(Natasha’s tin-foil hat sports a nautical theme. It is very useful for avoiding the rays projected by black helicopters and other useful Government programs. Photo Socotra).
Sorry, Gentle Readers. This is going to be late and not filled with passion, except of the lesser sort. Not my fault, or at least not completely. The Russians and Jiggs and Ludmilla from Big Pink were at the farm yesterday afternoon for shooting, wine, football and home-cooked local food from Croftburn Farms Market.
I think that was the order, and since there were no bodies or cartridge-cases dotting the floor, I assume we behaved in generally responsible order.
I rose this morning just past 0700 in the new comfy bed- an unheard of luxury that makes me feel unworthy of so much untrammeled sloth.
As part of easing into the soft gray morning, I read an essay on poverty and energy in the third world. It was evocative and compelling. I am in a state of high anxiety over the near-term future. I think I can handle the adjustment to some other way of living, but in the greater view, we are all part of the 1% he talks about, bejeweled and platinum-encrusted aliens who pass through the world oblivious to the great gifts that have been bestowed upon us.
http://wattsupwiththat.com/2013/01/13/we-have-met-the-1-and-he-is-us/
I wasn’t that concerned with Iran or the Eurozone collapse yesterday. With all the navel-gazing we have been doing it is easy to forget that Israel takes the Iranian nuclear program much more personally than we do, and that the Eurozone is doomed, for the reasons that are compelling in their simplicity. France is melting down, it’s exports dwindling from 7% of the world total to less than three, and plummeting fast.
I don’t know what that means, except that the decimated lower tier of the Eurostate basket cases will soon be joined by one or two of the former Great Powers.
Can’t do a thing about it. They are further along in the process than we are, though the collapse will doubtless spread this way when it comes.
Times being what they are, I was more concerned with appreciating the ability to exercise some of my Constitutional rights down on the Farm. I stopped by Clark’s gun store on the way down to purchase some ammunition and look at what has happened to the formidable inventory at the Opal, VA, full-service facility.
I was hoping my Handicapped placard would get me a space in the lot as I turned off Route 29 just short of the Route 17 junction.
No soap. It was jam-packed, and people standing outside in groups, waiting to get some range time. I was going to look at a Sig-Sauer in a bigger caliber, and see what sort of ammo they had still on the shelves in compatible size to the existing arsenal, but oh well. I could not find a place to park and instead veered back on to the highway to head south.
I stopped in Culpeper to talk to Andrew at Croftburn Farms. He has a disconcerting wandering left eye, and his shop was quiet in the early afternoon. I bought vegetables and eggs for breakfast and we chatted.
“How you doing?” he asked.
“Worried about the Republic,” I said with a sigh.
“I am not so worried,” he said, wrapping the groceries up. “I had a decent vacation after the holidays, and life is pretty good.”
I had to agree with him. The further from the Beltway I got the less I seemed to care about the politics of the moment. I thanked him for his service to the local-vore movement and told him I would see him next week.
After I got the Panzer unpacked, I rang the ship’s bell to signal the Russians I was in residence, and got a call from Jiggs that he and Ludmilla were inviting themselves to go shooting and have dinner at the farm.
Timing was perfect. The Russians showed up around the time they did. Natasha was wearing a smart aluminum-foil hat, and we all agreed it was the only prudent headgear in times like this. Hers had a distinct nautical flair, which she attributed to the tradition bestowed by a Great Grandfather who served with honor in the fleet of the Czar.
There was light enough for outdoor activity, and we decided to set up the range down the slope from their farmhouse. We blasted away with Matt’s newly purchased M1911 Colt, the Glock 9mm and a couple .22s. I had not cleaned the Mosquito from last week- getting sloppy in my old age- and discovered that keeping the ramp nice and clean minimizes jamming. Still a nice tight little gun.
The foil hats seemed to work, and our brainwaves seemed secure enough even outside.
It is warm here for the season, and we blazed away in sweatshirts and down vests, quite comfortable. After gunfire, there would be wine and food and football.
In fact, we are a comfortable lot, down at the farm. Positively some of the world’s one-percenters. Life is good, at the moment.
(I have crafted a foil lining for the ball cap. Useful. Photo Socotra.)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com