Somethings Never Change... Then Again, Some Do

© By Albert A Rasch

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Prologue:

Every morning, I waltz into the office at about 04:50 AM. I flip on the lights, turn on the coffee machine, and crank up the computer. Usually I delve right into my projects, checking sources, rereading articles, or doing a search on some obscure point or reference. So when it comes on and the cheerful voice of my e-mail alert says “You have mail,” I click on the icon, and lo and behold its not just Kristine (Outdoor Bloggers Summit), but Holly (NorCalCazadora) too. “Aw crap.” I thought. “What I do now?” Anytime two women call, write, or even talk to you, on the same day, the odds of you surviving to nightfall have exponentially risen against you. It doesn’t matter what you have or haven’t done, you’re in for it one way or the other. At least that’s my experience.

Anyway, lucky for me, both the ladies were just concerned with my well being. And now it’s been a few days and nothing bad has happened to me, so I must have ducked that one… whatever it was…

The Irresistible Force Meets the Unmovable Object
(with Albert in the middle…),

or
Out of the frying pan and into the brush fire.

I’ve never felt like Atlas, holding the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’m not one of those pale, over educated, ivory tower types that can’t see much past their moldy noses, moldy tomes, and even moldier philosophies. I’m an action type: Sgt. Rock, Easy Company. That’s my style. Toss in a little Scipio, a dash of Custer, round it out with a sprinkle of Gibbons, and you pretty much got me pegged. But lately things are no longer as simple as they once were.

It all started with Todd’s blog “Primitive Point” and the sudden realization that I too could write for the world at large! I love writing for the Rasch Outdoor Chronicles. It reignited a long dormant passion for learning and communicating. Every one of my posts has told you all something about me and my admittedly parochial view on life and the world around me. Not that I haven’t kept a weather eye on the social and political storms that abound on every horizon, but to me they have always seemed to be way over there, just beyond sight.

It was Denny at Stop MTR that really opened my eyes to the very real disasters that are right at our doorsteps. But the destruction of the Appalachia is just a symptom of the malaise that has gripped our nation and our culture. (Not that it isn’t a critical concern to those that experience the destructive greed and live with it all day, everyday.) But what has motivated me to write this piece is the certainty that there are far worse things out there that have driven and coerced us to accept what is at minimum detrimental, and at worse deadly.

I’ve spent the last few months studying everything from tactical reports coming out of Iraq and Massey Energy’s annual report, to issues around the petro dollar and Euro reserves. I’ve gone through a dozen Congressional Reports on a number of topics, including immigration, strategic postures, business cycles, and gang activity in the United States. Throw in some public policy issues, historical accounts of wars and politics, along with tracking Chinese investments around the world (Less than 50 miles off the Florida Keys, they are sinking a slant drilling oil rig…) and you get the picture. Just yesterday I downloaded and printed “On Point II”, the 730 page self critique that the Army has written on its performance in Iraq. I’ve managed the prologue so far. I’m functioning on four and half to five hours of sleep nightly, and I’ve worn out four highlighters.

Though I have only scratched the surface of the malaise that is destroying our nation, I have already come to few conclusions.

We have developed a political system that, in a nutshell, has created an entrenched privileged class whose only concern is the maintenance and concentration of its power. It doesn’t matter which side of the aisle they sit on, they are all part of the establishment. And the “Establishment” is corrupt. There hasn’t been a single meaningful policy initiative that has come from Washington since the mid-sixties. A list of every cabinet secretary, the congressional leadership, and military flag officers of the 20^th century reads like a who’s who of America’s corporate board of directors. Does the phrase, “potential conflict of interest,” appear in their lexicon? Analysis: “Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

Here are some facts. The coal that is being pulled from West Virginia is a high grade, low sulpher coal that does not go towards energy production. It is used in steel making. (Do we still make steel in this country?) So when you read how Massey is doing its part to help the energy needs of the nation they are just plain lying. The CEO of Massey, Blankenship, basically bought himself a judge, so that Massey could try building another coal scrubber right next to a school; a school that is already in danger of being scoured off its valley home by millions of gallons of toxic wastes from a massive sludge impoundment; an impoundment that is known to be leaking. Analysis: Money talks; truth and justice (and the safety of the citizenry) take a back seat.

We have an educational system that is broken. We spend an enormous sum of money to try to educate our people. The statistics are so bad that I am almost ashamed to write it down. Cities have graduation rates as low as thirty percent! We, as a people, refuse to demand a disciplined classroom, competent teachers, and a high standard of education; we allow every excuse for lack of progress to become the reality. Analysis: There is a lack of strategic vision at every level of government.

We are now “Balkanized” to a degree that will inevitably lead to the disintegration, either physical or otherwise, of the United States. Our own prejudices, coupled with open borders, shortsightedness, and greed, have caused us to fail to “Americanize” immigrants and our social policies have marginalized our own American minorities. This blindness thereby sowed the seeds of separate cultures that have culminated in the “Hoods” of any inner city, the “Muslimization” of parts of Jersey City, the “Mi Barrio” mentality in LA, and the treasonous behavior of the mayor of Brownsville, Texas. Analysis: Greed, racism, and “Political Correctness” have worked hand in hand to destroy national unity and social opportunity.

Do I need to remind you that in many cities in the United States there exist insurgent groups bent on the destruction of our nation? Insurgents just as well armed and definitely better financed than the Mahdi Army in Sadir City, Baghdad. What’s that? You weren’t aware of them? You ever hear of the Bloods and the Crips? The MS13 from El Salvador? How about our own home grown biker gangs like the Outlaws, Mongols, or Hells Angels? These are non-state actors that abide to their own code and none other. Their only aim is to impose their own governance on their turf. They want three things, just like any state or government, Power, Money, and Territory. We need a National policy that will deal with this once and for all. There is no excuse for a Nation as great as ours to have a cancer of that malignancy growing within us. Analysis: The danger is within.

Here is an interesting statistic. There are more law enforcement personnel in the state of California than there are soldiers in Iraq. So which one is more dangerous? What does that tell you?

So where does this leave us?

I bet that many of you where vaguely aware of much of this. But have you really ever given it any thought? I shudder at some of the necessary processes that will be needed to put ourselves back on track. Our government has to be broken from its self-centered, self-serving, and hereditary habits. The people of this country have to take back what is theirs, the government; the government that is rightfully of the people, by the people. And we the people have to decide what kind of nation we want to live in.

A short time ago, I was involved in a particularly heated debate, with a hunter no less, who refused to acknowledge that Mountain Top Removal is an environmental travesty. Though I refuted each and every one of his assertions, my argument held no weight, (As far as he was concerned.), due to his ignorance and inability to follow a line of inquiry to its conclusion. I am certain my logic was irrefutable, but I was not able to sway this person. Critical thinking is no longer thought to be of any use. It’s all about “gettin’ yours.”

The biggest problem is a lack of a sound education policy. Our school systems are a wreck. The system has no accountability, it is chronically underfunded, landowners are forced to pay for schools they don’t use, and there is no telling who’s actually teaching your kids or if they are even safe. I don’t know, but you would think that we would have a national educational system funded through the federal government rather than land taxes, with a minimum standard of knowledge, and a faculty of well paid professionals held to high level of accountability. They are, after all, taking care of our future. Sounds like a sound investment policy to me.

Much of what is done on the Outdoor Bloggers Summit, and all of our affiliated blogs, is in response to abuses by those that are arrogant and accustomed to abusing the good nature of those around them. As a very good friend of mine has told me, “Bad things happen, because good men fail to act.”

It is time to act.

By the way, in case you all think I’ve been doing nothing but pondering weighty problems and their solutions, fret not, for a few nights ago I did entertain myself by fighting a brushfire for the better part of four hours. I’m tired as I write this, but satisfied that I’ve done my part to combat global warming, make the world safe for democracy, and possibly saving my home from a fiery demise.

I will be back and contributing regularly by the end of the month at the latest.

Best Regards!
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues…

Epilouge:

It has been almost a week since Holly and Kristine e-mailed me and I am just now posting this. I am going to make a real effort to put myself on a suitable deadline schedule and conduct my journalistic affairs in an appropriate fashion.

HSUS Investigative Report by ABC Atlanta

HSUS investigation into finances
ABC WSB-TV Atlanta investigation into HSUS
ABC Investigation into HSUS
ABC News (WSB-TV) Atlanta Exposé on HSUS Donations
WSB-TV Investigates HSUS Fundraising Practises




HSUS on the Grill

Where do HSUS Donations Really Go?

How to Support Animal Rights Activists

Spring Hiatus

Friends,

I'm going to have to take a short hiatus, probably about two months or so. I have a few writing projects that are going to require some serious deliberation. One is on mountain top removal, another has to do with military doctrine in the information age, and yet another on occupational safety in construction.

I'll still try to put a few things in occasionally as time permits. I really hate to do this, but there are just not enough hours in the day to do it all!

I'll check in regularly at OBS.

Regards,
Albert A Rasch

Lions in the Yard

© By Albert A Rasch
.

African Lion Hunting... In Florida

“Remember,” I thought to myself, “feed him your left arm first. Maybe one of the kids can manage to scrape him off me if things get dicey.”

Passing thought as a braced myself against the 458's recoil.

It was about 9:30 PM, and I was somewhat between awake and dead to the world, when I felt Cristal’s hands on my chest shaking me back and forth.

“Wake up!” There was urgency in her voice.

I grunted a noncommittal noise and tried to fall back into the darkness beneath my pillow.

Another more vigorous shake. “Albert! Wake Up! It’s an emergency!”

I opened one eye reluctantly. "This had better be good," I thought as I tossed the sheet and blanket to one side, and slid off the side of the bed.

My feet hit the bare floor.

Jordan was standing there, eyes as big as saucers. I didn’t give it much thought at the moment.

“Come outside, and listen carefully.” I stepped through the front door. “Now don’t go too far. Listen!” I obediently stopped and listened.

After a short while the thought of my warm bed and soft pillow was turning me back into the house. I still didn’t know why I was standing barefoot on the brick paver entry, in my Michael Jordan style boxer briefs and a well worn, comfortable T-shirt.

I took one step towards the house when I heard it.

“Hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnngg.” I was instantly awake.

Again I heard it. “Hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnngg.” The hair stood up at the nape of my neck.

It was the unmistakable sounds of a male African lion.

I know what you’re thinking. “Albert, come on! You expect us to believe this? What do you take us for? Dummies? We all know you live in Florida!” I know it sounds implausible. Keep reading then you can say what you want.

And as far as I could tell he was in or behind the palmetto under that damned Brazilian pepper tree I’ve been meaning to cut down. I really hate those pepper trees. It was maybe forty meters from where I was standing. The moon was almost full, casting everything in that otherworldly silver light.

Frozen in place, I looked up at Cristal and Jordan, now my eyes were as big as saucers.

“Jordan,” I hissed, “get me the .458 and a handful of 510 soft points! Move!” I make a mental note that Charlie the German Sheppard-Lab mix, and Chopper the Basset hound are both peeking out the door. I was pretty sure that Charlie was saying, “Cats are my business, but lions are yours.” Faithful dogs my rear.

Jordan hands me the Ruger #1 and a half dozen rounds of .458 ammo before scampering back to the safety of the house. Without hesitation, I drop a round down the chamber, close the action, and push the safety to off.

I’ve done a considerable amount of reading concerning Africa and its game. For instance, I know that a charging lion will cover a considerable amount of space in a flash. The mane makes his head look larger than it is, so over-shooting the brain is common, and occasionally fatal to the shooter rather than the shootee. “Remember,” I thought to myself, “feed him your left arm first. Maybe one of the kids can manage to scrape him off me if things got dicey.”

So… why am I out here in my own front yard barefoot? And in my underwear? Your guess is as good as mine. I’m glad the weather was mild though. Never being one to underestimate my own abilities, I still thought it prudent to maintain the same forty meter distance from the tree and flank the lion. I figured if he was eating one of the horses or a neighborhood kid he might be too occupied to bother with me. That would give me enough time to sort him out.

It took me about twenty minutes to cover the distance between the door and the front fence line. Step by step I crept. Balls of the feet, then gently lowered heel, carefully, quietly. Right foot over left, left foot behind right.

By the time I hit the fence, the cheeky bugger had somehow moved across the street and further back into the palmetto without me seeing him. Another twenty minutes and several dozen steps later I was standing in the dirt road less than six feet from the Brazilian pepper tree. Twice more the lion had grunted and moved further into the palmetto. But by now he seemed to have moved much, much further in; maybe a hundred meters from where I was. I couldn’t find any pug marks, but I wasn’t looking that carefully; my eyes were ahead, searching the palmetto.

I was debating what to do. For all my bravado and courage, I’m not an experienced lion hunter. Oh sure, I’ve dispatched my fair share of dangerous game… hogs, wild dogs, and rabbit, but lions in a palmetto thicket isn’t my particular specialty. Hell, I didn’t even have a tracker or two to feed him first. I was facing the palmetto, deliberating all of this when it happened.

He charged from less than five meters.

It is true that things go into slow motion when your life hangs by a thread, a single pull of the trigger.

You hear the dried palmetto leaves crackling first. Each individual leaf has its own distinct and unique snap. Your eyes move of their own volition to each and every sound, straining to catch the first bit of movement. You know you only have moments to put your sights on the one point that will guarantee you’ll be having breakfast with a fork, rather than through an intravenous tube. If, you survive. Your body subconsciously braces for the recoil, leading foot points toward the target, trailing foot digs in as your body leans forward. The sights are there, lined up, but not what you are focused on. Everything is super-tuned to that one moment, the one motion, the one and only chance you will have to live one more day. All of this in two heartbeats.

I really thought he’d be noisier. A lion has got to weigh a few hundred pounds. Why was it so light footed?

The sear was a less than a hair’s breadth from being released when TigerKat came bounding out of the palmetto. It was by that same hair’s breadth that he didn’t end up with 510 grains of copper wrapped lead splattering him throughout the countryside.

“Hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnngg,” laughed the lion further away still. TigerKat rubbed up against my shins.

I dropped the lever on the #1 and pulled the cartridge out. I threw the Ruger over my shoulder, walked back up the road and then the drive. I didn’t care if a pride of lions burst out of the palmetto and decided to tear me into bite size morsels of Caucasian male hors d’oeuvres. TigerKat followed me, occasionally catching up and then weaving between my legs. Funny how you can walk through all sorts of stuff and not feel a thing when your heart’s beating and nothing else exists but the moment you’re in. Those pavers felt awful hard on my feet.

Cristal was waiting at the door, phone in hand. “Honey, you’re not going to believe this. Grandma says that a wild animal rescue organization has moved in this week. They’re on the property where the rescue dogs where. Over behind the Ramsey’s, remember?” She was pointing across the dirt road.

“I’m going back to bed.” is all I said. Sliding between the sheet and tossing the blanket back over me, I couldn't remember that bed ever feeling that uninviting.

Epilogue:
Cristal and the boys went to visit on Friday. They called me excited about all the animals they saw. We went back on Saturday. My visit was twofold. I wanted to see the animals, and under what kind of conditions they were being held. I am happy to report that the animals are in great condition, including the perpetrator of Thursday’s joke on me. The accommodations are more than adequate and the plans for the facility seem very exciting. I’ll be visiting again when I have an opportunity to give a full report on the animals, the people, and the plans.

From the Chronicle's Travels: A Bus in Rome

© By Albert A Rasch

"His eyes though, were sharp and calculating, always moving, always noting every passenger..."

I have a good friend who travels the world. A historian, he has traveled to all the major sites of Western culture. He has been to the Parthenon, traveled through England, has seen the Venetian palace of the Doge, known as the Palazzo Ducale di Venezia, and regaled in the free city of Prague hunting peasants with a medieval crossbow. I think he’s even frolicked on some of the Grecian islands on the Mediterranean. What the hell that has to do with history I don’t know, he’s kind of cagey and circumspect when I bring it up. But it was his recent adventure in a Roman bus that he shared with me, that I will now share with you.

My friend shall remain nameless as his employment with the government of the United States is sensitive enough for me to indulge in this bit of license and refrain from referring to him by name.

This particular trip, he had given to his mother a tour through the Italian peninsula as a birthday gift, and as the doting son that he is, he had arranged every detail of this trip. And as an added bonus he invited his sister along too. (The only place I would invite my brother to is his own ass-whipping.) As his parents, like mine, are now of advanced age, he took special consideration with respect to the access to the hotel, and the quality of its services, and its convenience to the locations he wished to visit. I’ve known him for three and a half decades now, and when I say he is meticulous, it’s an understatement. He’s the guy who not only carries a spare scope, but an extractor and firing pin when he goes out. My things go south and I sharpen a stick and call it good. He plans for and is prepared for any contingency.

Except for Roman public transport.

Imagine if you will, a beautiful afternoon in Rome. The sun streaming down on the beautiful Roman architecture, bathing it with a warm, golden glow. Centuries of history bursting from every mortar joint and every piece of stone work, even the cobble stones echo with the ancient steps of the Legions. The lovely Italian women in the latest of fashions parade down the piazza, mindful of where they step lest they twist an ankle, and mindful of every man’s eye that lands upon them. Then there are the devout nuns calmly going about their business, habits swishing with every step, the hard leather soles on their very sensible black shoes hardly making an audible sound over the din of the city.

According to my friend’s itinerary it was time to visit some historic site or another. Finishing the last of an exquisite northern Italian wine while sitting on the terraza, he notes that it is time to visit the next stop on the tour. Mom and sister, comfortably ensconced in a luxurious hotel room and who by now are intimately familiar with his methods, are patiently awaiting him, so he gathers them and escorts them from the hotel.

As everyone knows, the public transportation in Europe is a finely tuned machine. Italy’s system is no exception. My friend, itinerary in mind and schedule in hand, guides dearest Mrs. M, and sister, to the bus stop. Before long the bus arrives and they board. Busses and trains in Europe are also very busy, and again, this bus was no exception. There was standing room only. Fortuitously for them a kindly priest offers his seat to Mrs. M., who gratefully accepts his kind gesture and takes it, while he stands next to her.

The priest was a middle aged, small and easily overlooked gentleman. Had you taken the time to notice, he had the benevolent face of a school teacher, a learned man who has seen much and is comfortable with the experiences he has endured. His eyes though, were sharp and calculating, always moving, always noting every passenger. But his size, the priestly frock, and the inordinate number of members of the clergy that are in Rome, made him almost imperceptible, non-descript, unnoticeable.

I’ll let my friend tell the rest of the story.

“Albert, let me tell you, Rome is gorgeous. The architectural history alone is enough to make you salivate. When you’re at the Coliseum it just grabs you by the… Anyway, so I’m standing in the bus, kind of bent over to look out the window, just absorbing the sights. Every block is different and you never know what will come next. My sister is standing next to me, thinking about lord knows what, when out of nowhere I hear a smack and my mother yells, ‘The priest had his hand in my bag! Grab him!’”

(Now I would like to interject here and let you all know that my buddy is a paragon of courtesy and good manners. He is a man of impeccable dress and incredibly good taste; the quintessential man of means and important affairs. If you didn’t know him you might think him to be minor nobility or something like that. Really. The point is he doesn’t usually go around and rough up unsuspecting priests.)

He continued. “Startled from my reverie, I look at the priest; he’s like five foot tall by the way. I look at my Mom, look at the priest, look back at Mom, and with a muttered “Sorry God.”, my hand shoots out and I snatch him hard by the neck, driving my thumb into his carotid.”

“I wasn’t the only one startled. By now everyone on the bus is looking at me. I have this priest dangling by his neck like a black robed pork belly on display, his shoes barely touching the rubber mats, and a couple of gurgles coming from his mouth. I could see the headlines: ‘Mad American throttles Vatican Emissary.’ ‘But, Albert’, he says to me, ‘it’s Mom.’ So I’m thinking ‘Too bad’ for everyone. I’m taking care of business here and now!”

“I rip his leather satchel out of his hands, and toss it to my sister. “Go through it.” I tell her. She holds it away from her body like it’s a venomous serpent. I swear she’s held worse so I don’t know what her problem was. My guess is she figured damnation would be upon her and the earth would be rent if she opened it or maybe she thought the Italian police would have me for roughing up a priest and she didn’t want to get thrown in the slammer as an accomplice. Meanwhile, Mother is going through her bag and checking for anything missing. Women buy on looks, not practicality; the bag had ‘steal-from-me’ written all over it. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her to get a flap-over purse for travel. Anyway, sister tells me there’s nothing in the priest’s bag and gives it to me. I’m not sure she even looked, but Mom says she can’t find anything misplaced or missing either.”

“Crap. I have a priest in one hand, a bus load of locals and tourists around me, and no good reason for having him dangling there like a dead tuna on a meat hook. I let him go, give him his bag, and roughly straighten him out. I’m muttering an apology while he’s rubbing his throat, when I notice something. I grab his left wrist and look at the back of his hand. Three red marks where my mother had smacked his hand. I looked him straight in the eye and you know what he did? He shrugged. Yeah, shrugged. Like ‘Ok, you caught me, so games over.’ I really contemplated grabbing him again and throttling the life out of him like a lousy flogging rooster, but after momentary consideration thought better of it. Then it dawns on me that the son-of–a-bitch is a damn pick-pocket in disguise.”

“At that moment of realization the bus jerks to a halt at our destination. I’m looming over this guy, and tell Mom and sister to get off the bus. I give the priest/pick-pocket a look that would of have curdled yesterday’s milk in a cow, and stalk off the bus. You would think he would have stayed still, but I’ll be damned if the SOB doesn’t get off with us. But no sooner had I decided to finish him, than he melts into the crowd.”

I herded Mom and sister to the museum, looking over my shoulder a couple of times, figuring he might try something or get an accomplice or two, but I think he got the message. I didn’t see him again.

My buddy finished up with: “Albert, I don’t know about you, but when Mom says, “Grab him.” I grab him!”

Both he and I are old school. We respect our parents, will gladly do whatever they ask of us, and will kill anyone that affronts our Moms. That pick-pocket was very fortunate that day that he didn’t lose the use of a hand, or maybe even an eye.

He should have known better than to mess with a member of “The Unit, One of the Chronicled.”