Read a couple of interesting news stories recently. I can't find links to them, so I'll have to just summarize them a bit.
Story number 1
Apparently, glaciers worldwide have begun advancing. Not just no longer retreating, but actively advancing. A couple of little villages in the Himalayas have been evacuated just barely in time--they were crushed about a week after the last one was emptied. Antarctica's ice shelves are thickening, and extending farther out beyond the edge of land. The entire Arctic is covered in a thick sheet of ice for the first time since the Industrial Revolution. Scientists are tentatively positing that we may be heading into an episode of global cooling. Caused by, you know, El Nino, or some such.
Story number 2
This one is related to story number 1. Canadians are illegally crossing our northern border, fleeing the expanding glaciation that's eating their country. The Canadian government is wrangling for political and environmental asylum for all Canadian nationals. Our government is considering permission, with a few caveats--they don't get to vote in our elections and screw us up again, and they have to work and pay taxes (and they have to pay for any medical care--either through purchasing insurance or by cash on treatment--their "government" cannot). Their government is pushing for amnesty for our current illegal residents; our government is saying "Sure. If your government is willing to pay a $25,000 dollar fine for each illegal we find once this deal is made."
Put together, these stories suggest that the term "global warming" turned into "climate shift," and "climate shift" is being redefined as "Holy shit, it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey."
Or a Canadian, which arguably have no more balls than a brass monkey.
Saturday, March 13
Tuesday, March 2
Glee. And more irritation.
I've taken both of my new babies to the range, now. I'd suspected that the CZ was already zeroed in for the ranges at which I'd be using it, and recent experimentation has proved me right. I don't know which of the guys at the shop did it, but he did good.
As for the Walther...I'm absolutely in love. Not only does it feel just like the .22 in my grip, but it conceals better than the P99. It shoots like a dream I'd get rid of my 9mm, if it wasn't such a bad idea not to have an extra backup gun. Or a dozen. Or three.
I went into the gun shop today to rave over my new toys, and saw the new hire working the counter. He glanced up as I came in the door, then froze like a rabbit that just saw a predator. It was so hard to keep a straight face, but I managed. I also managed to ask him where his grandpa was without letting any humor into my voice. He took off toward the back like he actually was a rabbit, and I'd set his tail on fire. His grandpa drug him back out and made him face me while he introduced us. I shook the kid's hand and told him not to worry--no one had a contract out on him, no one likely would have a contract out on him, and none of us in the business would touch him without one. He relaxed a bit, and smiled at me. I patted his shoulder, and told him that next time, he might want to treat a woman in the shop with a bit more courtesy. It's not like it's one of the big MegaSportingBoxStores, after all--if a woman does come in, she likely is coming because she knows guns, and might be coming for something other than a .17 or .22 caliber match-piece.
The poor little twerp actually hung his head like I'd told him he was a bad little boy, and wasn't going to be getting dessert with dinner. But, he apologized, and that's all that mattered.
I did my usual rave review, and noticed the retired Ranger sniper in the back grinning like an idiot when I mentioned that I loved the Trijicon scope, and adored how it was zeroed to 800 yard shots. So, I hopped the counter, and went back to give him a hug. After all: he's the one that taught me to make those shots.
That was the good part of the day. Then I went home, and found my wonderful fiance surrounded by brochures for luxury townhouses, re-imagined luxury condos in upper story office buildings, and lofts. In town. Downtown. Where I'd already told him I didn't want to be.
Needless to say, he noticed that I wasn't happy. And he got defensive. And called me paranoid.
Look, I understand that he wants to stay close to where the action is in his line of work--he's not nearly as comfortable with computers as I am. Actually, that's not quite accurate: he hates the things with a bloody purple passion. But it's not fair to call me paranoid when I've had half a dozen assassination attempts on me in the last month, alone. I've told him that the business is kind of literally cut-throat, but I don't tell him about the close calls that don't leave marks--he freaks out enough as it is. So, he doesn't know that they really are out to get me.
We've agreed to look at what he wants, for now, but to keep looking for what I want.
What do I want? I want out of town. Preferably a lot of land, with the house set in the middle. I'd like rough, defensible terrain, with a lot of good cover, and a lot of places to stash gear for an "oh, shit!" situation. I'd love a berm house, but a big, old stone farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere with a basement would be fine. I want to be able to get high-speed satellite internet service, because I will eventually get my boss to let me telecommute.
What he wants are big, showy places that demonstrate the wealth that his profession throws around. He wants lots of big, bright, open spaces, with lots of windows with lots of higher surrounding vantage points, just begging for snipers to snuggle up and crash a party.
Speaking of parties, he wants to throw them, despite how dangerous I've told him the idea was. He wants a house suited to throwing lavish parties to get investors interested.
I just want a refuge. Someplace I can go home, relax, and be as safe as someone in my profession possibly can be.
Why is that so much to ask for?
Update: The new Walther is a joy to shoot, but an absolute cunt to break down for cleaning and put back together. Not to mention that I'm scheduled to fly out of the agency's private airfield to Germany at 4:45 a.m. tomorrow morning. Turns out, they're selling the extra magazines over there, and they've got a shipment all crated up, ready to come over here, but thanks to bureaucratic bullshit, the crate hasn't been cleared for import, yet.
Gah.
As for the Walther...I'm absolutely in love. Not only does it feel just like the .22 in my grip, but it conceals better than the P99. It shoots like a dream I'd get rid of my 9mm, if it wasn't such a bad idea not to have an extra backup gun. Or a dozen. Or three.
I went into the gun shop today to rave over my new toys, and saw the new hire working the counter. He glanced up as I came in the door, then froze like a rabbit that just saw a predator. It was so hard to keep a straight face, but I managed. I also managed to ask him where his grandpa was without letting any humor into my voice. He took off toward the back like he actually was a rabbit, and I'd set his tail on fire. His grandpa drug him back out and made him face me while he introduced us. I shook the kid's hand and told him not to worry--no one had a contract out on him, no one likely would have a contract out on him, and none of us in the business would touch him without one. He relaxed a bit, and smiled at me. I patted his shoulder, and told him that next time, he might want to treat a woman in the shop with a bit more courtesy. It's not like it's one of the big MegaSportingBoxStores, after all--if a woman does come in, she likely is coming because she knows guns, and might be coming for something other than a .17 or .22 caliber match-piece.
The poor little twerp actually hung his head like I'd told him he was a bad little boy, and wasn't going to be getting dessert with dinner. But, he apologized, and that's all that mattered.
I did my usual rave review, and noticed the retired Ranger sniper in the back grinning like an idiot when I mentioned that I loved the Trijicon scope, and adored how it was zeroed to 800 yard shots. So, I hopped the counter, and went back to give him a hug. After all: he's the one that taught me to make those shots.
That was the good part of the day. Then I went home, and found my wonderful fiance surrounded by brochures for luxury townhouses, re-imagined luxury condos in upper story office buildings, and lofts. In town. Downtown. Where I'd already told him I didn't want to be.
Needless to say, he noticed that I wasn't happy. And he got defensive. And called me paranoid.
Look, I understand that he wants to stay close to where the action is in his line of work--he's not nearly as comfortable with computers as I am. Actually, that's not quite accurate: he hates the things with a bloody purple passion. But it's not fair to call me paranoid when I've had half a dozen assassination attempts on me in the last month, alone. I've told him that the business is kind of literally cut-throat, but I don't tell him about the close calls that don't leave marks--he freaks out enough as it is. So, he doesn't know that they really are out to get me.
We've agreed to look at what he wants, for now, but to keep looking for what I want.
What do I want? I want out of town. Preferably a lot of land, with the house set in the middle. I'd like rough, defensible terrain, with a lot of good cover, and a lot of places to stash gear for an "oh, shit!" situation. I'd love a berm house, but a big, old stone farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere with a basement would be fine. I want to be able to get high-speed satellite internet service, because I will eventually get my boss to let me telecommute.
What he wants are big, showy places that demonstrate the wealth that his profession throws around. He wants lots of big, bright, open spaces, with lots of windows with lots of higher surrounding vantage points, just begging for snipers to snuggle up and crash a party.
Speaking of parties, he wants to throw them, despite how dangerous I've told him the idea was. He wants a house suited to throwing lavish parties to get investors interested.
I just want a refuge. Someplace I can go home, relax, and be as safe as someone in my profession possibly can be.
Why is that so much to ask for?
Update: The new Walther is a joy to shoot, but an absolute cunt to break down for cleaning and put back together. Not to mention that I'm scheduled to fly out of the agency's private airfield to Germany at 4:45 a.m. tomorrow morning. Turns out, they're selling the extra magazines over there, and they've got a shipment all crated up, ready to come over here, but thanks to bureaucratic bullshit, the crate hasn't been cleared for import, yet.
Gah.
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