Monday Gunday: Why Everyone Should Own a Gun

Phoning this one in because of my big whining post previous.

Video link

The 11th Commandment

No, isn't Ronald Reagan's "Thou shalt not speak ill of any fellow Republican."

It's not even "Thou shalt not get caught."  At least not where I live.

No, living in my parent's house, the 11th Commandment was "Thou shalt not whine", which later morphed into "Thou shalt be responsible" as we grew older. Note how the latter contains the provisions of "If you're whining, you aren't being responsible for your situation or feelings -- if you hate things so much, fix them instead of whining about it"  as well as "Be self sufficient."

I'm trying very hard not to break the 11th any more than it's already been broken. (The self-sufficiency thing went out the window almost a decade ago.) I'm trying to suck it up and be a good soldier, but between the weather (and the allergies/headaches that go along with that), my chronic mid-month depressive cycle, and my #&$!*ing family, it's becoming increasingly difficult to stay motivated and on-target.

My parents have started fighting about television now. The goddamn boob tube. Apparently there isn't enough stress and misery in their lives, so now they're going to bitch and fight and have temper tantrums over who gets to watch what, and when. Because apparently it's important to argue over entertainment now.

Honestly,  they should have gotten a divorce about 20 years ago, but by the time I was out of the house and in college they had gotten to the point where it was less work just to become fractious roommates where dad brought in money and mom kept the house than it was to get divorced and move out. This way, they get to keep the illusion of being a "proper" family. Oh, the shit I could tell you about my parents...

If I'm being totally honest, these people never should have gotten married in the first place. And yes, I realize this means that the "me" who I am today wouldn't exist. At this point, I'm fine with that, as I think that theoretical me would be a lot healthier and happier.

Dad's never forgiven me for not being his perfect little clone, going into the military, and being an officer with a house, a spouse, 2.5 kids and at least one combat deployment. "Disappointment" is pretty much the order of the day. I've talked about him before, and there's no love lost anymore on either side things. We basically have a working relationship and that's it.

Mom... well, when she isn't over-reacting by screaming and yelling and saying vile shit over rather inconsequential shit, she's basically clinging to me for companionship because I at least talk to her and treat her as a person rather than a live-in maid and cook. Which is not too bad, because despite all her flaws I still love her, but this kind of emotional manipulation (whether it be intentional or not) makes it difficult, if not impossible, for me to get away.

And then there's me. I'm too smart for my own good, in that I see busywork for what it is, and I refuse to tolerate bullshit or play office politics. I also have a smart mouth, a quick temper and no real self-censorship when I get riled up. As a result, I've been fired from every job I've ever held.

I don't do well with roommates for the same reason (look, I admit it, I am a difficult bitch to live with, being moody and territorial), but on the few occasions I've lived alone my depression has gotten the better of me and I've gone from living alone to feeling alone to "nobody loves me" to "why should anyone love me" to "I don't deserve love anyway" and by that point I'm sick and malnourished because I haven't been taking care of myself -- after all, why should I care about myself when no one else does? -- and that's when things get so bad I have to move back in with my family, because for all their fucking faults I know that they, at least, are obligated by biological imperative to take care of me when I can't (or won't) take care of myself.

To quote Gravity Kills, "I've built this perfect little hellhole." I hate my situation, but I am financially and emotionally unable to leave. I'm fully appreciative of the irony involved in putting myself in a place that I can't leave yet don't want to be in.

If you've ever wondered why I've often seemed so desperate to find someone to love and who would love me back... well, now you know. I'm looking for emotional rescue, hoping that someone will want me and love me enough to choose me to be with them forever. Not because they have to, not because they're obligated to, but because they want me. And then that makes me feel like a pathetic loser, because instead of fixing my situation, I'm waiting to be rescued like a dog in a kennel.

I'm tired of being caught between two warring factions.

I'm tired of not having the courage to improve my situation.

I'm tired of playing the go-between and peacemaker.

But I don't have the strength to change any of this. I feel like I have no options for self-rescue.

Some days, I just want to leave loaded pistols within arms reach of them when they're yelling at each other.

And then I realize what I just thought, and I hate myself for wishing them dead just because I'm weak.


Well, that pretty much obliterates my "no whining" goal. Some days, I can't even be strong enough to shut up and soldier on.

Comments of sympathy, while welcome, aren't required. I think I wrote this just so that I would have something to show for today, and to forestall the usual  "I didn't write yesterday, no need to write today, whoops there goes a week of not writing anything" pattern. And, of course, to get it off my chest in the hopes of some cathartic relief.

Welcome to my brain. It's dark in here, and you may be eaten by a grue.

Set Condition One throughout the base

Instead of making a joke about global warming, or ribbing the folks who were caught in the Polar Vortex earlier this week, I'm just going to say "I think there's a reason why this kind of weather is synonymous with 'battle stations'" when I post this video.

A Few Brief Thoughts on a Series Close to My Heart.

     So, it's been a few weeks, the dust has had time to settle, and I think I've finally managed to gather up a few thoughts. Next week, maybe, a bit of guff about the anniversary shows, but this week maybe a reflection on why the relaunch series is dear to me. I have a very hard time remaining objective about Doctor Who, as it was my first immersion into Science Fiction. I lived overseas at a tender age, and that's what was on, and when I moved back to the states, it was *still* on, on PBS, at my uncle's house in Massachusetts, and on VHS tapes that I'd dig out of old boxes even years later. Even though I'd watch a Star Wars film, or stay up late to watch Star Treks TNG or DS9, it'd always be that block of PBS programming of Doctor Who and Red Dwarf that I'd look forward to the most.

   Now don't get me wrong, the classic series will always be important to me, and Sylvester McCoy will always be *my* Doctor, but the new series has resonated with me in a very personal way, and that's what I'd like to think about today. 

Image courtesy of BBC America

     The majority of fandom these days tends to overlook that rough first year of the relaunch. I don't want to think that it's because David Tennant was the first pretty Doctor of the new series, but let's face it, Tennant was the first pretty Doctor of the new series. Eccleston's wounded golem of a man appealed to me, though, as I was in the middle of a war that was near invisible to the people around me at the time, to, but took no less a toll on anyone that happened to be near enough to it. I identified with this broken, beat-up, shell of a man. Then he left.

     Tennant came in at a weird time for me, as I was still in the heart of my own personal war, but now my Doctor (my new one, at least) had left me, and been replaced by this cheerful twat (apologies, Erin, I know he's your fave) with sticky-uppy hair and pointy chin and big goofy grin. It wasn't until I'd gotten out of my bad, dark, painful place and gotten some distance that I could see that man was still hurting, he was just trying to forget it at the same time. Trying to move past what he'd been through and smile again, even if the hurt would forever be in his eyes.

     Then, just as Tennant was growing on me, his Doctor hit a wall. And I hit a wall. I spent a while pretending I was OK around the same time that Ten was out and Eleven was in. I look at Matt Smith's alien, unfamiliar face, and those ancient eyes buried in the misshapen skull of a younger man, and I see someone that's very old, very tired, but won't let the world know just how old and tired. You look around the walls of my apartment and you'll see Lego kits, action figures, posters, and electronic gadgets. Given how isolated I am from the world right now, I really do feel like I'm living in a cloud bank over olde London Towne, and I need a good mystery, but am unwilling to go look for one.

     Yeah, I definitely feel like maybe I can put some thoughts down about the anniversary shows, now that I've put some of the newer stuff in context with my own life. Be warned though, I kinda like Matt Smith better than David Tennant, I don't hate Moffat, and I'm really rather fond of River Song. More so than Captain Jack. But not by too much.

WNW: The problem with fiction is that it has to make sense

Yeah, I can't really top this headline, and if anything from the rest of 2014 can beat it I will be quite surprised:

Cormac McCarthy’s Ex-Wife Pulls Gun From Vagina

During Argument Over Aliens

The internet has been won. Go home.

(Hat tip to Robb Allen for finding this little jewel.)

Palette's Product Reviews: the GTUL

I sort of made a "Monday Gunday" post on Friday when I talked about the Remington R-51, but that was last week and therefore doesn't count for this week. Today I'm going to combine Gunday and Palette's Product Reviews to talk about a nifty accessory I just recently acquired:  the GTUL Mag & Brush Combo. ($21.95 for combo, s&h extra)

The one I bought was for 9mm/40 S&W magazines,
but they also make a 10mm/45 ACP version for exactly the same price.

Pronounced "G-Tool" (the G is for Glock), the GTUL does only one thing: it makes removing the floorplate of your Glock magazines ridiculously easy. The brush with its attached punch helps in this regard, and also makes it easy to clean the crud out of even the largest magazines.


Now before I go any further, I'm going to anticipate what you're going to say:

Q: "Oh, come on. Who takes the floorplates off their magazines anyway?"

A:  While I admit that I haven't met anyone who disassembled their magazines for cleaning (though I'm sure they exist), I can state with utter certainty that there are folks who do remove their magazine floorplates, because I'm one of them. When I got my G26 for concealed carry, one of the first things I did was buy Pearce Grip Extension for all three of the magazines which came with it. There are all sorts of other things you can put on the ends of your mags, from glass breakers to flashlight holders to decorative Punisher skull logos. So yes, people do this.


Q: "Why do you need this tool? Just use a vise or channellocks or something. 

A:  Now this is a valid point; you don't specifically *need* these, and can make do with hand tools. However, in my experience:

• It is awkward to use these tools for this purpose. 
• Maybe this isn't an issue for manly men, but I needed to squeeze REALLY HARD to get the plate off.
• It is VERY easy to apply too much pressure and mar the outer casing. I did this the first time I tried it. 
• I was worried that I might have actually dented/damaged the inner metal lining of the magazine. (This probably didn't happen, but it was still a concern.)
• Doing it that way is just awkward as hell. 

Now, compare how fast and easy it is to remove a magazine floorplate with the GTUL as demonstrated in this video:





See? Done in seconds.


Q:  "Is it really worth twenty-plus bucks?"

A:  Well, I pretty clearly think so. While I admit it's a very specialized tool for a very specialized problem, it does what it's supposed to do really, REALLY well, so I don't think you can call it "a solution in search of a problem."

 In addition:

• It doesn't take up a lot of space; 
• It's made of a very tough polymer;  
• The brush does double-duty as a disassembly punch;
• The brush can clean even 33-round magazines. 

Do you NEED this if you're a Glock owner?  Probably not. But if you've ever struggled with trying to take your magazines apart, you will want this tool. The price is reasonable, the quality is excellent (everything seems rugged, including the bristles on the brush), and the shipping was fast. 

My Recommendation:  A+ to all Glock owners. 

Obligatory middle finger to the FTC:  I bought this product with my own money. 

A thought on winter verbiage

My schedule is all screwed up now as we at Chateau Palette spent most of the day wrapping up plants to protect them from freezing temperatures (yes, Central Florida does freeze. We get about 1-2 hard freezes a year. They just don't last very long and don't result in snow) so now I'm behind on things. I wasn't even able to watch the recent episode of My Little Pony over the weekend! Oh, the horror.

Anyway, now that all the things are done and we're bundled against the cold - it's a sunny and bright 37* F right now - I figured I'd toss this off pre-lunch so that I could get the blogging ball rolling.

Have y'all noticed that the colder it gets, the shorter and pithier the comments become?

From warmest to coldest:

"You might want to take a coat."

"It's a bit chilly out there."

"Goddamn it's cold."

"Jesus Christ!"

"FUCK!"

I've concluded that wanting to bitch about the weather is just a human thing. We've come from outside, where it's miserable, to inside, where it's comfy, and we want to commiserate on how shitty it was outside and how glad we are to be inside.

You know how the Mythbusters (and other studies) have proven that you can endure pain/discomfort for longer if you swear? That's the point. Hence, "I shall make a declarative statement about the weather I've just left even though you know perfectly well what it's like outside."

In some deep and recessed part of our brain, we're still cave-dwellers afraid of the sky gods.