other Carniverous Lizards of Unusual Size will attack the injured lizard until they have all been killed or wounded.

step 5: While skinning the lizards, make sure you avoid the poison glands located in the head and neck; the remainder of the meat is both nutritious and tasty when cooked with some garlic and white wine.

Swampy

Important Safety Tip

When telling someone that your wife was gone for the weekend, to 'Horse-school' and your wife is standing there listening, make sure that you say 'Horse' and 'School' as separate words.

Of Men and Their Dogs

I had to have Grace, my first RRidgie put to sleep because she developed a spinal neuropathy that made it so that she could not keep her hind-end from falling over. She was otherwise perfectly healthy. Because it was worse some days, the day before we had her euthanasia scheduled she seemed pretty okay; Cheryl and I could tell that she wanted to be released from her struggle, so it was an obligation to her faithfulness of 9 years to set my own selfish desire aside.

Did I struggle and second-guess myself? I still do today but I am confident that holding on to her would have been cruel and childish. I have missed her every day. It was still the right thing to do, for her.

Letting Grace go was the hardest thing I have ever done and the most painful; I would cut off any of my own fingers for another year with her. We buried her in my friends' back acreage; She meant enough to him that he dug the grave himself. I cried for a couple of days. I could cry now.

What is this hold that our dogs have on us? The dog gives without reserving any of its' own self-interest; it is totally invested in you. Nothing on earth offers us that level of trust and so, deserves the very best loyalty that we can summon from our otherwise scoundrel pathology. The faithfulness of your dog never wanes; it never loses its' enthusiasm for your presence.

I guess the fact that we cannot ever achieve that level of focused commitment makes us admire our dog more than our hearts are capable of protecting us from abject misery when they are torn from our life. It is so much more so when the hand that does it is our own. Grace and Dixie, Terra, Dolly, Daisy... they are irreplaceable and so our suffering at their loss is implacable.

I feel your pain, Derrick.

'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Of Men and Their Caves

Long overdue, this post is.

If you are a member of the gentler gender you may quail at the site of the 'Man-Cave' where there is seemingly no order except for the uniformity of the dust depth. Take comfort in the knowledge that this is a facet of the masculine creature; where James Fenimore Cooper's Natty Bumpoe would say a man could live 'according to his natur'.

I look at my own cave and, despite the disorder there is a place for every dog; a sufficiency of electrical outlets; convenient sources of ignition; a fridge replete with beer and chilled pint-glasses; evidence of my habitation and of course, my world-wide-web eye.

This bear den is no more kid-safe than it is adult-safe; the electrical service panel is exposed; there are guns and ammo I can get to; knives, a bow and many arrows, easily improvised bludgeons, controversial writings and literature, a microscope, bones, feathers, rocks and shiny things, incomplete projects and sketched theorum; a mace from the middle-ages and of course, my own poison pen.
Life as a struggle is the allusory drawn in it's chaos of form; the dramatic anti-order. The dweller depicted in the string theory that is implied by the distant, elusive common theme: This is 'Me' as reflected in a shattered mirror of the things I ran back in my burning life to save.

Grant the man his cave and rejoice that it is there to serve him as refuge. Throw food in there once in a while and re-stock the fridge or cold window ledge when you venture in to pick up the dirty plates and cups half full of moldy coffee. The more sanctuary he is allowed the safer he feels to emerge and pick up his underwear and socks; make sandwiches for, and bathe the children.

His cave is not a place to watch TV or sleep but a hollow place that echoes his unspoken voice. In that sense, it is 'usable space'. It grounds me and allows me the tactile connection to the places, people and events that form my past and shape my present.