Maintaining My Sanity

Everywhere I look, most people seem to be crazy, stupid, evil or some combination of those three. I see politicians spouting nonsense about their bigoted views on gays in the military and others trying to tax one group more than others. The people in Washington are not the only ones who dole out this sort of ignorance either; just a few hours away in NY people are responsible for the biggest train wreck of an economy since the 1930s. Our country will suffer for generations from the poor choices made today.

 

So last night while driving home, I called and spoke to my father for a few minutes and the ways of the world came up. I realized that I sound like the crazy person in the conversation at every turn. First we spoke about the Patriot Act and how it has been used contrary to the intent and that the majority of people targeted were not affiliated with terrorism at all. The conversation shifted to foreign conflicts and then again, we struck a point where I was rambling about the injustices I help commit under the guise of freedom.

 

Anyhoo… these are things I’ve been thinking of recently. Nothing new I guess,

Tragedy, a Pistol and a Bent Gas Block...

Back story: A guy I know recently lost his brother to a tragic accident involving alcohol and a gun. He and his girlfriend were enjoying their night together and having some drinks when the pistol somehow discharged and killed the man. The surviving brother has been dealing with all the arrangements to save his parents the added heartache.

So, the guy (I'll call him Joe) has his brother's possessions and has been trying to dispose of them in a respectful and useful manner. The pistol which killed his brother has since been destroyed and he is left with one more pistol to get rid of. Enter me....

Joe knows I am trying to cut my teeth as a gunsmith and one day after the accident he asked me "Jack, will you do me a favor and not drink when you're working on guns?" Of course I told him I won't handle loaded guns while drunk and he seemed content. Well, over the next couple weeks, Joe seemed to be handling the loss better and returned to his normal happy self. One day he told me he had an old M4 carbine (Bushmaster XM-15E2) style rifle with a bent front sight and gas block and needed it fixed.

Of course, I offered to do the work for him, but we never discussed the price at all. He also noted off-hand about the Smith and Wesson pistol of his brother's that "I don't care if I get two hundred bucks for it, I want it gone" and this made me think a little more. I have been wondering, would I be wrong to offer to replace the part on his rifle in trade for the pistol? No money has to change hands, he gets his rifle working again, gets rid of a hurtful memory and I get another gun to sell off or trade. Good or bad?

I don't want to take advantage of anyone here, so I will tread lightly into this conversation. Worst case is that he'll say no.

Mr./Zombie/Asshole Duck is Dead

After getting super fucking lucky and not being eaten and killed (yes, in that order for the most part) by the aforementioned raccoon, Mr. Duck has died. I hoped that he would survive, but the chances were grim already. Not to post this as a downer, but the cute duck that is my avatar is no longer. The raccoon that soaked up one of my Hornady pills has not been seen since either.

 

At least Mr. Duck gets to be with his friends.  :’(

Premonition Numero Uno

Automatically, the title suggests there are more posts coming, but I figure I’d let it stay open (like the ending of The Terminator) to allow for more down the road.

 

We were all riding around town in the Strykers, the hot, dry air and the stench of burning trash filled northern Iraq’s largest city. Those around me were all familiar to me, but some did not belong to my squad; my team leader had been replaced by another member of the platoon with whom I had been in constant conflict with. We were then called up to a vehicle chase nearby where a car had been hijacked and a family taken hostage; we responded to the area to find the car pulled over and the occupants out.

 

As the ramp of the Stryker dropped, I was the second one out and immediately drew down on a man with my M4 rifle. In Arabic, I shouted for him to show me his hands or I would shoot. The man was heavy, perhaps 5’8” and 240 pounds. The other occupants of the vehicle were not near him, but were clearly victims of this crime. As the rest of the squad dismounted the vehicle, the man quickly reached down into his waistband. All I could think at this moment was “Congratulations! You shot the guy holding a cell phone” booming in my mind.

 

I watched, in a sort of slow motion, as the man pulled out a pistol and began to raise it. I saw this unfold in what seemed like several seconds, but was really only a mere fraction of a second. I flipped the selector switch from safe to semi and quickly squeezed the trigger several times. The fat man’s chest rippled as the 5.56mm projectiles tore through his flesh, sending fine mist spraying out the back. He slumped to Earth and the pistol clattered across the ground.

 

I woke up in a cold sweat…. This was not the type of dream I was used to having. This had not happened to me before in such absolute realism. I could feel every sensation in the dream for the first time ever. After this, I rushed next door to tell my friend Paul about it. He told me that sometimes you have weird dreams because something is trying to tell you something. Nice and vague.. thanks Law Dawg.

 

At the time of this dream, we had been deployed for about 8 months in North-west and north-central Iraq. We saw some wild action and suffered the loss of three members of the company. My mind had been conditioned to the sights, sounds and sensations of combat and I basically shrugged off the dream

 

About a month later, that near-exact event occurred. The differences were that my actual team leader was there, the guy was a skinny one and I shot him in the throat instead of the chest. After we bagged up the body, my buddy Paul yelled from the hatch of his Stryker: “Jack, it’s your fuckin’ dream, bro!”

 

So, this sounds like horse shit, but that’s okay. Real deal. Like it or leave it.   J

 

Peace out.

Sale Fail

Well, after a failed attempt to make some quick cash on something that I thought I could easily sell, the Saiga 12 has been removed (for now) from my "for sale" category. I do want to sell it eventually, but with other, nicer ones on the market for a close price, I am sick of getting low-balled to death.

I will be going out to break it in this week and then I'll have a better idea of what all needs to be done, if anything. I won't fail at this, but I am not successful as of now for this sale. I have four more projects in the wings, one of which is a gift for someone ....   :)

I have given my Christmas list out to people and most of the things I have asked for are ones I won't use soon, per se, but I will eventually. I need to build my capital pool and keep up three items for sale at once and then that will multiply.

Other than that, I am almost done with my math and phych classes... so happy for that. A three week break will be awesome.

A Very Scary Hole in the Wall

I am taking this story from my friend’s recent experience at his house; it is all too familiar to many, including me. I’ll preface this with saying that the guy in the story is not a bad person, but rather just made a bad series of choices. No hard feelings.

If your friends are drinking and have guns, don’t let them handle them with ammo. We all know someone, somewhere who has seen or heard of someone making a mistake that hurt or killed someone being careless. I would hate to be responsible for the death of anyone unless it was purposeful; I could at least live with myself if it were. The events that unfolded the other night were foreshadowed early in the night, when the liquor and beer was just coming out.

We all were outside on the porch drinking beers and BBQing the most amazing burgers I’ve had in a while when another person, whom I had not met before, came outside. He noticed that I and three others had pistols on our hips in holsters. I say again: “IN HOLSTERS”. This guy tells us he has his gun and out from his winter coat he fishes a 9mm Smith and Wesson pistol. The first indicator of trouble was the guy’s nonchalance of weapons safety. He waves the muzzle around and crosses my friend’s chest with the bore. I fought off the urge to just cold cock the guy right there.

He had not even had the gun in hand for 2 seconds before he did something dangerous and lucky for him, we are all very comfortable. My friend who had just been muzzle swept calmly asked the guy to clear the pistol “just for a sanity check” as he put it. I may not have been so kind if it had been my flesh in front of the gun. We saw the pistol was unloaded, but did have a loaded magazine.

The rest of the night went on without incident as we all dined on cow flesh and beers; a little whisky visited our lips as well. After my meal, my family and I left the house for home. We wished everyone well and headed home.

A little while after we left, the remaining four men were inside the house talking while the aforementioned gentleman was showing off his 9mm. My friend’s two young daughters were winding down for the night and his wife and two female friends were chatting in the kitchen area. Suddenly, the guy slaps the loaded magazine into the pistol, which had been locked open, and chambers a round. He then proceeds to pull the trigger and a round fires, bounces off a nearby desk and buries itself into the exterior wall of the house.

Nobody was hurt. There is now a rule in the house that nobody other than myself and a select few others are allowed to have weapons. Just hearing what had happened makes me shudder and think of what all could happen. In the end, that guy learned an amazing lesson and only has a little shame and embarrassment to show for it; someone could have been killed.

Nobody, no matter how highly-skilled is immune to making stupid mistakes, so the best thing to do is reinforce safety often. As they say, you can’t call a bullet back.

Ice

Leaving the house this morning was a familiar, yet somehow new experience due to the well-lit area covered in frost. It looked like, as my mother might say, “ants taking pictures” all over. As I rode out of town, the temperature was about 30 degrees. The bike sure likes the cold and the motor is acting like it wants MOAR FUEL to go quicker...

 

Anyway, long story short: Cold ride in for 28 miles. I had ice caked on the top of the windshield and there was a fat layer of ice on the knuckles of my gloves; it chipped off as I took them off. It will soon be too cold and dangerous to take the old Versys, so I need to slap together the Volvo soon.