If you’ve not scrolled down to the reddish-brown field at the base of this blog, you’re missing alot. One of the links is to the Leukemia & Lymphomia Society.
They perform valuable research in these blood cancers, and like so many other scientific charities, need your help. You know I’m a man of minimal means, but, I figured I could at least make others aware.
I’m a survivor of diffuse, type B, large-cell Lymphoma. While I’ve many issues, lymphoma is why I’m on disability, now.
Please remember this charity when you can. Thank you. – gfa
This link goes to an article, with photos, regarding an individual who had an accident entering his car with a holstered striker-fire pistol. Fortunately, there was no serious injury.
The article points out that leather softens – loses rigidity – with use, and it was this soft leather that substituted for a finger inside the trigger guard of the pistol.
The point is all equipment, pistols, holsters, belts and ammunition should be periodically checked for wear and function.
Criminal Law instructor Don Brown taught us never to assume. Being demure in the classroom environment, he said it makes one of these out of you and me. (pointing to the first syllable of assume).
Don’t assume your equipment is always in working order, not worn or broken, and properly lubricated, just because you’ve not dragged it across a parking lot. Check it.
I saw a fundamentalist Muslim extremist fall into the Rio Grande River this
morning; he was struggling to stay afloat because of all the guns and bombs
he was carrying.
Along with him was an illegal Hispanic drug cartel member who was also
struggling to stay afloat because of the large backpack of drugs that was
strapped to his back.
If they didn’t get help, they’d surely drown.
Being a responsible Texan and abiding by the law to help those in distress,
I informed the El Paso County Sheriff ‘s Office and Homeland Security.
It is now 4 pm, both have drowned, and neither authority has responded.
I’m starting to think I wasted two stamps.
h/t Bob Hall
As part of this seemingly endless drama, this morning I return to Vocational Rehabilitation. Based on the previous erroneous information with which they supplied me, who knows what’s in store, today? They could deny me further assistance, because Social Security granted me benefits, yesterday, or not. I’ll update this when I know more.
update: I’m still on their rolls, and have been given some rather hoop-jumping assignments. But, hey,
Well, I had my Social Security appeal hearing this afternoon.
The short version is I’m now a ward of the State. They accepted my appeal and found in my favor. This means Social Security will pay about 60% of my current stipend, and the remaining 40% will continue to come from my private insurance carrier. So my income, while less than exorbitant (basically poverty level), will remain stable.
And I’ll get Medicare. And, if I get well enough to work, I can make a small income and not have the benefit cancelled.
This will all get reviewed in three years, and if things have improved, I’ll be taken off the dole. Or not.
Such is the way of public bureaucracies.
At least, it appears I’ll be able to keep my home, something I’ve been worrying about for some time now.
The libertarian in me finds all this revolting, but my private insurance made me apply. Such, too, is the nature of private bureaucracies.
Thanks to all of you for your support. gfa
TODAY, is the Anniversary of the adoption of John Moses Browning’s (pbuh) 1911 semi-automatic pistol as the official sidearm of the United States Army!
I own one, do you?
Nothing further needs to be said.
h/t Roberta X
Today, I have my first Social Security appeal hearing. My private insurance carrier forced me to apply for this and other benefits, to get me off their rolls. As I understand it, things may go one of two ways: either I get awarded benefits and my income is cut below the poverty line, further, OR, my appeal is denied, and there will be additional appeals. Our government in action. As if we can afford this as a Nation?
Then, tomorrow, it’s back to Vocational Rehabilitation. Another insurance company mandate. Who knows what they will say? I’ve been told if I’m awarded SS, I cannot work for 1 year, and they will cancel efforts to get me back to employment.
The interesting thing is when it occured to me that my fear of these bureaucratic behemoths was false, that they indeed were not God, but my Higher-Power was, much of my fear went away.
My sister has a ‘thing’ regarding guys named ‘Bob’. Her ex-husband, step-son, green grocer, 27 guys at the office, you get the idea. My thing about names seems to be ‘Dave’. The mechanical wizard, philosopher, artist, bunches o’Daves. Today, we post about childhood friend, artist Dave.
My dad married my step-mom, and we moved to Tempe, from Phoenix. At the new school, starting the 3rd Grade, I met David. Even that young, he was artist-extrordinaire! You probably remember these guys. Always free-hand drawing everything: Cars, copying comic books, art on their binder covers. This guy was, and is amazingly talented. Then, he moved and we attended different high schools, and that was that. Years later, I was working as a graveyard shift security guard, and walked into a 7-11. Dave! He was the night clerk! We quickly re-established our friendship. Soon, he told me he and his brother shared a house, and they were looking for a roommate. Would I be interested? HELLO? I soon moved in. It was the best and weirdest two years of my life, college and roommates.
So, one day, I walk into the bathroom (the door was open) and there’s Dave, sitting, pants down—and drawing on a large poster board in pencil. Eventually, the drawing was finished. It was half self-portrait (the lower part, he had been facing a full length mirror to make the drawing-yikes!). The head and shoulders part was a marble bust of Beethoven. The ‘portrait’ in total was fascinating, and anatomically correct. Beethoven on the throne.
He told me he couldn’t come up with a name for it. I thought about it and offered two ideas: Bowl with Fruit, or, Beethoven’s Fifth Movement. I don’t remember if he chose either of those, but it hung on the back of the bathroom door for some time. I wish I had the drawing, now.
Back in the 70′s, before I had my own P.I. license, I worked for a number of other operations. Under Arizona law, to qualify for your own company license, you have to put in three years working under someone else’s. I worked for one guy who ran me all over, checking on people who were scamming insurance companies for health claims. The idea was show up, unannounced, and sit surveillance on their house, in the hope they would serendipitously come outside right then. And you could film them playing jai-alai (or Olympic wrestling) in the front yard. Of course, the subject rarely cooperated.
There was this one guy, who reportedly had severe back injuries. I did catch him leaving his house, driving to city parks, and picking up many aluminum cans. Following him was particularly easy, as he was driving a dirty, faded white 1961 Ford Falcon, with a severely bent frame! It was as if he was driving sideways down the street, never over 25 mph.
They say the youth think they’re invincible. I certainly did. Mortality never occurred to me.
Another time, I was sitting surveillance in the projects. Never a good idea alone. Watching another freakin’ tract home, surrounded by many other tract homes, none with landscaping – maybe one tree, each.
This was back before cellular telephones, GPS, and all that stuff. When on surveillance, one was advised to bring a roll-of-quarters (for pay telephones, or to use as an ersatz brass knuckle), and a glass quart milk bottle. I’ll let you guess the reason for the bottle.
So, here I am, in the midst of low-income government housing, mid-day. I probably had the newest car on the block, even though it was 6 years old, and the battery was ‘iffy’. And, no other cars were parked on the street for a couple blocks.
I’d been there about three hours, when I casually looked in the rear-view mirror. Walking up the street, with purpose, were about 15 neighborhood residents. They all seemed to have boards, hoes, heavy rakes. And they were walking straight for my car! Images of Frankenstein’s monster came to mind – and I was he!
If it had been night, there would have been torches!
OH, PULEEZ, LET MY BATTERY WORK!
The car did start, and I was able to exit, unscathed. I did have a revolver in my briefcase, but, no reloads after six shots. Young fool!
Now, mortality occurred to me.
When I was high-school junior, I took Algebra-Trigonometry. This was purported to be advanced, to lead to Calculus. I barely squeeked by, so there was no Calculus in my future. The teacher was Mr. Levi. One day, he raised the projector screen from in front of the blackboard. He usually was facing the class when he did this, so he rarely saw what might be behind the screen. This particular day, behind the screen was a poster. It had a black and white photograph of an American Indian (buckskins, feather) eating a sandwich. The caption read: “You don’t have to be Jewish to Love Levy’s real Jewish Rye“. Mr. Levi was mildly amused, and of course the class thought this was hysterical.
This blog has a link at the bottom right, in the reddish-brown field, under Civil Rights Organizations. The link is for Jews for the Preservation of Fireams Ownership. At only $25.00/year, they are one of the best organizations for information on the racist history of gun control, gun rights education materials for children, and the U.N.’s assault on the U.S. Bill of Rights.
And, you don’t even have to be Jewish!