Author: Simon

Posted on

Herr Murderburger

Ever notice how those who buy guns appear to be the least able to afford them? I will grant you that, outside sporting use, a self-defense gun is a ubiquitous right and should remain as such. But, when Foodstamp Frank begins to grow his collection beyond that, I start to wonder if preparing for a statistically unlikely scenario is really the best use of Frank’s money.

Shopping for guns is an interesting experience in that regard. Like perusing the aisles of TJ Maxx, there might be a good deal amongst the overflowing selection of crap – one that everyone else is trying to grab – because their type of clientele has more time on their hands than money. And just like the old lady who pushes me out of the way to see what I’m looking at in the cookware section in an attempt to snipe a bargain in front of me, so too does Foodstamp Frank always immediately ask to the see the gun I’m looking at in the glass case.

But unlike TJ Maxx, the gun in the case is usually just a display sample for the boxes of identical factory mint duplicates in the back room. But there’s no way to know for sure. It could be the only example in the store – like Suburbia. And Foodstamp Frank can’t take that chance, even if it’s at the expense of his children being able to eat that week. And to compound the problem, Foodstamp Frank is attired in the gun-buyer’s archetype: torn jeans and a T-shirt with far right propaganda, so he always seems to get service first. Khakis and button downs don’t elicit the same kind of response from gun counter employees.

Fortunately I was at a chain, not an independent gun shop, so the queuing process was more democratic. Plus it was staffed by old men, and I had my dad with me, so I got some cred there. And my whimsical fantasy turned into reality when I saw this:

Walther PPK/S .380

Ignoring the pseudo-panache of the James Bond character who most famously carried a variant (requesting a shaken martini just means you don’t know how to drink well, and awkwardly flirting with every female colleague is hardly a sign of a well-bred gentleman), the gun itself is very elegant with its perfect simplistic German design and all-steel construction – something rare to find in the American sub-compact handgun market. Although, it must still be growing in popularity, seeing as they’re now being manufactured domestically in Arkansas as a branch of the original German company as of 2013 (apparently they were previously being made in the US under license with Smith and Wesson, during which time they obtained a bad reputation for reliability).

Whatever the reasoning or hokey Hollywood mythology, it fills the niche that I was pursuing casually: a small and concealable pistol, not made of plastic. And no – I don’t want to argue about stopping power with 9mm Parabellum fanboys (I really like this writeup on that topic though, for some additional light reading: https://www.buckeyefirearms.org/alternate-look-handgun-stopping-power).

I haven’t shot it yet though, so the verdict’s still out on its handling. But it does bring some additional elegance to the safe. Which it why it’s been christened “Elegance”.

Plus there was the added bonus of needing to buy another ammo can and ammo!

–Simon

Posted on

Friends and Vienna

No, I did not travel to Vienna in my youth. I went to New Mexico a few times, but that was about the extent of family vacations. Travel to me involved Boy Scouts, which mostly consisted of bleeding and sweating…and sometimes hypothermia. But tourism wasn’t exactly on the menu.

What I did have was a very good friend in 7th grade – Aaron. He was not a subscriber to the traditional Texan masculinity. I hate the term “Toxic Masculinity”, as it implies an inherent problem with men as a whole, but in some circumstances I think it’s the best explanation for male adolescent behavior – particularly those in Texas during the 90s. Example: the time someone broke the soap dispenser in the locker room at the pool (I was in school swimming at the time), and surreptitiously squirted its contents into my locker, soaking my clothes. That was a fun day. I’m still not certain why, seeing as I avoided the groups of larger boys and kept my mouth shut. I suppose I was just an easy target for random aggression.

Fortunately, the aforementioned friend was in swimming with me and also avoiding the bros. He was incredibly religious, like many Texans, but meant well. He gave me a pocket bible on one of these particularly bad days to try to help my declining mental state, and – for the purpose of this post – regularly shared with me his daily canned ration of Vienna sausage. I don’t know why, but he always had a can in his packed lunch. I had never had them prior, nor knew what they were. At the time, they just seemed to be small canned hot dogs. But 7th grade males aren’t very discerning with their meat products, and I thought they tasted wonderful. I had never had them since.

Then, just recently, some 28 years later, I took the kid to the liquidation outlet she likes to visit. Packed with mis-inventoried/lost/returned/written off shelves of all the crap Americans order through the mail, it’s a paradise for people possessing more time than money and trying to get a good deal on something random. Or, in my daughter’s case, someone who doesn’t know what to do with her allowance. And there, sitting on warehouse wire shelving, was a cardboard pack of Vienna sausage cans.

Mmmm, in chicken broth!

But to the kid’s credit, she’s willing to try most any food substance at least once, and agreed to eat some if I bought a $1 can of this processed meat-like…stuff, and try it with me to scratch an old nostalgic itch.

So – for Aaron! A kind soul in a desolate wasteland of Texan douche-bros.

And upon her initial bite, the kid spit it out and said it tasted like cat food. And I’m afraid that I have to agree. It was not like a hot dog. There was no pleasing snap followed by salty ground meat. It was a pressure-molded funky mush lick of the remaining meat stuck in a grinder that has to be washed out before the health inspector arrives. Yuck. Although the dogs didn’t seem to mind.

Sorry Aaron. You were a good friend and I appreciated you sharing your lunch. But I hope the times since have treated you well enough that you can now enjoy something a little higher quality. It was fun to reminisce, though.

–Simon

Posted on

Squash Patch 2025

Last year’s squash patch was a sad disappointment. I think I got one pumpkin and a couple pattypans. The location, I believe, was undesirable. Too much shade, and too many deer. That was the patch I turned into the pollinator patch, which then got eaten up by rabbits instead. I can’t win with it.

So I moved the squash back to the main garden, foregoing the usual carrots and onions. And, again with help from the soil amendments, I have a very promising jungle.

We shall see.

–Simon

Posted on

Anthocyanindal Anecdote: A Rhubarb Rhapsody of Crimson Color

Woe to the rhubarb that lacks its brilliant hue/

The visual allure for folks like me and you.

Yes, my rhubarb was most green in color – apparently due to a lack of anthocyanin. Dear God!

Fortunately, following my soil test and subsequent amendments, the problem appears to have been resolved; once I increased available levels of nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium, magnesium, and iron. Actually that was a happy accident, since I was more concerned with tomato production. But I won’t beat a dead gift horse on the mouth. Here’s our most recent harvest:

Brilliant!

–Simon