Week’s end

I hate to admit it, but in this heat I just can’t hang. Yesterday I could’ve been slingin’ stuff out in the garage but chose to stay inside the air-conditioned house and do other things that needed doing. My target was the bedroom and bathroom, purging anything that won’t travel to The Ozarks with me.

I knocked out the dresser first, then the nightstands and my bathroom cupboard before moving on to closet shelves.

Damn, I have a lot of clothes. Much of it goes back to my professional life, suits and sport coats and ties and dress shirts and sweaters and t-shirts and hoodies and socks and shoes and boots and damn, I have a lot of clothes. I was merciless and unsentimental, filling two huge contractor bags with stuff I’ll donate to Volunteers of America and another with trash. Deb did the same.

And I made it only halfway through.

I took a break at one point and went out to the truck. It came to us with a “bug deflector” attached to the leading edge of the hood, still functional but faded from its original smoked tint to a disturbing purplish hue. I raised the hood, popped out a handful of push-in fasteners, removed the deflector and chucked it.

The paint underneath was grimy but, I’m glad to say, it wasn’t scuffed. A little spray polish and a quick buff and it was clean. After the truck is detailed (probably Monday) I’ll replace the deflector with a new one.


This morning I was up at 4:30am and had the truck at the Acura dealer’s service department before 7am, my third and (I hope) final trip. I was out less than 90 minutes later with perfectly functioning air conditioning in my Silverado.

We’re chillin’.

Before I left, however, I had a chat with the service advisor about the dealer standing behind their work. I know we’d bought the truck “as-is” without a warranty, but it seemed to me that guaranteeing service performed would be an entirely different matter.

I mean, nothing would prevent a mechanic from pumping my leaking system full of refrigerant, crossing his fingers and sending me on my way. I was looking for an assurance of accountability.

The advisor consulted his manager and I got what I wanted — 12 months or 12,000 miles, parts and labor. Hell, I would’ve settled for 30 days.


On my way home I stopped by a local medical complex to pick up x-rays of Deb’s arthritic hands. (She has to have another round of cortisone shots at a different provider.) She said a CD-ROM would be waiting at the front desk.

It’s a mini-hospital, and this is semi-woke Ohio, so I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for. The attendant welcomed me cordially, then pushed an open box of masks across the desk and asked me to put one on. Ok, fine.

She led me through an empty waiting area to the imaging clerk, a surly fellow by the name of Eric who was wearing his mandatory mask around his throat. Approaching the side of his desk I offered a friendly (if muffled) greeting.

Now I don’t know if ol’ Eric was having a bad morning or if he’s just an asshole, but he angrily barked instructions to get myself in front of his desk. That’s where his “protective” plexiglass shield was.

So I took two steps to the left, my face well above above the useless partition, and stated my business. He found the envelope containing Deb’s disc and asked to see my ID. Squinting at the Ohio Driver License, then looking up at me, unmasked Eric said,

“Pull your mask down.”

I swear I’m not making that up.

The “pandemic” is over — I repeat, it’s over. We long ago passed the point at which WuFlu became endemic, and yet a facility that should reflect medical reality still insists on perpetuating irrational fear with this idiotic theater.

To say nothing of the hypocrisy.

Yes, I put on a worthless face diaper for three minutes, just to get what I had to get and be done with it. That was three minutes too long, and I assure you it’s the last time.


The news is full of gloom and doom about the economy. Inflation is higher than it’s been since Pres. Ronald Reagan’s first year in office. Gas prices are setting records — over five bucks nationally for a gallon of regular and approaching six dollars for diesel. There are reports of people losing their jobs because the work doesn’t pay for their commute.

If you’ll permit me, I have some financial advice: Don’t panic.

Make no mistake, it’s all true. It’s all very real and it’s all bad. But the thing is, not all of it has — or will have — an effect on you, at least not a direct effect that matches the ominous news stories.

It’s prudent to adjust, of course, and most of is have done that already. But panic makes us stupid, predisposed to exaggerate circumstances and take action that’s simply not justified.

It’d be colossally dumb, for example, to react to high gas prices by buying an EV or a hybrid, or even an electric lawn mower, weedwhacker or whatever. Even if you can afford the exorbitant initial investment, you’ll soon realize that the operating costs save you virtually nothing. And if you’re congratulating yourself for going enviro-woke, wise up — you’re still relying on a grid powered by Evil Fossil Fuels and strip mines that rape Gaia to supply minerals for your batteries.

When you realize that it’s all just virtue-signaling bullshit, you’ll see the irony in the brand name of popular electric tools sold at big-box stores: EGO POWER+.

Remember how all those smart, rational people got through the “pandemic” without losing their mind or, for that matter, their ass?

Do that.


Deb and I wrapped our Friday gathering with friends. On our way to meet them at a local pizza joint we swung by the village’s new Circle K to gas up the truck, grab a cold drink and basically check out what progress had wrought,

It’s a great place, actually. And just like the old store, it still carries Lawson’s Chip Dip. (If I have to explain why that’s important, you wouldn’t understand.)

At the restaurant there were nine of us at the table, including a couple of guys that Deb met originally through the firearms-training community. She refers to them as “my favorite badasses,” one a SWAT officer and the other a tactical medic. We always have a ball when we get together, and tonight was no exception.

The conversation was wide-ranging and unruly, over three hours of catching up on what we’d missed since the last time we got together. I can’t overstate the electricity of the interaction or the strength of the bond we share.

It was the best of times. These are some of the people we’ll miss.


One year ago today, I flew my new drone over the Texas Hill Country, Deb got her very own Stetson and we drank Shiner Bock at the 11th Street Cowboy Bar in Bandera.


Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.

#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath

#LetsGoBrandon