In June of last year I penned an essay titled “Popular Misconceptions” in which I opined that if the “good men and true” of an area get “fed up with lawlessness” they tend to take matters into their own hands.

We are now seeing this play out in real time in Northern Ireland.

For those of you not paying attention to the news, a refugee from the Sudan attempted to saw off the head of an Irish man in Belfast on Monday, 08 JUN 26. He was on a public street when he did so, and several locals rushed to stop his assault. His victim has lost an eye from the attack, and is in critical care at a local hospital.

If you read my previous essay, I postulated that when the vigilance committees show up, a lot of collateral damage come with them — so nobody should be shocked to understand that a whole bunch of immigrant homes and businesses are currently on fire in Northern Ireland.

I will now expound upon that previous essay. I will even go so far as to issue a warning that the people who should heed said warning are going to ignore:

If the “good men and true” get the perception that the government and officialdom are not only facilitating what has them all riled up, but just might be a source of what has them all riled up … well, history has shown that the “good men and true” have very little problem with expanding the “extra-judicial punishments” to include Minions of the Law and Government.

And for those folks who pish-tosh any sort of threat from the British “subjects” — this is Northern-bloody-Ireland. The time and area where the locals refined the “Vehicle-Borne Improved Explosive Device” to the point a popular cocktail was named after the practice.

This is the area where there are more SLRs, Sterlings, and Browning Hi-Powers buried around that little island than any three countries in Africa.

Hell, the Irish made the AR-18 famous.

I speak to the government and officials of Northern Ireland, Ireland, and the United Kingdom: Listen to me — you won’t, but listen to me … You’d better — at the very least — pay some sort of lip service towards a credible perception that you give a tinker’s damn about what has the people all lathered up, and make the people believe that you’re doing something about it.

If you don’t — and you won’t — don’t come whinging to me when your dance card abruptly becomes filled with such exhilarating numbers as: the Hemp Fandango, the Beatdown Boogie, and the Arson Waltz.

You have failed the people. You have failed them utterly, completely, and totally. They’re about to rectify that situation. You might want to get ahead of that power curve before you find yourself watching folks get loaded onto cattle cars alongside you.

No love. At all.

Ian

I’m still recovering from the sudden death of our beloved dog, so this may not be as well researched or articulate as my essays usually are.

I’m trying to avoid the Karmelo Anthony trial, but social media has obviously fallen in love with it.

I have long been absolutely tired with the entertainment industry’s version of Texas laws and the Texas legal system, and this case perfectly exemplifies the stupidity of the entertainment industry.

Of the many, many idiot takes on the whole situation — and trust me, the peanut gallery is rife with Teh Dumb — is the claim that Anthony should not be charged with murder “because there was no premeditation”.

Ok. So?

Crimes in Texas — and I suspect elsewhere in the United States — are strictly defined in the Penal Code, using the legal term “Elements of the Offense”. Each criminal offense in Texas has a list of elements, and not only must each element must be present, but at the trial the State must prove each element was present.

To find the “Elements of the Offense” for each crime, one should examine the Texas Penal Code, where each crime is listed. And given that this is the Century of the Fruitbat1, the internet is chock-full of “search engines”, so this shouldn’t be hard at all.

Texas Penal Code, Chapter 19 covers “Criminal Homicide”, of which murder falls into, specifically 19.02.

19.02 (a) covers definitions used in the section, 19.02 (b) are the actual elements of the offense of murder, to wit:

(b) A person commits an offense if the person:

(1) intentionally or knowingly causes the death of an individual;

(2) intends to cause serious bodily injury and commits an act clearly dangerous to human life that causes the death of an individual;

(3) commits or attempts to commit a felony, other than manslaughter, and in the course of and in furtherance of the commission or attempt, or in immediate flight from the commission or attempt, the person commits or attempts to commit an act clearly dangerous to human life that causes the death of an individual; or

(4) knowingly manufactures or delivers a controlled substance included in Penalty Group 1-B under Section 481.1022, Health and Safety Code, in violation of Section 481.1123, Health and Safety Code, and an individual dies as a result of injecting, ingesting, inhaling, or introducing into the individual’s body any amount of the controlled substance manufactured or delivered by the actor, regardless of whether the controlled substance was used by itself or with another substance, including a drug, adulterant, or dilutant.

So. (1) is the “culpable mental state”2. In order for the offense of murder to have occurred the criminal actor must have “intentionally or knowingly” killed someone; and (2) says “intends to cause serious bodily injury and commits an act clearly dangerous to human life that causes the death of an individual”.

That’s it. Anybody see “premeditation” in there? Anywhere?

“Serious bodily injury” is a clearly defined legal term, found in Chapter 1, of the Texas Penal Code, specifically, section 1.07 (46), to wit:

"Serious bodily injury" means bodily injury that creates a substantial risk of death or that causes death, serious permanent disfigurement, or protracted loss or impairment of the function of any bodily member or organ.

Does stabbing someone with a knife create a substantial risk of death OR death OR serious permanent disfigurement OR protracted loss or impairment of the function of any bodily member or organ?

Oh, hell yes.

“But, Ian, it was self-defense!”

Well, hey, guess what? The Texas Penal Code covers that, too. And Google is still your friend!

Texas Penal Code, Chapter 9, specifically Subchapter C, Section 9.32:

(a) A person is justified in using deadly force against another:

(1) if the actor would be justified in using force against the other under Section 9.31; and

(2) when and to the degree the actor reasonably believes the deadly force is immediately necessary:

(A) to protect the actor against the other’s use or attempted use of unlawful deadly force; or

(B) to prevent the other’s imminent commission of aggravated kidnapping, murder, sexual assault, aggravated sexual assault, robbery, or aggravated robbery.

“Deadly Force” being defined in Penal Code 9.01(3) as:

"… force that is intended or known by the actor to cause, or in the manner of its use or intended use is capable of causing, death or serious bodily injury.”

So. In order to justify using a knife to defend himself, Anthony has to prove that he thought the deadly force — yes, a knife is deadly force — was necessary to prevent the other kid from using or attempting deadly force against Anthony, or that the other kid was committing the crimes of aggravated kidnapping, murder, sexual assault, aggravated sexual assault, robbery, or aggravated robbery.

Yes, each of those has the required elements and definitions listed in the Texas Penal Code, and you can use Google to find them.

Personally, given the facts of the case I’ve seen so far, I don’t think he can prove either of those situations.

“But, Ian! Texas is a Stand Your Ground State!”

Yeah. And?

Sigh.

Section ( c ) of 9.32 is the relevant “Stand Your Ground” statute, to wit:

“A person who has a right to be present at the location where the deadly force is used, who has not provoked the person against whom the deadly force is used, and who is not engaged in criminal activity at the time the deadly force is used is not required to retreat before using deadly force as described by this section.”

In order for the Stand Your Ground statute to be relevant, Anthony is going to have to prove that he was lawfully present AND that he did not provoke the interaction OR that he was not engaged in criminal activity at the time of the incident.

If he was told to leave, he was no longer “lawfully present”.

Folks, I don’t care how popular TV shows and movies about Newt Yack City, or the People’s Democratic Republic of California are — the fictionalized laws of the People’s Democratic Republic of California or New Yack City have sod-all to do with the laws of Texas. Stop trying to apply Hollywood’s bastardized versions of the People’s Democratic Republic of California or Newt Yack City laws to the Lone Star State.

Thank you.

Ian

postscript: Dear Internet, guess what? The selection of a criminal jury in Texas is strictly bound by law, and you should probably research the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure, Chapter 35 (Titled “Formation Of The Jury”)3 before you go running off at the mouth, mmkay?

Ian

She was born in a trailer park, half dachshund and half chihuahua — although the chi part was hard to see.

Her first people took her away from her mother way too young, and left her tied to a fence and neglected.

She was still a puppy when her second family took her as a companion to the dog they already had. For the most part they were kind enough, but when night came they went to bed with their first dog, and left her outside by herself in the dark.

That didn’t last very long at all, and when we got her she immediately glued herself to Rita, and was a mama’s girl from then on.

We already had Praline and Chuy, and the first night she stayed with us, I took everyone out back to do business, then called them all back to go to bed. Mochi stood at the bottom of the back stairs watching Praline and Chuy go inside, then looked around the yard, trying to decide where she would sleep. The surprise when I encouraged her to come on inside was heartbreaking.

She spent that night on the bed, curled into the smallest ball she could get into, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, but when she figured out she wasn’t going to have to spend a night outside by herself again, she never looked back.

She was independent, smart, stubborn, and fearless. She was our little guttersnipe, and loved us with every ounce of her 14-pound body.

We came home last night and found her lifeless in the back bedroom.

Rita is wrecked, and I’m not much better.

First Praline, then Chuy, and now Mochi. This is the first time since Rita and I took up together that there hasn’t been the sound of little paws throughout the house.

This sucks.

Ian

TL/DR version: Choosing one’s perspective is key to overcoming the desolation of life’s disappointments

I want to share something that has been much on my mind of late, but I want to preface this with the caveat that there’s a sea of pretty ideas out there that appeal instantly but that don’t stand up to intensive scrutiny. Ours, alas, is an age of people trying to stanch the nag of spiritual questions with the soft pop psychology that permeates western culture and begs the listener to turn to anything but Jesus, when all along, He is the only answer. The story I’m about to share is absolutely true, and it could be adjacent to some of those pop psychology ideas that the likes of Oprah directs her audience to consider. I suspect her method, beyond feathering her nest, is to channel the attention of the public to things that appear close enough to admitting that we are spiritual beings without asking the tough questions about what is ultimately right or wrong. Hers seems the realm of reinforcing comforting ideas that, ultimately, are philosophically flawed. The story I share with you below is about making a choice to perceive things from a more objective standpoint, rather than seeing every curveball as the ultimate disruptor that could have occurred, and making life a misery.

Today I was in a lovely garden center where I’d gone to find a hummingbird feeder. I grabbed a cart and made my way through one greenhouse with trees, only to emerge into one filled with blooms, annuals and perennials, and hanging baskets dripping with blossoms. It was incredibly lovely. However, the humid heat in this greenhouse was oppressive.

“Those pentas are a gorgeous color, and the hummingbirds love them!”

The fellow shopper seemed startled as I pointed to the pot of crimson blooms she was considering.
“Aren’t they wonderful?”

“Yes! They’re a favorite of mine!” Then, without thinking, I blurted something that may have sounded like a complaint. “It’s like a sauna in here!”

“It really is.”

She didn’t need an explanation, but I decided to give one.
“Since I had radiation treatment a couple years ago, I am weirdly heat-fragile. This is the kind of heat that gets to me. I’ll just make a quick trip through.”

“I am sorry to hear about that. I hope you are healed. Bless you.”
It was kind of her to say. She had turned to me and seemed interested.
“Thank you, I really am blessed. It will sound strange to say, but the cancer itself was a blessing. I didn’t know it at the time, but it made me look at a lot of things differently. The Lord has blessed me beyond measure, and I am thankful for the lesson. And now I’m talking to you in this beautiful place.”

“You know, I’ve had that same experience through some health trials recently. I didn’t have cancer, but I had struggles. It all worked out for the best, thank the Lord. He is working to our good”

“Amen!” I said.

We talked a little bit more, and it was a sweet and joyous conversation. It brightened my day, and I hope it did hers, too.

One never knows how a random conversation can affect someone. I think sometimes we should state the obvious, like remarking on the beauty of the color of a flower, or on the astonishing engineering that wrought a bee with bags of pollen on her legs into existence. It’s important to name what we are experiencing, especially the mundane beauties and grace we take for granted.

I’ve always tried to embrace the joy of living, but I’ve not always understood how to go about it. I think now I understand that this joy is not having the right things or the stylish possessions that the world dictates are the measure of a life well-lived. I think one can have a joyous life in the most humble of circumstances, if one chooses. It is a matter of perspective across which I stumbled in a random conversation with a man about 14 years ago.

I was working as a move manager for a company. I coordinated moving crews, drivers, and dispatchers to make sure the move would be done to the customer’s liking. Best-laid plans being what they were, hiccups and turning on a dime were attendant features in that profession. From one of these hiccups came what would be one of the most startling lessons I’ve learnt in life, even though it took me years to really embed the idea properly.

That year, I called a customer in April to plan his move. I took an inventory of his possessions so the crew would arrive with adequate boxes for the pack, and so there would be enough trailers to haul his goods. The conversation was about half an hour, but I had all I needed to ensure his move would be as smooth as possible in July. He was nice, but moving is incredibly stressful for people, and I always did all I could to insure things would happen without a hitch.

The week before his move, I called the truck terminal and the moving crew to confirm that all the appointments were booked. I called him to let him know I’d reach out to him the day before.

The day before his move, I got a call from the man who owned the local moving company who was packing and loading my client’s house the following day.

“Sorry, Rita. This other job we’re doing today was under-estimated. We are going to be there another day. Can you tell your guy we’ll be there bright and early the day after tomorrow?”

This was the week of July 4, which is the biggest moving week in the industry. There was no way to get another crew in to pinch-hit. I called a few other movers, but quickly exhausted that faulty notion for the folly it was. I dreaded calling the customer, but I subscribe to the eat-the-frog philosophy that if you have to eat a frog, do it as early as possible, then you don’t have to spend your day dreading eating the frog.

I called the client and said “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve just learned that your crew is tied up on a job that will run over by a day, and will arrive 24 hours later than scheduled. I am so sorry to disrupt your plans.”

Braced for a stream of invective, I was astonished by his response.

“Oh, okay. Great! Hey, Rita, thanks for calling and letting me know! I’ll be here on Thursday. I’m all ready.”

I was astonished. He sounded happy. I could not resist the urge to remark on it.

“If you don’t mind me saying, I am surprised you are not angry. We worked out so many details and I thought you’d be upset.”

“I found out a long time ago that life is better when I recognize that things don’t happen to me, they happen for me. There’s a bigger picture I can’t see yet, so I try not to get bothered by a change in plans.”

I wish I’d kept a record of his name, because this startling conversation has come to mind hundreds of times since that day. I’ve spent so much of my life thinking that by running in one direction I could affect a particular outcome that would see me happier, more prosperous, and safer in an unpredictable world. However, all my planning and running in whatever direction kept bringing me to unexpected corridors and places I didn’t recognize, places I would not have intentionally chosen. I would question how I could have been so wrong. Second-guessing oneself is simply too easy.

The truth is that more than anything, the Bible admonishes us over and over to not be afraid, to not succumb to fearful living. Human effort and resilience is not what gives us strength. The grace and power of God is what carries us, even when we don’t recognize it. What I’d been doing most of my adult life was living according to my whims and not considering that God had plans and purpose for my life. I will not now succumb to regret, but instead I feel energized by the fact that He brought me through my terrible choices and missteps for a real purpose, and that there is more to come.

I’m flawed, and a sinful person, but the Lord is working on me. Thankfully, I have His grace to give me what I could never be good enough to earn. It’s been astonishing to look at the worst moments of my life, mostly in the past 8 years, and see His hand at work, helping me to recognize that even if things don’t make sense from moment to moment, I can rejoice that “all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

I am not perfect, never have been, never will be. I am, however, responsible for how I choose to perceive my life and how it unfolds. I can be hard and brittle and insist that the world go my way, or conclude that because it’s not all going my way that it is flawed and less worthwhile than the lives of others. Or I can bend like a tree bends in the wind, letting the tempest temper and knit its bark more tightly to prepare for future storms, twisting and springing back stronger and more adaptive. This is what I am choosing for my life. I can celebrate the fact that I don’t have to have all the answers today, and that I’m not the arbiter of all outcomes: I am the beneficiary. I think I’ve only been an adult for about five minutes, but don’t hold me to that. I’m still capable of setting a foot wrong.

For now, I’ll keep resting on Blessed Assurance, and trying to recognize that things are happening for me, and not to me. I’ll leave you with my favorite poem by C.S. Lewis, in which he gives thanks for the way his flaws have fallen to shambles, and left him to move forward with a clearer understanding of what really matters:

As The Ruin Falls

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love –a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek–
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

~C.S. Lewis

Something to think about on a summer’s day.

Rita

Great Britain used to be a nation of customs, and by ‘customs’ I mean ‘laws’. English Common Law is the basis for much of American jurisprudence; and England gave us Sir William Blackstone whose book Commentaries on the Laws of England was the first methodical and systematic examination of law, and did so in a manner that could not only be read by non-lawyers, but understood by them.

These days … not so much.

In 1850 General Sir Charles Napier was the British Commander-In-Chief of India, and apparently had quite a case of the red-arse at the Indian practice of sati — the burning alive of widows on their husband’s funeral pyre.

The Brits declared that sati would stop, most ricky-tick, but the locals had other ideas.

I’m not quite sure of the actual date — some sources indicate February of 1850 — a delegation of Hindu priests gained an audience with Sir Charles, to plead the case that they should be allowed to continue sati. Their ace in the hole — their ‘gotcha’ — was that Sir Charles had, in the past, argued vehemently for British colonial officials in India to allow locals to continue their customs.

They laid out what was probably a very practiced argument, and waited for his response — which was very articulate, very fair … and very, very Britishly savage:

“Be it so. This burning of widows is your custom; prepare the funeral pile. But my nation has also a custom. When men burn women alive we hang them, and confiscate all their property. My carpenters shall therefore erect gibbets on which to hang all concerned when the widow is consumed. Let us all act according to national customs.”
~Governor-General Sir Charles Napier

The priests looked the Governor-General in the eye … and by all accounts the open practice of sati ceased immediately.

Sigh.

In these “enlightened” days, it certainly appears that the judicial and legislative political critters seem to think that certain barbaric acts are excusable due to foreign customs.

Huh.

This is the West. We have had the unspoken “Napier Doctrine” from before Sir Charles so eloquently stated it, and it’s time that we reaffirmed it.

If your religious, cultural, national, or ethnic custom is that “women are no more worthy than a lollipop that has been dropped on the ground”, well the custom in the West is that women are precious; and to be treasured and defended. You act according to your customs, and we’ll act according to ours — rape is a felony and you get decades in prison.

Your religious, cultural, national, or ethnic custom may be that women and girls must be modest, and you’re just following your custom by assaulting them “for their own good”? Be it so. Our custom is that fathers, husbands, and other male relatives get to practice corrective phrenology if they catch you being stupid. Let us all act according to custom.

Your religious, cultural, national, or ethnic custom may be that dogs are unclean filth, but our custom is that they are beloved companions. Want to kick at them? Ok, but our custom is to beat the brakes off of you when you do. You follow your customs, and we’ll follow ours. Deal?

Want to practice barbaric customs due to your religious, cultural, national, or ethnic origins? Ok, but your religious, cultural, national, or ethnic origin should have absolutely zero impact on any corrective actions.

If 20 years is sauce for the goose, then 20 years is sauce for the gander. It’s only fair.

Ian

I love tomatoes. I grew up eating tomato and cheese sandwiches; and I have happily wandered around a garden munching tomatoes right off the vine. Tomato-based Italian sauces are glorious, and I will founder myself in spaghetti, lasagna, and anything else swimming in a tomato sauce.

Mexican and Southwestern tomato salsas make anything better, ketchup covers a multitude of sins, and very few dishes can’t be improved by a can of Rotel.

Caprese salad is a signal that spring has started; stuffed maters is a meal fit for a king, and tomato-garlic confit spread on toast is amazing.

That being said, while I adore tomatoes in soup … I cannot stand tomato soup.

Don’t judge me — you knew I was weird when you showed up.

However, a proper grilled cheese sammich begs — no, cries out — for a good mug of soup. So …

Take:
1.5 pounds of chicken thighs
1 yellow onion
1 bell pepper
2-3 stalks of celery
3-4 cloves of garlic
6 tablespoons of butter
1/4 cup of flour
4 cups chicken broth
1.5 cups milk
2 cups of cooked rice
Cajun seasoning of your preference

Melt a couple of tablespoons of butter in a pot, dice up your chicken, sprinkle it with Cajun seasoning, and then brown it in the pot.

While the chicken is browning, chop up the onion, celery, and bell pepper. When the chook is brown, remove it from the pot, pop in a couple of more tablespoons of butter, and the bung in the veggies. Stir them for 8 to ten minutes until they’ve softened nicely.

Add two more tablespoons of butter to the softened veg, and when it’s melted, throw in your flour. Stir continuously for two-three minutes. We’re not making any sort of dark roux here, so don’t worry.

After two-three minutes, add your chicken broth and the milk. Chop the heat down to a simmer, and stir occasionally for another ten-ish minutes. You should see the broth start to thicken up a little. If it thickens up more than your preference, add some more broth, or maybe a little water.

Toss the browned chicken in there, cook for about 15 minutes, then follow up with your cooked rice. Stir it for a couple of minutes, pop it into a soup mug, and serve with a sandwich of some kind … preferably grilled cheese.

Voila! Chicken soup.

Ian

Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother's first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow—
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky—
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

~William Ross Wallace

Happy Mother’s Day 2026.

Ian and Rita

You know what I'd like to see?

Red Flag laws for Congress.

Any Congresscritter says, or does, something unConstitutional anyone should be able to file a Red Flag violation and have that politician's powers to write bills, attend sessions of Congress, vote, draw a taxpayer-funded paycheque, live in a mansion in Washington DC, enjoy tax-payer-funded benefits, or anything else tied to the privilege of being a Congresscritter immediately suspended.

There would be a hearing within fourteen days before a judge in their home district, where the Representative or Senator would be given the opportunity to show where in the Constitution what they said, or the law they proposed, or the action they did, was explicitly authorised, and if they can show that, their privileges to all the goodies of being an elected representative of the People would be restored.

If they can't, then they can sit at home for a year and twiddle their thumbs. Not allowed into the Capitol, no drawing a paycheque, no voting, no proposing bills, nothing added to their pension funds, no taxpayer-funded healthcare, zip, zero, NADA to do with being an elected official.

And their party doesn't get to fill that slot. Their party doesn't get to cast a vote on their behalf. Their party doesn't get to help them with re-election.

No, that Congresscritter, and the seat they occupy, goes into the penalty box for a year.

After a year, if their term in office hasn't expired, they can take up their duties again.

Unless, and until, they mention violating the Constitution again, and someone files another Red Flag complaint.

Bastards.

Ian

Convention season is almost upon us, and since a lot of the conventions we will be attending aren’t even on the soil of the Republic1 there’s going to be a certain amount of air travel involved. While we will be taking our own vehicle for some of these, a couple will involve air travel. Which means ground transpo will have to be arranged at the location.

In the main there are five different varieties of transportation available, so — in no particular order — let’s discuss my feelings about each.

Public transit

This is your local bus system, local light rail, that sort of thing. Basically run by local government, using taxpayer funds. I dislike public transit intensely. Public transit is, for lack of a better term, nothing more than game trails on the Serengeti of crime.

Not only are your local commuter rail, and local busses oft times filthy, and inhabited by trustees of modern psychiatric pharmacology, the fact that they are a subset of government means that the local government can not resist dabbling their idiot fingers into the mess by adding Rules, Ordnances, and other government bushwa.

There will be limits — limits you won’t know about — on what you are allowed to carry on their vehicle. There will be taxpayer funded agents watching to see that you aren’t Running Afoul of The Rules — and a middle-class white male or female is a lot safer to Field Interview than a gang-banger, or someone having a psychotic break.

Public transit is canalized, inflexible, inefficient, and worships at the altar of appearing to solve public transport issues, instead of actually solving public transport issues.

On top of which — in the Name of Safety — video surveillance on public transport is becoming ubiquitous. I dislike the modern stampede towards the Panopticon, so public transit is a mode of last resort for me.

Taxis

Somewhat better than public transit — but that’s damning with faint praise. A taxi is more flexible and efficient than public transit, but it also tends to be a lot more expensive. Overseas taxi drivers sometimes find a lucrative side-hustle being spotters for local theft rings — they know which hotel you’re at, what sort of luggage you’ve got, and whether you’re a woman travelling alone. All important intel for thieves. Some taxi drivers go further and will participate in driving you to the scene of your kidnapping for a cut of the proceeds.

While the kidnap gangs so prevalent in the Third World aren’t Stateside — yet — they’ll arrive sooner or later.

The theft rings, I’m afraid, are already here.

Taxis also tend to be … less clean than I’d prefer.

If I get into a taxi, and I can’t reach the driver due to a partition, channeling, or any other reason … I don’t take the taxi. Your mileage, as they say, may vary.

Uber, Lyft, or other rideshare

My #2 preferred transport option. Usually — but not always — less expensive than a taxi, they’re also usually cleaner, and they offer the same flexibility and efficiency of a taxi.

Unfortunately they also share with taxis the opportunities for the drivers to have the criminal side-hustles, but the real-time tracking inherent in the system limits the worst of these inclinations — kidnapping. However, bear in mind that if the driver is tracked, then so are you. Plan accordingly.

Rideshare vehicles, given that they’re the driver’s personal vehicles, don’t usually come with the police-level partitions common to taxis in major metro areas. If I call an Uber, and the first thing I see when I open the door is a cage to climb into, I find another mode of transport.

Rental cars

Ugh. The level of Administrative Stupid required to rent a car these days, plus certain habits of the Criminal Class, make this a non-starter for me.

Drug mules love rental cars. If — when — they get busted, the vehicle that gets seized isn’t theirs, so they don’t care. Unfortunately — especially if they are clumsy with their personal product — this means that Bowser the Wonder Mutt can add an hour or so to any traffic contacts you may incur after sniffing the cargo from the previous occupant.

If a rental car is required, select an agency that doesn’t mark their vehicles with company branding. A rental car is a mark of a tourist, and criminals look for that sort of thing.

When you go out to the lot, the first thing you should do is conduct a walk-around of your rental car. Look for puddles under the engine, wear on the tyres, cracks in light housings, stuff hanging down from the undercarriage, stuff like that.

Next pop the hood, check the fluids — oil, water, that sort of thing — and the condition of the belts and hoses.

Finally, start the engine, and — this is the most important part that folks routinely leave out — check to see if you have fuel. You’d be surprised at the number of people I know who have complained to me that the Low Fuel Light clicked on halfway between the aeroport and the hotel. If the Check Engine light comes on, get another car.

Then get out, and check that the headlights work — including high-beams — plus the turn signals, and brake lights.

Unless, of course, you enjoy spending months arguing with the rental company over who should actually pay the ticket you got for an equipment violation. Some folks do.2

I know some very switched-on people who prefer to rent a car when they’re outside their usual area — I’m just not one of them.

Friend or trusted acquaintance

This is my preferred method of transport, especially in unfamiliar urban areas. A local friend or trusted acquaintance will be familiar with local traffic conditions, and will be comfortable with — or at least tolerant of — your security habits and/or foibles.

I shouldn’t have to mention this, but: Do try to select the friend who doesn’t have outstanding warrants, an adversarial relationship with local law enforcement, or driving habits that are outside of your personal comfort zone.3

Anyhoo, some thoughts on a Tuesday morning.

Ian

In August of 2019, on the old blog, I wrote an open letter to Representative Dan Crenshaw regarding his support of so-called “red flag laws”:

Dear Representative Crenshaw,

I'd like to take a moment of your time to talk to you about your "Red Flag Law" proposition; specifically about two concerns that I, and every other gun owner in these United States has.

The first is that while I appreciate your assurances that there will be "robust due process protections", I'm going to respectfully opine that you are incorrect. There will be no "robust protection" of due process for gun owners, no matter what you believe.

The reasons are the same reasons that there are no "robust protections" for those persons who are the subject of Emergency Protection Orders.

You see, Representative Crenshaw, "robust protections" means nothing more than a bucket of warm rodent expectorant if the police, the District Attorneys, and the judges decide it doesn't.

If you have sanctions against malicious filing of a Red Flag order, what good are they if the police refuse to investigate allegations of misuse? And they will. Oh, if they're called on the carpet about the lack of investigations, they'll look sorrowful and tell you that they just don't have the manpower for that sort of thing.

You can't look me in the face and tell me that the San Francisco Police Department is going to do a damned thing about those damned dirty gun-owners getting screwed over by false Red Flag orders.

Where is the "robust protection of due process" if the police aren't sanctioned for refusing to investigate?

If you have sanctions against misuse of Red Flag orders, what good are they if the District Attorneys refuse to accept a case of misuse of Red Flag "In The Interests Of Justice"?

And they will. Their explanation will be that they're worried that prosecuting malicious Red Flag cases might deter someone from a legitimate filing, an explanation they'll give with a pious look upon their face.

You can't guarantee the gun owners of this nation that the Seattle District Attorney is going to think that bad Red Flag orders aren't just something those barbarous gun-owners just have to endure.

So where is the "robust protection" if the DAs aren't sanctioned for refusing to accept cases involving malicious use of the Red Flag law?

When the judges dismiss fraudulent Red Flag cases from the bench — again, "In The Interests Of Justice" — where is the "robust protection of due process"?

You can't tell me with a straight face that there's a judge in Boston, or Chicago, or New York City that gives a damn if gun-owners get screwed over by an unlawful Red Flag order.

And your answer cannot be: "I don't know". This is your dead albatross, Representative. "I don't know" is an unacceptable answer. You'd better figure it out right the hell now.

Second is Mission Creep.

Let us postulate that you get a Red Flag Law passed that does everything you promise it will.

Doubtful, but let's imagine this.

So, what happens next Session when the gun-grabbers find a Law That Absolutely Must Be Passed, and stick an extra line in there about expanding your Red Flag Law?

Now what?

You have a bill that no congressman in their right minds is going to vote against ... and it expands your Red Flag law to allow Internet acquaintances to petition for a Red Flag order.

For better or worse this is your dead albatross, Congressman — what are you going to do when (not if) gun-grabbers start "fixing" your Red Flag Law by adding amendments and addendums into "Can't Not Pass" bills?

"I don't know" is not an acceptable answer, Representative Crenshaw. Figure it out now.

I sincerely believe that you are trying your best in a sticky political situation, but I think your Red Flag Law is going to wind up biting a whole bunch of people in the arse.

I don't really care if it torpedoes your career, but I do care that your misguided desire to "Do Something" is going to bite a lot of American gun owners in the butt.

I doubt if you'll ever see this, but if you do, I hope you at least think about the issues I have brought up in this letter.

Cordially,

LawDog

While I seriously doubt that that letter had anything to do with now-former Rep. Crenshaw losing his comfy, tax-payer-funded position, a small, vicious part of me hopes it had some small effect.

Anyhoo, we currently have an absolutely wonderful example of the first part of that above letter happening in Florida.

Like him or hate him, James O’Keefe is a bit of an oik. However, regardless of your opinion of him, he has a civil right1 to own firearms.

Matthew Tyrmand, a former member of the Project Veritas board — who may, or may not, have issued threats against O’Keefe — who lives in Brooklyn, New York filed a domestic violence restraining order against O’Keefe — who lives in West Palm Beach, Florida. About 1,220 miles apart. The civil case was, apparently, for stalking.

In furtherance of this civil case, on 23 APR 26, officers from the West Palm Beach (FL) Police Department confiscated Mr. O’Keefe’s firearms in response to a Risk Protection Order2 issued by the civil court.

About 24 hours later, another judge overturned the Red Flag seizure of the firearms, and ordered them returned.

Two notes here:

1) I will bet a sack of doughnuts that Tyrmand will face absolutely zero sanctions for what appears to be a blatant misuse of a Red Flag order. I will further bet that there will be absolutely zero investigation to determine if he did, in fact, deliberately misuse a court order to strip someone of a civil right. And if asked why a person who has allegedly used the legal process to blatantly violate the civil right of another American is freely allowed to do it, law enforcement, prosecutors, and judges will whinge about using one of the excuses I listed in my above letter to Rep. Crenshaw.

Folks, if you want people to take your idiot Red Flag Laws seriously3, you better damned well start stomping hard on obvious flagrant abuse of them. And by “stomping hard” I mean honest criminal investigation of alleged misuse/abuse of them, and honest prosecutorial effort. A jury finds you guilty of abuse/misuse of a Red Flag law — violating someone’s civil right — then you get a felony conviction on your record.

Period.

2) Somebody4 is going to snivel that O’Keefe suffered a “minor, temporary inconvenience”, and that a “minor, temporary inconvenience” balanced against “the interests of public safety” is no big deal.

Goodness. A civil right is a civil right. If “the interests of public safety” outweighs one civil right, then “the interests of public safety” outweighs all civil rights.

I will guarantee you that in every city of 100,000 population or more there are multiple locations responsible for the majority of crime in that city. There are multiple locations responsible for more deaths via drug overdose (“Interests of Public Safety”), and more deaths via drug turf wars than all of O’Keefe’s firearms put together.

I mean, if “the interests of public safety” are worth a 24-hour “minor, temporary inconvenience” suspension of James O’Keefe’s 2nd Amendment civil rights, then surely “the interests of public safety” are worth a 24-hour “minor, temporary inconvenience” suspension of someone’s 4th Amendment civil rights, right?

See how this works? Red Flag laws is a road we do not want to go down. Civil rights are civil rights, and we don’t get to treat one as sacrosanct, and another as inconvenient. If one requires probable cause to be suspended, than they all require probable cause to be suspended.

If a civil right can be stripped on an allegation in a civil court5 — no probable cause required — that starts a ball rolling nobody really wants to deal with.

Y’all need to listen to me on this one … but you won’t.

Ian

In the 1970s going into the 1980s television was pretty staid. I don’t want to say that it was cookie-cutter pablum … but it was pretty close.

Then came two episodes that changed everything, at least for me.

The first is pretty well known. It aired in September of 1982, on the series Magnum PI, and involved Magnum confronting an evil man, who had done great harm, and was apparently going to walk away scot-free. In TV up to that point, the audience had come to expect that the hero — through use of guile — would have talked the bad guy into confessing, and as he turned to walk away, cops who had been hiding within earshot would jump out and arrest the bad guy.

The communal gasp that went across the United States when Magnum simply shot him was … awe-inspiring:

I’m not quite sure how to explain the feeling after seeing that gunshot to kids these days, but at the time — holy gods. I don’t think it’s hyperbole to say that episode changed a lot of TV.

The second happened later — October of 1985 — and was considerably darker.

Miami Vice was changing things in police procedurals, but in a hip way. It made music one of the characters, brought new sensibilities, and younger, hungry directors who were willing to change style, but — overall — it remained the police procedural everyone had come to expect.

This episode was about an ex-cop, retired due to mental issues, and his pursuit of a criminal who had eluded him. The ending that everyone expected was to find out the ex-cop was correct, and would be vindicated.

That … wasn’t exactly how it ended. The reveal that the ex-cop had murdered the bad guy was a heck of a surprise — cops were good guys and didn’t do that sort of thing — and then a bigger surprise hit. Castillo showed up with the ex-cop’s partner as the body of the felon was discovered.

Crockett: “You knew. You knew he killed Arcaro.”

Lang: “I helped him build the wall. He was my partner, you understand? You understand?”

Crocket: “ … Yeah.”

While not as many people remember the Miami Vice episode1 as they do the Magnum PI episode2 to me the Miami Vice episode was more of a gut-punch. It brought a level of noir to broadcast tv previously only found under ‘R’ ratings in theatres.

It also was a bit more relevant. While some people might dream of getting to shoot a KGB torturer and walk away — that’s still the realm of fantasy. What you would do for your ride-or-die buddy … that’s a whole different kettle of fish. That’s not as far into the realm of fantasy as some folks might wish. Especially for some communities spread across the United States.

The really good entertainment — the kind of entertainment that people remember 40 or 45 years later — has to reach in and touch some part of your soul. Whether that part is the good part, or it’s the parts with the fangs and the claws that whisper softly from dark corners at three in the morning.

Anyhoo, inflection points have been on my mind recently, and apparently this is how my brain squirrels react to them — by digging up old TV episodes and making me rewatch them at two AM.

You’re welcome. At least it gave me something to blog about.

Ian

On this day, twenty years ago, a coconut tree decided to flap a frond in the direction of what a half century of wine, women, and song had failed to achieve: the demise of Keith Richards. In fond observation of Keef’s tenacity and sheer, dumbstruck awe of his ability to suffer the slings and arrows of life’s rich pageant and keep on truckin’, we share this brilliant tribute from British Poet, Murray Lachlan Young:

If Ya Gonna Go, Keith (Don’t Do It Like That)

Rita

While I’m not going to comment directly about the occurrence at the 2026 White House Correspondent’s Dinner, I am going to opine about something tangential to what happened.

Folks ask me, “Ian, why do you hate people so much?”

And I do. The public as a whole annoys the whey out of me. Humanity in general is nothing more than up-jumped apes; and not only do they possess the full measure of petty biliousness and vile moral depravity of our primate cousins, intelligence has just given humanity the key do it better.

Do you doubt me?

Seven months ago Erika Kirk saw her husband — the father of her children — killed by gunfire. Last night, what sounded like gunfire erupted in her hearing, followed by a response by the Secret Service and tac-teams that bolstered the idea that Something Bad Was Going On.

She was filmed shortly after — in tears, hurrying away, stating that she “Just wanted to go home.”

Boy, can I sympathize. I have been on the receiving end of my fair share of incoming gunfire. And I’m here to tell you: Despite being trained to deal with it, and despite being paid to deal with it … most of the time I wanted to just go home, too.

But, there’s this little ray of sunshine:

Let’s mock a widow, less than a year after a traumatic event, responding to yet another traumatic event, of the same variety of trauma — and you wonder why I hate people?

Kash Patel is the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Of your kindness, do note the last word of that title — “Investigation”. He was at the dinner, and he may or may not have been armed.

The President of the United States was present. Once gunfire started that scene belonged to the Secret Service. That room was full of jocked-up Secret Service tactical team members with levelled M4s, and jumpy plainclothed Secret Service agents itching to stitch a brisket with 4.6x30mm rounds1 looking for threats. They don’t want unasked for assistance. They don’t need unasked for assistance. That entire scene belongs solely to them at that time, and if they feel they need assistance, they'll jolly well ask for it.2

Matter-of-fact, jumping up and getting in their way while asserting your title is a damned fine way to complicate an already complex situation, and is a fantastic way to get crunched and/or shot.

Director Patel — understanding that his services will be required later during the investigation phase of this mess — and not wanting to distract, interfere with, and/or exacerbate current problems, crouches down and protects his wife girlfriend.3

Smart. Tactically savvy. Not to mention being the duty of a man.

Except, of course, if you’re the trash that is humanity. Read the comments on that reel, and then ask me again why I hate people.

When floods swept through Central Texas, and killed a camp full of teenage girls, the number of people — to include alleged medical people — dancing on the graves of those children was disgusting.

Speaking of alleged medical personnel — you know, those people who provide care when other people are at their most vulnerable, and who swear oaths to “Do No Harm” — you seen some of those folks Greatest Hits?

One of the only redeeming values of social media is the fact that it allows the entire world to see what a bunch of horrid little oiks humanity actually is.

You don’t believe me? Take a look around the Left side of your social media right now.

Ian

Four years ago today we got the author copies of the very first book1 that Raconteur Press published:

April seems to be An Important Month for Rac Press, because:

Yes, that Bill Willingham.

We’ll have the full, formal announcement on Monday, but y’all get to wonder over the weekend. Of course — knowing you lot — you’ll have it figured out well before then.

Anyhoo, as one might expect a collaboration with Bill Willingham is very, very exciting news, and very, very important for us as a press.

And we’d like enough sales that Bill will think collaborating with a little NextGen outlaw press is worth it.

Of your kindness, can y’all spread the scuttlebutt all over the internet? And while we won’t be publishing a comic book from Bill, I’m sure there are plenty of comic book sites, and media who might be interested.

Thanks!

Ian and Rita

While Ian is recovering from an insult of a medical nature, something sprang to mind that has been a much-loved story in our set and in my family for more than a decade. Thought you might get a grin, so here goes:

Since I moved to Tiny Town from Dallas, I make frequent trips back to Dallas County to visit my family there, usually staying with my folks one or two nights at a time. On one visit in about 2011, Dad gave me a rug that was rolled up and in a plastic sleeve. I put the back seat down in my SUV so I could lay the rug flat in its roll. There I placed it with my carry-on bag, and away I went.

On the way home that evening, I stopped at Sweetie Pie’s Ribeyes (R.I.P.)1 in Decatur for a chicken-fried ribeye steak and to meet my friends, Holly and Christina, who drove in from their respective nearby towns for a hen party. We cackled and laughed as we visited, and I drank what must have been 2 or 3 glasses2 of iced tea. Of course, I visited the WC before we said our goodbyes.

On the road, I’m not prone to speeding. I recall that night was the time of year when deer are in rut, and I am even less inclined to speed on roads through farmland where hormonally addled ungulates are gadding warp-speed about the landscape. Driving in the dark, especially as I get older and people drive vehicles with ridiculously bright headlamps, I take my time when I travel, deeming that an extra 10 or 15 minutes driving is a small price to pay for arriving home with me and my vehicle undamaged.

Having set out from Decatur, a bit under 2 hours of driving would see me home. Unfortch, about one hour into the ordeal, the first glass or three of iced tea made me to understand that it wanted out at the nearest exit. I had to be at work in the morning, though, and didn’t want to stop, so I pressed on. I could hold it, I reasoned. After all, wasn’t I an adult?3 When I passed through the nearby middling sized burgh just before my town, I rounded a big curve with a mere handful of miles to go. Apparently, I was running for the barn, because vibrant lights burst into view behind me, and they were coming right for me. I had not even realized I was speeding, as I was thinking of my floating back teeth at that particular juncture. I pulled onto the shoulder and stopped forthwith.

The nice State Trooper came up to my window and asked for my license and insurance, which I proffered, along with my carry card. He asked if I knew why he pulled me over. I told him no, that I was surprised to be pulled over. I rather expected him to say I had a tail lamp out or somesuch. He told me I was speeding. Then he shone his light into the back of the vehicle, the torchlight no doubt having illuminated the roughly 6 foot swaddled burrito rug lurking innocently in the back. His curiosity got the better of him.

“What ya haulin?”

“Ass, apparently.”

To my relief, he laughed uproariously. I can’t help being sassy with cops.

“That’s a rug my Dad just gave me in Dallas when I visited. I met some girlfriends for chicken fried steak in Decatur on the way here, and I drank about a gallon of iced tea. I am so sorry, I didn’t realize I was speeding, but I was definitely running for the barn. I don’t ever want another glass of iced tea in this lifetime, I have to go so bad. I apologize, but I was so uncomfortable that I wasn’t even looking at my gage.”

He went back to his SUV, then came back with a little warning slip almost immediately. I’d like to think he was so expeditious on account of mercy, but maybe he just didn’t want to do more paperwork. Maybe the laugh was worth the warning. I wasn’t really speeding at a rate that could be characterized as hauling ass, but it was fun to play naughty for a minute.

When I arrived home, did the needful, then told Ian I had something to tell him, I learned that the law enforcement gossip circuit in the area is apparently most thorough, as my story was not news to him.

Smarty-pants.

Rita

Today I am steeling myself for a date with The Wifflebat of Regretful Introspection down in the Metromess tomorrow, so I am currently working on things — other than writing.

In lieu of a thoughtful post today, here’s a … very Ian-ish … story that Three Ravens published in their first It Came From The Trailer Park anthology.

There is a Salty language Alert for this one, just be advised.

Enjoy!

*****

I sipped my coffee and glared at my front lawn, or rather at the patch of crabgrass that simulated a lawn at Hidden Haven Trailer Park, and at the item still steaming gently in the morning air.

That’s it. Enough.

I paused just long enough to snag my “Do Not Meddle In The Affairs Of Wizards” coffee mug, grabbed my cane, and stomped down the gravel street on the way to the office, absently waved my coffee mug at Bob in the (quite frankly nasty) pool, and was brought up by an altogether too-cheerful greeting: “Good morning, Mr. Phil! How are you?”

I’d like to hate Rupert, but it’s hard to hate someone that damned cheerful — even at crack-of-dawn in the morning.

“Morning, Rupert. Could you leave a message for Doug to come by and see me when he gets in?”

Rupert sashayed out from behind the counter and topped off my coffee mug. “Sure,” he chirped. “Is there something I can help you with?”

I sipped. Ah, Kona. Rupert always has the best blends. “It’s the Clarks.”

He grimaced. “Oh. Buddy again?”

I nodded. He sighed, dramatically. “I’m so, so sorry. As soon as Iggy gets here, I’ll send him by with a baggie.” There was a pause while Rupert fluttered his fingers, gently.

It was my turn to sigh. “Yes?”

“Could you do me a favor, Mr. Phil? We had a new tenant move into 15B last night, and Doug hasn’t had a chance to check him out yet, and I’m … well, I’m not sure he’s really a good … fit.”

“No problem. I’ll go talk to Frank and then check on the new guy.”

The mild worry cleared from Rupert’s visage like storm clouds. “Thank you, Mr. Phil! Give my love to Viv! Don’t set anything on fire!”

I glared at the spotless double-wide in 37A. Nothing in a trailer park should be immaculate, but the actual grass was clipped to a regulation height, the deck was freshly painted, and the lawn decoration was tasteful, unfaded, and appropriate to the season. I would swear that each piece of gravel in the drive had been hand-scrubbed to a pristine white.

Gawd.

Acutely conscious of my ratty bathrobe, tartan flannel lounge pants, “hostile koala” t-shirt, and comfortable bunny slippers, I knocked gently on the hardwood door and stepped back. Moments later, Frank Clark opened the door and squinted at me dozily. Even in boxer shorts, the man looked like a cologne commercial, and I sighed.

“Phil?”

“Morning, Frank.”

Behind him, I heard a murmur, and his wife Vivian slipped up beside him, wearing one of his shirts, to lean against him, blinking sleepily. Goodness, someone was out late last night.

“Morning, Phil.”

“Morning, Viv.”

“What’s up, Phil?”

I tapped my cane gently on the probably handwoven doormat which announced “HELLO” in some classic, understated font. “Buddy got out last night. Again.”

More blinking, as the information wended its way through the muzziness, and then Vivian’s pretty eyes opened wide. “Oh! Phil, I’m so sorry!”

Frank took a little while longer before it dawned. “We’ll take care of it! Promise! Sorry!”

Privately, I doubted it. Buddy was a spoiled-rotten little shit, but I did like Frank and Vivian, so I nodded and let them get back to their bed before I stalked off, muttering to myself.

In contrast to the Clark residence, the trailer in 15B was a battered Airstream with what looked like several decades of road grime and hard use. On the door, next to a stencil of a flying saucer inside of a circle-slash “NO” symbol, were the hand-painted words “FUCK OFF” in rattle-can orange. I approved.

At my knock, the door flew open, revealing a slender, agitated man with half a roll of Reynolds Wrap around his head, and another full roll wrapped around his BDU trousers like a miniskirt.

“Are you one of them?”

Oh, boy. Keeping my voice gentle, I replied, “Depends. Who’s ‘them’?”

He produced a battery-powered drill with an eggbeater in the chuck, and waved it at me. “Zeta Reticulans.”​

I shrugged, carefully, showing my hands. “Not that I know of.” The eggbeater spun, and little strands of LED lights whirled around the beaters, flashing in different colors.

He moved it carefully towards my coffee cup. “Grays. Is that a probe?”

I moved my cup out of range. “Uh, it’s for holding coffee, and I’m not gray at all.”

He squinted at me, put the drill/egg beater/LED light thingie on something inside the trailer, and came out with a kazoo to which he attached a can of compressed air. Moving like it was a tube of nitroglycerine, he waved it up and down my cane, each push of the button making a god-awful noise. “Is that cane actually a probe in disguise? Are you aligned with, allied with, bound to, part of a treaty, or otherwise beholden to any alien race, whether Grays or any other species?”

I pushed the auto-kazoo away, firmly. “No.”

He sighed. “Good. I fucking hate those goddamned probes. Want to come in?”

Behind him, I could see that the walls of the Airstream were covered in copper mesh, and the windows wrapped in multiple layers of aluminum foil. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this movie on Court TV. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“You’d think that someone who can come across interstellar space faster than the speed of light could do that sort of thing non-invasively.” His slight frame vibrated like a chihuahua on crack, and leaning forward, whispered, “Honestly, I think they like doing the probulating thing.”

Okiedokie. “Well, I just stopped by to welcome you to the neighborhood…”

“Oh, I won’t be here too long. They always catch up, and then …” I had thought the vibrating was bad — incredibly, it got worse.

I tapped my cane gently, backing up. “Okay, you have a good day …” He seized my hand, shook it briskly, then brought the drill-eggbeater out again and waved it in front of my chest, squinted suspiciously at the LEDs, and sighed in relief. I extracted my hand and continued my retreat, waving, until I made my escape around the front of the Airstream.

Later that evening, I contemplated the setting sun, added some finishing touches to a new addition to my front patch of crabgrass, then went inside to open two bottles of beer.

About twenty minutes after the sun went below the horizon, someone knocked on my door, which I opened to reveal a surfer dude staring with some amusement at my “Come Back With A Warrant” doormat. I handed him one of the bottles as I stepped out onto the deck, closing the door behind me.

“Doug,” I said, clinking the necks of the bottles together. “How are you?”

He grinned at me, took a sip of the Scotch ale, and sighed happily. “Evening, Phil. Rupert said you needed to talk to me?”

I sipped mine. Nectar of the gods. “Yeah, the Clarks …”

He waved his bottle. “Is Buddy getting out at night again?”

“Yeah, and the little twerp …”

“Crapped on your lawn again?”

“You damned betcha …” My tirade was interrupted by a baritone crump from the front of my lot, followed immediately by the squalling of a startled puppy and the skattling sounds of a five-pound dog hauling ass down a gravel street.

Doug gave me an exasperated look. “Phil. What did you do?”

I took a sip of beer, swallowed. “It’ll wear off.”

“Oh, God. Frank and Viv are going to tear you a whole new asshole.”

“Speaking of, have you met the fruit loop in 15B?”

“Don’t change the subject, Phil, although he is a little out there … Well, shit, there’s Frank and Viv. Don’t let me get in the way.”

“What the fuck, Phil?” Around the corner of my trailer came Frank Clark, followed closely by his wife, who was cradling something in her arms.

I waved at the couple. “Evening, Frank. Evening, Viv. It’ll wear off.”

“Wear off! Wear off? This is not fucking cool, Phil!” Vivian came to a stop next to her husband, and in her arms was a Yorkshire Terrier with an absolutely gobsmacked look on its little face.

Kind of adorable, actually. The dog, I mean — not Vivian, who maybe looked a bit homicidal.

I tapped my cane, gently. “If he hadn’t been crapping in my yard, nothing would have happened.”

“Seriously?”

And then the world buzzed, and went kind of … dull.

When I surfaced, I couldn’t think. The world was black-and-white, and I was … numb. In front of me were … people? And there was movement. From between … Frank? And … Doug? Came a small … person? Gray-skinned, big black eyes, long little digits. Behind it, several more were poking around. Poking things with their skinny little fingers. Poking Vivian, and Buddy, and me. In the back of my mind, something was yelling, but I just couldn’t think.

“Hah! HAH! I figured it out, you little motherfuckers!”

All of the little gray dudes turned to look in the direction of 15B, and something deep down inside of me tried screaming, but it was the roar of the ten-gauge shotgun fired by Mr. Tinfoil Fruitbat that cleared the brain fog away like mist in the teeth of a howling gale.

I shook myself as the world came up to speed, and grinned at the alien. “Oh, you poor dumb bastards. You came to the wrong trailer park.”

I reached for the eldritch power I had spent a lifetime studying, spoke Words and slammed my cane into the deck at my feet.

In front of me, a lightning bolt hammered down out of a cloudless sky and blew the little gray pervert into smoking bits. The clap of thunder that accompanied the lightning made sure that everyone in the Hidden Haven Trailer Park who hadn’t been roused by the shotgun was now alert.

I’ll give the second one props: he started towards me, waving a silver cylinder with bits and lights all over it, before Frank the Werewolf hit him like a furry tan Buick. Beside me, Doug moved incredibly fast, fangs erupting from his gums as he grabbed an alien and picked it up like a cob of corn. Past him, Vivian — in full snarling fury — tried to fast-pitch another one through my trailer. Several times.

I gathered fire into my hands and looked around. At the pool, hundreds of tentacles erupted from the depths and yanked two more Grays into the water as Bob woke up, and I was vaguely aware of yet another one running in circles with five pounds of enraged Buddy clamped firmly onto its left ham.

Down the street, one of the aliens staggered out of the herb patch belonging to the goblin commune in 22A, dragging two of the tie-dye-wearing kobolds who were gnawing like rabid beavers on alien ankles, while a third was on the being’s shoulders, vigorously realigning extraterrestrial chakras with what looked for all the world like a Himalayan salt lamp in a hemp pillowcase.

Then I noticed the silver saucer hovering overhead. Well, well, well.

Drawing on the nearest of several ley lines, I created an exit portal just in front of my hand. The entry portal? Somewhere out around the asteroid belt, and when the marble-sized chunk of nickel-iron came out, it was traveling at interstellar speeds.

The brief flash as it ignited part of the atmosphere on the way through the open hatch in the bottom of the UFO was kind of pretty. The plasma glow of the dozen or so of its buddies following could have been thought of as romantic, although probably not to the crew of the spaceship.

The saucer lurched, slightly, then righted, as a rotating glow began to spin around the bottom. Down here on the dirt, the Gray with Buddy attached to his left buttcheek was making laps around the trailer, fluting little distress noises. Up above, the saucer made a sub-harmonic, bone-rattling hum interrupted by a grinding noise, flickered, and vanished.

Beside me, Doug grabbed up his beer and took a big mouthful, gargled, spat, and swigged again. “You okay, Doug?”

He waved a tiny gray arm at me — just the arm — and spat again. “God. Ugh. They taste like a high school boys’ locker room smells. God. Yuck.”

Over by the pool, one of Bob’s Grays crawled out of the water, and began scrambling for the hedge before Bob’s tentacles swarmed out and dragged it back in. Doug winced.

“Dude, Bob watches a lot of Japanese porn.”

“Yup.”

“A lot of the really weird — and we’re talking Japanese here — porn.”

“Yup.”

“Don’t you think we should go, I don’t know, save him?”

I used my toe to nudge the silver cylinder that Frank’s first victim had dropped. It thrummed like a single-cylinder diesel engine, and several pointy, spinny, flashy things snapped out of the surface before the crackle of sparks made us both jump.

I shrugged. “Nope.”

Doug looked at the probe for a moment, his fangs showing. “Good point.”

In the street, Buddy’s Gray was spinning in circles trying to pry Buddy loose. I sighed, snapped my fingers, and manifested a walnut-sized part of the Earth’s core inside the alien’s little gray skull. It made a wonderful pop noise, and ET was abruptly a head shorter.

Buddy barked madly, then cocked a leg on the alien. I frowned at him as he side-eyed me the entire time, kicked gravel on the corpse, and trotted over to Frank, where he barked and growled.

“I saw, Buddy,” Frank said encouragingly, as he bent and scooped up the five-pound hound. “Very cool!”

Vivian appeared from the alien-shaped hole she had created in my trailer, and stood next to her husband, hands on her hips. Although being a werewolf was apparently very hard on clothes, it was also apparently very good on developing … lungs … which caused Doug and I to abruptly turn around and start surveying the landscape.

I shrugged out of my bathrobe, held it behind me, and there was an exasperated feminine snort as Viv took it from my hand. “It’s not like you haven’t seen boobs before, gentlemen.”

Doug sounded pained. “Yes, Vivian, but there are rules. Rules are important. They keep civilization civilized.”

“Speaking of civilized …” Frank passed Buddy off to his wife, who immediately cuddled him. “My son is a werewolf, not a wereyorkie.”

I folded my arms as Buddy gave me a teacup-sized glare, and I cocked an eyebrow at Frank and Viv. “Yorkie crap is easier to pick up out of the yard than wolf crap.”

Buddy had the grace to look a bit abashed.

“And hamster crap would be even easier.”

Buddy blinked at me, startled. His mom half-turned, hiding him from me, as his father ran his fingers through his fur and sighed.

I wasn’t sure he thought I was serious, so I squinted at him. “The spell will wear off in a couple of days, and it’s better than waking up in a vet’s office. Or any other number of other things I could have done.”

Frank held up both hands — err, paws. “It won’t happen again, Phil. Swear to God.”

I sighed. “Okay, Frank. I’ll be there in the morning to get my robe back — I’ll fix the hex then. Go home.”

Frank smiled at me — well, as close to a smile as you could get with a muzzle full of fangs — put his arm around his wife, and they trotted off down the street, Buddy eye-fucking me over his mother’s shoulder the entire time. Oh, well.

Down the gravel street, two figures wandered towards us, one carrying an enormous double-barrelled shotgun over his shoulder, the other pushing a rolling dumpster.

“Good evening, Master Douglas,” said Igor, immaculate in his tweeds. “Magus Phillip.”

“Evening, Iggy,” I replied, as Igor imperturbably used a reach extender to pick up what looked like a separated gray drumstick, and dropped it into the dumpster. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Nonsense,” Igor said, as he got the headless alien into a fireman’s carry and hucked him into the dumpster. “I thought I’d show Master Eustace around the park, and might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

Tinfoil Fruitbat winced at the “Eustace,” switched the shotgun to his other shoulder, carefully wiped his hand on his orange hunting vest, and held it out to me. “Jack.”

I shook the offered hand, gently. “It’s not usually this festive around here. I guess the excitement will have you moving on?”

Igor gave me a level look. “Magus Phillip is quite the comedian.” He picked up the alien probe and weighed it carefully, then gave me a Significant Look this time. “It conceals the inner kindness we all know is there.”

Hmm. “Like I said earlier … Jack, did you say? Welcome to Hidden Haven Trailer Park.”

He smiled, like it had been a while, and carefully adjusted his tinfoil fez. “Thanks. I think I like it here. Yeah. I like it here. Good folks. Yeah, I like it here.”

I hoped the twitch wasn’t too obvious. Jack nodded heavily, and walked back to his Airstream, carefully smoothing his aluminum miniskirt on the way.

“Master Douglas. I set your breakfast on the porch. You should eat it before it coagulates.”

“Noodge, noodge, noodge.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Master Douglas. Magus Phillip, will you be repairing your trailer, or should I call the contractor?”

“Thanks, Iggy. I’ve got it.”

“Very good, sir. Now I must contact the city for an extra trash pickup.” Iggy touched the brim of his flat cap and marched off in the direction of the office, the overloaded dumpster crunching through the gravel.

I grinned in spite of myself.

It wasn’t always quiet, but damn, I loved this place.

*****

Yeah, that’s a typical Ian story — just a little off of plumb.

Anyhoo, I’ll be out of hand tomorrow, and prossibly face-down Thursday. I’ll probably put it up another bit of fiction, or a LawDog story then.

Ian

Rita and I have been up to our gonads in gators the last couple of weeks, and we have at least another couple of weeks of assorted tasks to be done over various parts of a 250-mile stretch of North Texas.

Brain no worky right now. Have a story from The LawDog Files:

*****

A big part of the Sheriff’s “Work smarter, not harder” philosophy involved the fine art of misdirection: if a subject was so confused that he wasn’t per-zackly sure which way was up, then he/she/it/they probably wouldn’t be causing the sorts of problems which require extra paperwork. Or ER trips. Depositions. Lawsuits. That kind of thing.

Which brings us to the Pink Gorilla Suit.

Sigh.

Tucked not-far-enough in the back of the evidence closet was a costume that the S.O. had picked up from somewhere. As the name suggests, this was a gorilla costume, mostly pink.

Now, when I say pink, I don’t think y’all quite understand the depth of pinkness we are contemplating here: it was pink pink. Neon pink. Fluorescent pink. A pink not found anywhere in nature. A pink that, in and of itself, constituted a radiation hazard. A shade of pink which, after a single glimpse, would cause the most flamboyant Mardi Gras costumer to protest that things had gone too far.

Pink.

Now, bad as this mental picture is, the long-ago insane designer of this suit had apparently decided that having only one eye-searing shade was simply too boring, so this poor unfortunate had added spats, gloves, cuffs, a bowtie and a top hat.

All very natty, and all very mauve.

We will now pause to give the Gentle Reader enough time to fully digest the Sheer Awfulness that was the Pink Gorilla Suit.

Yeah.

Anyhoo, we had gotten a search warrant. Apparently, our Usual Suspects had graduated to Methamphetamine, Distribution Of; and had stashed a functioning meth lab inside a garage apartment out behind the house of, and belonging to, the grandparents of Usual Suspect #3.

Our pre-warrant briefing consisted of The Sheriff reminding us of some of the knottier problems associated with executing a search warrant on a meth lab (most of which seem to involve uncontrolled high-speed random disassembly of various items and/or people) and finishing off with a reminder that the Standard Obscenity Procedure for this sort of thing was to distract the critters long enough for officers to secure the scene without any of what the Sheriff referred to as “fuss and bother.”

That’s when the Chief Deputy handed me the box containing the Pink Gorilla Suit.

Sigh.

There I was, sulking down the street in front of God and everybody, wearing a neon-pink-gorilla-suit-with-mauve-accouterments over jeans, armour and a pistol, with a search warrant tucked securely in my sleeve, and the Sheriff’s exhortations to “Be distracting” ringing in my ears.

Bearing in mind that the search warrant was only for the garage and apartment, and not wanting to find myself in Animal Control’s Bad Graces (again), I moped up the steps to the main house and rang the doorbell.

Light footsteps approached the door, followed by a long pause. Then the sound of the footsteps heading away from the door.

Sigh.

I pulled my badge out from the collar of the suit and held it prominently in one paw.

This time, the footsteps were accompanied by a heavier tread. I waved my badge at the peephole and was rewarded with the door opening just enough for me to be beheld by an extremely suspicious eye.

I tipped my hat (top, mauve in colour) politely. “Afternoon, sir. Sheriff’s Office. Pardon the interruption, but we’re going to be serving a warrant on your garage and apartment. The Sheriff told me to tell you that he’d take it kindly if y’all would stay inside the house until we got things under control.”

Long pause.

“Under control,” murmured the gentleman slowly as he opened the door a little more fully. “Are you planning on that there ‘control’ thing happening anytime soon?”

Smart aleck.

“Can’t really tell with this kind of thing, sir. We’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

Might as well get this over with. I leaned slightly right and looked around the gentleman to the lady of the house. “Ma’am,” tip of the hat again, “mind if I borrow some of your flowers?”

She looked at me, at the innocent tulips on the edge of the walk, and back to me.

“Umm. Go right ahead. You do know that you’re … pink?”

“Hadn’t noticed, ma’am,” I lied gallantly, while selecting a pair of yellow tulips that set off the mauve spats nicely, “We’ll be around back if you need us.”

I trudged back to the street, turned left and walked down to where the driveway from the garage entered the street. The garage sat about twenty feet or so back, with the apartment being the second floor of the structure.

The only ways in or out were two roll-up garage doors and a people-type door facing me, and the only windows to be seen were on the side facing the street.

Sigh.

Distracting. Hah.

I looked around and made sure that I was at the junction of the driveway and the public street, set my top hat securely on the mask, straightened the gloves and spats, took a deep breath …

… And burst into a full-blown, top-of-the-lungs, you’ll-bloody-well-hear-this-one-at-Carnegie-Hall rendition of “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”

While using the tulips as the microphone.

By God.

Snort, snort.

I did the works. Vocals. Backup vocals. Sound effects. Kinda-sorta instruments. Howling. The whole nine yards.

And, of course, “Dirty Deeds” has that lovely guitar solo, which lends itself quite nicely to an air-guitar — excuse me — tulip-guitar performance.

Well, okay … if it didn’t, it does now.

Unfortunately, the tulip-guitar solo kind of led into a dance.

It was a fairly energetic dance. And maybe a touch expressive …

All right! There was gyrating going on.

However, I do not think that I was doing quote “The gorilla version of a fan dance” unquote. I don’t think you can do quote “suggestive things with a hat” unquote when you’re wearing a fur suit over armour, and that over jeans. And I do take umbrage at the suggestion that I quote “Gave them the ‘Full Monkey’” unquote.

Anyhoo, I dug down de-eeeep for that final “YEARGH!” then clutched my tulips to my chest with both paws, and slowly, dramatically — and with the greatest amount of majesty that can be summoned while wearing a gorilla suit — fell over backwards onto the gentle grass.

Hell of a performance, if I do say so myself.

So, I laid there, pondering the blameless sky and trying to remember if, at any time during the Academy, any of my instructors had ever mentioned the words “Pink,” “Gorilla,” and “Suit” in the same day, much less the same sentence, when over my natty, spat-adorned (mauve in colour) toes, I noticed some faces in the window panel of the garage door.

I was beginning to wonder if maybe my performance was a little too good when the door opened and the Usual Suspects slipped out to stand just shy of my fuchsia carcass.

Usual Suspect #1: “Dudedudedude, umm, dude, umm, wow.”

Usual Suspect #2: “Umm … it’s … umm …”

#1: “Dude, this is, like, not good, okay? Not good, dude. You can’t stay here, okay?”

#2: “Umm … it’s … ummm …”

“Pink,” I think to myself. “Pink. The word you’re looking for is pink.”

#1: “Dude! Top hat! It’s not an ‘it.’ It’s a ‘he’! See the hat?”

At this point, Usual Suspect #3 — the only female in the group — stopped gnawing on her thumbnail long enough to vibrate out, “Chickswearhatsyoulikemyhat!”

#2: “Furry! He’s … umm … furry?”

So near, yet so far.

Behind the group, I see the Sheriff, hands in pockets, grass stem between his teeth, strolling nonchalantly into the structure through the door the Usual Suspects had left open. Right behind him, grinning at me, went the Chief Deputy.

Usual Suspect #1 glared at #2: “Dude, he can’t help the way he was born. Dude!”

#2: “Umm … pink. And pink.”

Ah hah! thinks I.

#1: “Dude, Pinky. Come on, Pinky. Dude, you can’t stay here, dude. Oreos! Pinky, dude, Oreos in the kitchen, man. Oreos! Let’s go get the Oreos!”

So saying, #1 and — after a short pause — #2 began lifting me up, and as they got their shoulders under my arms, I saw the Sheriff pop out of the garage and give me a thumbs-up.

About bloody time.

I reach into my left sleeve, pull out the folded paper, hand it to Usual Suspect #1 and announce, quite firmly, “Sheriff’s Office, search warrant.”

Usual Suspect #1 stares at me, and then his eyes well up with tears, “Dude, dude, ah, man. Dude! We’re buds, dude!” #2 pivots slowly and begins to oh-so-innocently wander away, only to be corralled and cuffed by the grinning night deputy.

“No, no, dude,” offered #1 as I cuffed him, “No! This ain’t right, man! You sold out, dude! That’s so wrong!”

I turned him around, reached up, pulled that damned gorilla mask off, dropped it on the ground and shook a hot pink finger in his face. “Listen to me.”

All three sets of jaws dropped.

“Are you listening? Quit guinea-pigging the product. Seriously.”

I was pretty sure that I wasted my breath, given the completely bumfuzzled expression on the face of #1 as he looked from the discarded mask to me and back again. #2 was just staring at me with his face scrunched up like a monkey doing a math problem.

And then the magnitude of the sheer depravity that local law enforcement was capable of hit Usual Suspect #3.

“… OhmyGawdohmyGawdohmyGawd,” she gasped, bouncing up and down like a demented jack-in-the-box …

“… Nonono, youdonunnerstand, nonono!” She took a deep breath, her expression one commonly seen upon the countenance of saints who have just beheld the vilest depths of the utter darkness of the human soul…

“THEY.”

“SKINNED.”

“PINKY!”

The Chief Deputy was immediately seized by a coughing fit. The Sheriff seemed to find something intensely fascinating in overhead cloud cover whilst rubbing his mustache ferociously. Usual Suspect #1 let out a soul-rending shriek as he fell to his knees, sobbing and nuzzling the discarded gorilla mask, and #3 hurled imprecations and threats in my general direction.

I looked at my fellow peace officers, all finding this to be incredibly funny, gathered my tattered pride and dignity, straightened the bowtie and spats, extracted my hot pink gorilla mask from #1, tucked it under my arm, announced firmly, “I’m going home now,” turned and began marching down the street …

… But not before the night deputy slid a comradely arm about my shoulders and said, with steely sympathy: “I know it doesn’t feel like this now, but your betrayal was for their own good. Go home. Drown your sorrows in Oreos. Things will be better in the morning.”

“Oh, you’re a right bastard, you are.”

*****

Between the Prometheus Finalist news, another bit of excitement we’ll be announcing pretty quickly, and dealing with some of the health vagaries common to Gentlemen Of A Certain Vintage, things might be a little slow here. It’ll pick up after we get things Sorted Out, I promise.

Ian

Today, the Libertarian Futurist Society released the list of Finalists for this year’s Prometheus Award.

We are tickled pink to announce that not one, but two of our authors are in the five finalist slots.

We’d like to congratulate Dave Freer as finalist for his work Storm Dragon, and to J. Kenton Pierce for his book A Kiss For Damocles.

Have we mentioned that Raconteur Press published both of those?

Woo hoo! Our first year publishing novels, and not one but two of the books we published get to the Final phase of a major award.

Once we get finished dancing around the shop, we’ll have even more thrilling news.

Work, work, work.

Ian and Rita

Thanks to modern surveillance technology1, we have 4k video of how quickly a critter at the front door can turn into a critter in the hall.

As is our habit here at the Bugscuffle Gazette, we’re not going to name the critter, because the little bugsnipe doesn’t deserve any notoriety from this.

So, apparently Critter du Jour got hisself a fixation on the daughter of a neighbor, and decided to pay a visit:

When throwing a strop and beating on the front door didn’t work, the critter went around the house until he made entry through what was allegedly a sliding glass door, and began searching for — apparently — the daughter:

The father of the house, having seen all of this on video, rushes home, arms himself with a shovel, and confronts the intruder.

Both the father and the critter seem to have sustained head injuries during the confrontation, received medical care, and the critter is now in custody — where he belongs.

First off — well done to the father for stepping up. Unfortunately in these modern “enlightened” times, the concept of “father’s duty” occsionally gets ignored, so all honor to the father here.

There are, however, some lessons that can be learned around this incident.

First off — sliding glass doors are a sodding security nightmare, especially if they’re anywhere near throwable deck furniture, plaster lawn gnomes, loose bricks, or the like. French doors fit in almost the same footprint, and — properly secured — offer somewhat better security.

Second: while better than fingernails and harsh language … honestly, a shovel is a suboptimal tool for dealing with an intruder, especially in a hallway.

He offered threats to commit murder, demonstrated violent, aggressive behaviour, and entered the residence without permission.

His butt was — as we say in Texas — “Bought and paid for.” There should have been tools available to emphatically put “Paid” on that particular bill.

Third: It doesn’t matter what tools are chosen for this task, the lady of the house needs to be familiar and trained in their use, so that she may protect her hearth and children when the father is away — as he was in this instance.

While I prefer feminine protection of the ballistic variety2 — I understand that firearms aren’t always an option for various reasons.

In which case, if the critter has to advance down the hallway through a horror movie fog level of pepper-spray it may not drive him away, but it will make seeing doors to kick down difficult, dramatically shorten the length of time he can engage in strenuous activities, and put a hitch in any shovel-defence tactics he might possess.

Just saying.

Still, all in all: Well done, sir.

Ian

I don’t offer training.

I have experience, and I have functioning think pudding, and so I offer advice — advice based on my experience and thoughts — and said advice is worth exactly what you pay for it.

There are many, many instructors in the science of self-defence out there — instructors who, on their worst days are better at conveying the information than I am. A quick Google search should net you a list of trainers, but start with Kelly McCann, Craig Douglas, Greg Ellifritz, Cecil Burch, and other high-level experts, and go from there.

That being said, a couple of day ago someone read my article on keys as defence tools and wanted to ask my thoughts on “women’s defence” training.

As is the case in much of modern life, that topic is complicated.

Broadly speaking there are two main camps on this subject.

The first camp says that women should be trained differently than men.

The second camp says that techniques are techniques, no matter who uses them, and train everyone the same.

It should come as no surprise that I’m in the middle. Both camps are right, and both camps are wrong.

The guys who state that techniques are the same, are correct. An efficient defence to a standing front choke is the same, no matter who uses it. An efficient defence to a rear bear-hug is the same, no matter who uses it.

The folks who train women differently than men are correct because — like it or not — the majority of attacks on women have a different outcome paradigm in mind than the majority of attacks on men.

Different outcome means different pattern.

The majority of attacks on the male side of the species are a beatdown of some kind. They open with a flurry of punches, maybe a cheap-shot, you go down, some boots get applied, and if it’s a robbery, your watch and wallet are lifted.

For the distaff side of the species, the objective of an assault on them is often sexual assault. The attacker overwhelms, attaches, immobilizes (usually on the ground or other horizontal surface), removes clothing, and rape is committed.

See the difference? Techniques are the same across the sexes, but the pattern of attack is different.

Yes, men need to know how to defend against an overwhelm and drag-down … but that’s not the majority of attacks committed against men, beat-downs are. So, what is the better use of a weekend seminar in defence training for men — train to counter beat-downs, or train to counter rape?

Yes, women need to know how to defend against a beat-down … but beat-downs are not the primary assault modality against women, rapes are. So, what is the better use of weekend seminar training time — train women to defend against a drag-down, pin, clothing removal; or train to defend against a flurry of punches, followed by some light kicking when down?

To put it in shorter terms — the defence against a standing front choke is exactly the same for men as it is for women … but very few men are attacked with a standing front choke, while it’s a primary method to attack the fair sex. With that in mind, which sex needs the training to defend against a standing front choke emphasized?

So, what do I recommend? For a hobbyist who is only going to take some weekend seminars, find a trainer who teaches the most efficient method of applying the techniques — which is irrelevant as to sex — who also emphasizes the techniques that match the most probable assault method — which is VERY relevant as to sex.

If you’re asking about training on a weekly basis, my recommendation is judo — especially for the distaff side of the species.

Yes, I know the recent hotness is Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, I’ve rolled with some BJJ folks, and it’s a very good system.

The key word in that above sentence is “rolled”. I know the high-end BJJ trainers try to emphasize staying off of the ground, but with the commercialization of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, ground-fighting becomes the default in a lot of local gyms.

Why would a woman, whose attacker is attempting to get her immobilized on a horizontal surface, then pin her with his bodyweight as he removes her clothing … want to go to the ground and do half of the job for him?

Judo does enough groundwork that rolling doesn’t freak people out, but it still emphasizes throws (hitting him with the planet), and only rolling on the mat if the throw goes wrong. Combine judo with a weekly session in a boxing or kickboxing gym, and you’ve got a pretty well-rounded system.

However, that’s just me. Your mileage may vary; worth exactly what you paid, and all that.

Ian