Awww, Dentist for Tuna, juvat!*

 Yes, Folks, it is decidedly "Pick on Tuna" day here in the Lone Star State.  Why you ask?  Well, I found a video which I believe will serve him in good stead as he advances into the ranks of the "Elderly".  Now, using my artistic license, I define elderly as a moving variable (E).  The formula for that variable's value is thus:

E>1 + JA** (in years)

Now, there is a second formula which also defines Elderly.  That one is 

E=JA (in years)-1 

One can only be in one grouping or the others. This will be apparent shortly as this week's lesson to be learned is aimed at the second grouping.

So, on with the show. 

Mrs. J and I were in the truck headed eastword.  While we were not going TO Austin, we were headed to Dripping Springs which 20 years ago was a very small town well away from Austin.  Now, it's a suburb for the Austin Borg.  We were going to visit our friend from Texas Hills Winery.  I don't know if I'd mentioned her husband had passed away last year (it was a pretty rotten year all round).  She has just completed selling the winery and has bought a house in Dripping (the locals drop the "Spring" part).  Mrs J. needed to discuss with her the Wine River cruise coming up in November that our friend's going to be the MC for.  I wanted to drink a little wine.  

Win/Win!

Dinner was excellent, as was the wine.  As we're heading home, Mrs J is surfing videos on her phone.  She's laughing quite hard and I ask what's going on.  She replied that she had found a video that I "HAD" to post on this morning's blog.

So it is written, So it shall be!

The video is the 12 commandments for Senior Citizens. I think they're funny, along with a modicum of truth contained within.

So, Tuna, take them to heart, learn them and feel free to start applying them because you're rapidly approaching the age at which they become truthful.

BTW, #5 is particularly accurate at least as as far as I'm concerned.

Enjoy and...Peace Out Y'all!

* Actually it's "Audentes fortuna juvat". Or, Fortune favors the Bold.   This was the "Motto" of the 80TFS "The Juvats" of which I was a member.  Youngest guy in the squadron.  Learned a lot from the "older generation" the 30YO Captains and the 40YO Majors. The attached title is just a thought I had on the way home from Dripping and it stuck with me for some reason.  Besides, Tuna doesn't get enough grief around here.  Thought I'd fix that a bit.  Sue me!

**You'll have to think about that one.  I'm not going to define it.

Background

The Delaware Regiment of the Continental Army at the Battle of Long Island during the American Revolutionary War.
Domenick D'Andrea
Commissioned by the US National Guard Bureau, c. 2004
Source

Most of you, no doubt, learned various things about the American Revolution growing up. I'm not sure if that subject is still taught in schools, which, if not, is a crying shame. However, much of what we learned is often based on myth and legends. I seem to relearn this every time I do some research. (And it's not revisionist history if new sources are brought to light. Only if the facts are "re-interpreted" to push an agenda.)

The night of "Paul Revere's Ride" (which he wasn't alone in doing) - he didn't ride through the night shouting "The British are coming." Which would have made no sense at all to the colonists. In their minds, they were all British, they themselves and the troops occupying Boston. One of their main complaints is that they weren't being treated by the Crown as Englishmen.

No, Mr. Revere's ride was to raise the countryside, because for one thing shouting would have awakened loyalists and patriots alike, his was a stealth mission. Also, he would have been notifying the patriot leaders that "the Regulars are coming out," meaning that the Army was coming to seize their arms, powder, and shot.

It rather stunned me to learn in recent days that we didn't call the British troops "lobsterbacks." I grew up with that, I even called them "lobsterbacks" in my rerun the other day. That epithet was coined well after the Revolution. Rather rattled me, now I wonder what else I learned in school that was, well, let's just say, not that accurate.

At any rate, there seems to be some confusion among the readership as to where we are in the story,The Revolution. The story begins in Boston, in October of 1768. Before the Boston Massacre (or as the British call it, "the incident on King Street"), and before the Boston Tea Party.

The Massachusetts Bay colonists, some of them anyway, are rather upset about the new taxes which Parliament has levied on the colonies to pay for the French And Indian War (know in Europe as the Seven Years War) which ended in 1763, a scant five years before the beginning of this tale. So the military commander in North America, Sir Thomas Gage, has ordered more troops to Boston.

In our story, two British Army regiments have just landed in Boston to reinforce those already there. This would be the 14th Foot and the 29th Foot (some of whose members we have already met). And yes, the 29th had black drummers. (In later years many European armies, including Napoléon's, sought out black men as musicians. Why, I'm not sure, maybe I'll find out in my research.)

As for the troops marching out to the countryside and back, it was a way to keep the men fit. It also gave them something to do besides drill. A certain amount of drill is necessary for discipline and so that the troops could maneuver crisply in battle. But doing nothing but that everyday makes for restless and bored troops. Bad for morale that is.

As we draw closer to April of 1775, the British made an effort to have a large number of troops out in the countryside to get the colonists used to seeing them out and about. I'm guessing that plan didn't work all that well as the events along the Battle Road to Concord and back will attest. (When we get there.)

So, early days yet folks, I'm introducing characters and their points of view, setting the stage, as it were, for what's to come. We'll get to the action, eventually.

After all, "if you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding ."¹

The Death of Major Peirson, 6 January 1781
John Singleton Copley, 1783
Source

Do chase the source under that painting above, there are nine more great paintings from that era over there.

Enjoy your Sunday, juvat will, no doubt, entertain you with something on Monday, and I'll be back on Tuesday, hopefully with another installment of The Revolution.

'Ware the politicians, keep your powder dry.

¹ Apparently that saying has been around for a while, but I like the way Pink Floyd presented it.

Let's Go for a Walk ...

Source

Edward Kirk, Silus Montgomery, and Enoch Kersey were sitting comfortably by the fireplace in Kirk's place of business. Kirk was a cobbler by trade and a budding revolutionary. He didn't like that the Crown had dispatched more troops to Boston. He and Montgomery had been out to the Common where they'd watched the regulars at their drill.

"They look rusty, Edward." Montgomery offered.

"Time at sea will make any landsman wobbly and weak after a week or two on the bounding main." Kirk said. He would know. As a young man he'd been with the troops that captured Louisbourg from the French in '58.

Kersey scoffed, "They'll be fit for action soon enough, Silus." Turning to Kirk, he asked, "Is there to be a muster this weekend?"

"Yes, not for all the men, just the officers. We need contingencies for this new situation. I fear that General Gage means to make use of these new regiments once they're fit for service."

"So tell me, Major, how many companies of the 29th are present here in Boston." Colonel Sir William Haversham looked up at Major Winston Avery, in temporary command of the 29th.

"Four companies, Sir. Two more are awaiting shipping from Halifax, another is posted in Maryland, two more are presently in New York. I'm not sure if General Gage plans to send them here or not. Most of my companies are understrength, averaging no more than fifty men each." Avery answered.

"Not much to overawe the colonials are they?" The Colonel took a pinch of snuff, sneezed, then looked again at Avery. He hadn't offered the Major any snuff.

"Give me a few more days, Sir, then they'll be more than fit for these rabble militiamen."

Haversham stood up and paced to the window. He glanced outside, he swore he saw a few snowflakes in the air. He shivered, then bellowed, "Maxwell! Get in here and stoke this bloody fire, d'ye wish your colonel to die of this bitter air?"

Oswald Maxwell, the Colonel's batman hustled in and began to work the fireplace. Soon he had it going nicely.

Avery did not relish heading back out to the Common, where his men were still under canvas. Eventually Haversham turned from the window, nodded at the Major and said, dismissively, "That will be all, Avery. Get back to your regiment."

Avery made a slight bow, "Sir Winston." Then he turned and headed back into the cold.

"Just got word from Elijah Pickart down Quincy way, he's mustered his company and plans on drilling them the entire weekend, save for Sunday services, of course." Enoch Kersey made this announcement as he discarded his gloves and warmed his hands by Mrs. Kirk's kitchen fireplace.

"Hhmm, I suppose we should do the same. I don't think this snow will continue, too early in the year for a blow, I think." Edward Kirk could smell his wife's stew, it was nearly ready.

"Care to stay for dinner, Enoch?" Mrs. Kirk offered as she started setting out plates and cutlery.

"Why thank you, Patience, if your honorable spouse does not mind?" Kersey said, smiling at Mr. Kirk.

"Mind, of course I mind, you eat more than two men together!"

Though Kersey was as thin as a rail, the man could eat prodigious amounts of food. As he never seemed to sit still for a moment, he burned through most of what he ate rather quickly. He sniffed and said, "Well then, I'll go where I'm wanted then."

"Nonsense, sit down, I'll fix you a plate." Mrs. Kirk said as she swatted at her husband with a ladle.

"Not even King in my own castle, damned shame that is!" Kirk exclaimed.

"Mind your language, Edward!"

This time she made contact with the ladle.

Captain Gilbert was drilling his company hard. The men were still clumsy, many were new recruits. He had his eye on Burton, though the man was always trying to shirk his camp duties, he was a natural soldier. He watched as the man offered advice to one of the new men.

"Ya know, Burton, if ye weren't such a layabout, you might make a good soldier!" Sergeant Miller barked at the man.

"Thank you, Sergeant!" Burton barked.

"You're a cheeky bugger you are! Now, Company 'SHUN!"

As the men snapped to attention, Gilbert heard a voice behind him, it was the Major.

"Your lads are looking well, Thomas."

Gilbert made a slight bow, "Major. Why do I sense you have a task for us?"

"Ah, because I do dear boy. A walk in the Massachusetts countryside, interested?"

"Do I have a choice, Sir?"

"Of course not. Trust me, the men will enjoy the exercise."

"What's the task, Sir?"

"A patrol out to Somerville and back. We want the colonials to get used to seeing the troops out in the countryside. If we stay cooped up here in Boston, who knows what mischief the bastards will get up to out in the countryside?"

"Very good, Sir. When do you want this patrol to head out?"

"Tomorrow, I should think, be on the road before sunrise. Questions?"

"No Sir, I'll see to it. Might I take the entire company?"

"Of course, I want the locals to see His Majesty's soldiers in force. Let them know what they are up against should trouble arise."

"Very well, Sir."

When the Major left, Gilbert called his sergeants, Miller and Teegarden, over. "Dismiss the men back to camp, have them prepare their haversacks and equipment for ..." he thought for a moment, "an entire day, perhaps a march of ten miles or more."

"Will ye be wanting yer horse, Sir?" Teegarden asked.

"Yes, I should think so. Don't want the locals seeing one His Majesty's officers trudging along the road like a commoner, do we?"

"Course not, Sir."

The two sergeants went off to see to the soldiers, to get them fed and to see to it that they got their kit together, then got a good night's rest. As for Gilbert, he decided that a warm place next to the fire at his favorite tavern and a strong drink would be just the thing right then.

And if the ladies were inviting?

Might be just the right thing indeed.

Welcome to Boston

Source

"What's all that commotion out there, young Duncan?"

Duncan Mathews, 15 years old, looked outside. A crowd was moving towards the docks. He saw a lad he knew well, Barnabas Hawkins. He turned to Mistress Tucker, "Folks are headed to the waterfront, shall I go see what the ruckus is, Ma'am?"

Prosperity Tucker, 75 years old, but still spry, adjusted her spectacles and said, "Be right back now, I've a load of fine wool I need taken over to Mr. Wimball."

"Coats for the fancy folk up Beacon Hill, Ma'am?" Matthews said as he tugged his own threadbare coat on, the weather looked to be turning on this day in October. There had been a frost in the morning, now it was clouding up.

"I reckon so, now don't dawdle, go there, see what is happening and then hasten ye back."

"I will, Ma'am!"

He flinched as the door slammed behind him, he doubted Mistress Tucker would notice though, she was nearly as deaf as a post!

When he stepped into the street he saw that Hawkins had waited for him.

"What's all the fuss, Barnabas?" Matthews asked as the two boys headed to the docks.

"William Prescott says that two regiments of regulars are expected. Fellow up in Dorchester saw the ships coming in, he passed the word to William's father."

"Mister Prescott, he's a militiaman, ain't he?"

"That he is."

"Think there will be trouble?" Matthews asked with a worried look on his face. Many of the men he knew were getting more vocal about all the taxes the Crown was imposing on Massachusetts. There had been rumbling in the streets of throwing the Crown's agents out of town.

"My Master thinks not. More soldiers in town might calm the hotheads, at least he hopes so."

"Is your Master for the King, then?"

"No, my Master is for business, he says all the troubles that might come would be bad for business. He's for anything which keeps the rabble quiet." Hawkins answered his friend with a wry grin.

Captain Thomas Gilbert, of His Majesty's 29th Regiment of Foot, stepped onto the pier from the ship. He was heartily glad to be back on dry land. He turned to his company's drummer, a fine looking black lad from Jamaica.

"Young Billy, sound the assembly before the company wanders off to find a tavern."

Billy, who used the last name Kingston, he didn't know of any other, smiled, "Yes, Cap'n, I'd wager the lads will be silly with drink soon enough."

As he beat the assembly, the soldiers of Gilbert's company, the 3rd, began to fall in to ranks. Gilbert wondered just where his sergeants were, he had no lieutenants and his one ensign was under the care of the ship's surgeon. Out of a theoretical establishment of 1 Captain, 2 lieutenants, 1 ensign, 4 sergeants, 4 corporals, 2 drummers, and 100 privates, he only had two sergeants, no corporals, one drummer and 67 privates present for duty.¹

"Sah!"

Gilbert turned, there were his sergeants, half carrying, half dragging a private soldier between them.

"Burton here thought he'd have a go at being a civilian." Sergeant Robert Miller told the Captain.

"No Sir, I was seasick, trying to get me land legs, honest, Sir, I warn't tryin' to desert!"

"Damn your eyes, Burton, you'd be halfway to the lower parts of the town if we hadn't espied you trying to doff your coat in yon alleyway!" Sergeant Teegarden, the older of the two sergeants, cuffed Burton to make his point.

"Extra duty then Burton? Or shall I send your name up to the Colonel? He might just flog you or, if he's in a mood, have you shot for desertion. Your choice, lad." Gilbert had delivered all that in a calm voice. Those who had served with him on the Continent shivered, the Captain was most dangerous when he seemed calm and collected.

Burton swallowed hard, "Extra duty is fine for me, Sir. Sorry, Sir, won't happen again, Sir!"

"Damned right it won't!" Teegarden cuffed the man again.

Burton scurried into ranks, his mates didn't look at him. They didn't wish to be tarred with the same brush as Burton, a ne'er-do-well since he'd joined the Army.

"New regulars landed today, Ma'am. Few hundred at least." Matthews paused in his hauling of bundles of wool out to the handcart he used for deliveries.

"Harrumph, maybe the scallywags around the town will be less troublesome now." Mistress Tucker was of the same mind as Barnabas Hawkins' master, trouble was bad for business.

¹ British Line Infantry Organisation of the Seven Years War, Source.

New Fiction, Maybe?

Source

I don't wish to be one of those bloggers who writes about the weather, political affairs, current events, or "what's happening in my house." Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you. I like reading those sorts of blogs, I just don't wish to be one of those. I like to tell stories.

As some of you (most of you, a lot of you) seem to like my scribblings, as I'm going nuts not writing anything creative, I'm looking at starting a new series based on the American Revolution.

It somehow seems fitting.

At any rate, the following post (of which this is the second repeat of said post) will be used as a starting point. I may start here, then go backwards (maybe as far back as the event depicted above) then come back to this point and go forward until the world is turned upside down. If'n you know what I mean.

Here we go.

Editor's Note: The post below is just as it first appeared away back in April of 2016, with one correction. Points to the one who can spot what I fixed. Note that it is in the "old font" which will probably get upgraded to the "new font" at some point. But not today, for I am very busy. Apologies.

(Source)

19 April, 1775 - Willie Cruikshank rested his hunting rifle on the stone wall in front of him. He could hear musket shots farther up the road, up towards Lexington where the day's events had begun. Cruikshank's militia company had hurried to this position and were just getting settled in. The day was turning hot.

Around the bend in the road Cruikshank could see dust rising above the trees. The lobsterbacks had to be close. He removed his hat and ran his sleeve over his forehead, the day was getting warmer and the run up from Menotomy had him sweating.

"Steady Willie, don't bounce around so much. Those bloody lobsterbacks might see you. Steady lads." Sergeant Sullivan muttered to the other men nearby. He liked Willie, even if he was a Scotsman, and didn't want the lad to feel singled out.

"Sully! I can sees 'em. There the bastards are!" Young McGilvary could barely contain himself as the red coated column began to come around the bend in the road.

"Be still Mac! Jesus, Mary and Joseph can't you lads be quiet?" Sergeant Sullivan's first thought was that the British looked dirty and tired. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost, but he'd had to flee Ireland on account of the English. There was no pity in his breast this day.

"Willie, you take the first shot. Aim at the fancy boy on the horse..."

Cruikshank laid his cheek against the stock of his rifle and focused on the horseman. An officer, he guessed. Soon to be a dead 'un. Willie seldom missed.

Lieutenant Anthony Williams-Beckworth of the Grenadier Company of His Majesty's Fourth Foot* slumped in his saddle. It had been a very long day. Up well before dawn, getting the men down to the boats and then across to the mainland, he had been very busy. He had wanted to leave his horse behind but Captain Adams had told him in no uncertain terms that he wanted his officers on horseback.

While it had been difficult getting the horses across, he was glad they had. He was tired, his men looked exhausted. The march back from Concord had been a passage through Hell itself. As far as he could tell, his platoon had suffered only a single casualty. Light losses to be sure, but tell that to Jackson's mother.

This was the lieutenant's first fight, his first excursion into the field, truth be told. Seeing the perpetually cheerful Jackson shot down right in front of him had nearly caused him to vomit.

Who knew there was so much blood in a man?

Corporal Wilkerson tramped wearily along next to the lieutenant's horse, The captain had taken him aside that morning and bade the corporal keep an eye on the new officer. At first he'd been annoyed at having to babysit this youngster, little bastard couldn't be more than 17. "I joined the regiment before this lad was even conceived," Wilkerson thought to himself.

At that point the experienced corporal thought he saw something just up ahead.

"Look alive lads, the damned rebels seem to be about!"

Cruikshank settled himself, a breath in, let some of it out...

When the powder in the pan flashed and the rifle kicked back into his shoulder, it was, as always, a surprise. "A good steady squeeze is the way to go laddie," as his old Da' always said.

He couldn't see shite because of the powder smoke but he didn't have time to gawp anyway, he needed to reload, and fast.

Eric Johnson Photo (Source)

Wilkerson saw the flash and then the smoke from a shot just ahead, couldn't be more than a hundred paces away. Before he could react he heard a muffled grunt and then a choking sound coming from his right. And why was he wet all of a sudden? It wasn't raining.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lieutenant Williams-Beckworth felt as if he'd been shoved back slightly, then his hands went to his throat as suddenly he couldn't breathe right, perhaps he should loosen his cravat. But then, then, he realized that something, something...

As the lieutenant slid to the road, his world went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wilkerson turned just as the lieutenant began to slide from his horse, his waistcoat was soaked in blood, his horse's neck was soaked in blood. My Lord, my lieutenant's been shot, what will the captain say?

As he reached for the lieutenant he felt his arm swatted away, as if the lieutenant didn't want to be touched. Odd though, the lieutenant has both hands to his throat, how did he...

Wilkerson stared in some puzzlement at his shattered right forearm. Then he realized, he too had been hit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The other non-commissioned officers had no time to assist the corporal or his lieutenant, the rebel fire was coming in thick and fast.

"Form up you bastards!"

"Present your firelocks! Fire! Fire at will!"

Eric Johnson Photo (Source)

But the rebels were already melting into the trees. A small group of fusiliers began to jump over the wall to pursue but were ordered back onto the road.

"Retreat, fall back lads, keep your intervals. Steady lads, steady!"

As night fell Corporal Wilkerson regained consciousness. His arm was on fire and his throat was parched. In the wan light of the moon he realized that he was alone on the field, his mates had left him for dead.

Struggling to his feet, he looked about for his musket. There, under that body. Rolling the dead man off, he began to lift his weapon out from under the corpse, then the moonlight fell on the man's face enough to recognize him.

Wilkerson sank back to the ground with a sob. The dead man was his lieutenant. The boy he was responsible for. Damned infernal rebels, they will pay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two months later, less two days, the rebel who had slain the young lieutenant, Private Willie Cruikshank did pay. He lost his life at the end of a British bayonet as he tried to flee from a bloody hill just outside Charlestown. A hill known as Breed's Hill, where the battle to be remembered in later years as The Battle of Bunker Hill was fought.

Corporal John Wilkerson was there as well, his wounded right arm just beginning to feel right again. The corporal had gone up that hill two and a half times, he'd been forced back twice. Angry, wanting revenge for his dead lieutenant, wanting revenge for the humiliation of the retreat from Concord. So many good lads lost that day.

But as the sun set on another bloody day of this young revolution, Corporal Wilkerson's war was over. As was his life.

He and 206 other British infantrymen lay dead upon the bloody slope. Nineteen officers had also perished. 828 other men of the British Army had been wounded, some would die of those wounds.

135 of the rebels had perished (20 after being captured). A further 305 had been wounded. So yes, the rebels had "paid" for Concord and Lexington. But the bill to the British Crown was far too steep. Any further victories such as this and His Majesty's army in the Colonies would be bled white.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though Ralph Waldo Emerson's poem "Concord Hymn" was written to commemorate the events of 19 April 1775, the "shot heard round the world" refers to the first shots fired by the Colonial militia at the North Bridge outside of Concord, Massachusetts.

That shot had actually been fired earlier in the day, at Lexington green. To this day, no one knows who fired that first shot. The British soldiers present deny having fired, given the strict discipline of the British, I believe they did not fire first.

The British did not mention seeing those militia gathered on the green firing the shot either. Perhaps it was someone coming late onto the scene, who saw the militia standing as the British officer in command demanded they lay down their arms and disperse.

Perhaps that individual, in rage or in frustration, loosed that first shot. Which caused the redcoats to loose a volley on the men to their front. Of whom eight perished and ten were wounded. Some in sight of their homes.

Who fired that "shot heard round the world" that day? Who knows?

A long, bloody revolution followed but in the end, a new Nation was born.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We set to-day a votive stone;

That memory may their deed redeem,

When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free,

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

"Concord Hymn" - Ralph Waldo Emerson**

* The 4th Foot is recorded as having been present in this source.
** Source for the Concord Hymn

Summer Has Fled ...

Mt. Ascutney
Windsor, Vermont
OAFS Photo

Fall has arrived, summer has fled and it seems that the warmer temperatures have gone with it.

We turned off the air conditioners on Monday, as they are dual purpose (cooling and heating) they will not come on until the real cold sets in. For now we can get by with the heating provided by the sun during the day, such as it is. It's around 68° in the house now, moments before sundown on Tuesday. Tolerable.

Took The Missus Herself out to the aeroporto on Tuesday, she's off to visit LUSH for a fortnight. The timing for us works, the timing for LUSH works. The Missus Herself is looking forward to seeing Lush and her kids. Big Time is at sea and will probably be there for another few months.

As for me, this is the last season of the year where I will be employed as a wage slave. Subject to the whims of the government and the mutterings of the higher ups. Will I miss it? As I've said before, I'll miss most of the people I work with and certain aspects of the job, Beyond that? It's time to hang up the cleats, as it were, I'm tired and don't feel like playing salaryman any more.

Oh well ...

The Muse is still on vacation, I have no pressing stories to tell, not even any non-pressing stories. A couple of ideas have bubbled up, but I can't summon the energy to pursue those ideas. Not just yet anyway.

Where will my writing go in the next few months? I can't say, there is much to do between now and December, work wise. Time to train my replacement, time to ease my way out the door.

It's going to be an adventure.

Then there is November, I view that month with a great deal of trepidation.

Will the Republic live on?

I have my doubts, but one thing is sure ...

God is still in charge.

That's where I place my hopes.

Stay frosty.

Weird Dreams and a Few Film Reviews ...

Source

Bizarre dream, or was it a nightmare?

Sunday was the "stripping of the bed," it's not like we make a big deal out of doing this, but every time we do this, The Missus Herself comments on just how horrible my pillow looks. She often speaks of discarding it, but on Sunday last, she did more than just speak of it.

So now I have a new pillow, same make and model (if you will) as the old pillow, but it has yet to become "my pillow," carefully kneaded, drooled on, and crushed over time so that it is almost a part of me whilst I slumber. Nope, not yet.

I'm not saying that the pillow change had anything to do with the rather bizarre dreams (nightmares?) I had in the course of Sunday night to Monday morning. Could have been the two slices of cold pizza I consumed earlier. Who knows? Nevertheless the dream (nightmare?) was unsettling, to say the least.

The scene was rather like that in the opening photo (from the latest version of Dune). People were in formations, they were very gray, the day was gray and dark, might have been raining as well. I felt like I was somewhere in the future. A rather dismal future, that I can tell you.

I awakened, rather breathless as if I had just been running. I sat up in bed and said "What the hell was that?" I'm guessing it's my dismay as to the possibility of a completely unqualified, anti-American, corrupt asshole becoming the President of the United States. Again.

But having been awakened and left somewhat dazed, my brain went in different directions, I do that in order to try and get back to sleep. What I tend to do, when in the midst of one of my fictional bouts of writing, is try to think up new plot lines, twists and turns, ya know, that sort of thing.

For some reason though, early early on a Monday morning, my thoughts went to retirement, which is just a bit under three months away. It struck me that I would no longer be interacting with fellow adults in the pursuit of a common goal, ensuring that the Navy's weapon systems actually perform well, at least in a simulated environment.

In my half asleep, bad dream awakening state, I kinda panicked at that thought. I will indeed miss that. What I won't miss is management with no clue directing the show. We don't have a lot of that at the middle level, we have an awful lot of that at the higher middle levels. To them it's all about throwing the right tool and the right process at the job.

While the right tools and a good process can help, they're not a panacea, though many view it as such. So when a ew tool comes out, they rush to get it as long as someone in "industry" endorses it. Doesn't matter if they actually use the Gorram thing, if it's new, they want it. Kinda like those transformationalists a few years back.

That I will not miss at all.

Now that school is back in session and as apparently all of the "work from home" types are gradually filtering back to their actual brick and mortar company locations, traffic on my wee commute has become a PITA.

Mind you, it's nothing like big city commutes where you might sit in traffic for an hour or more, but if you're used to a 15-minute commute which now takes 30 minutes, well, let's just say, I ain't gonna miss that either.

Finally had the chance to watch that much-maligned film Civil War. You know, the one where Texas and California gang up on the rest of the United States and secede. The one where the "Western Forces" (sporting Old Glory with 13 stripes and 2 stars) manage to capture DC? As entertainment it wasn't bad. Lots of shootie stuff and things going boom, I like that in a film, even if the plot makes no damned sense at all.

And it didn't make any sense. No back story as to how California and Texas found common cause (I mean come on, Texas and Florida makes much more sense). No details on how it all started.

But yeah, lots of shootie stuff and things going boom.

Second film review, (okay, I watched a couple of movies on Saturday as it was raining like a sumbitch) this one was Red State. I had seen some clips of it, and John Goodman was in it (I like him), and when I was looking for something else to watch, there it was.

It's tagged as a "horror film" which I didn't think it was, sure some teenagers got slaughtered, so I guess to Hollyweird that's a "horror film," it wasn't, not really. Lots of shootie stuff and some really cool "trumpets of Revelation" stuff near the end. (Sounded like some of the same sound effects used in the Tom Cruise version of War of the Worlds when the tripods showed up. They were cool in both films.) You can read the synopsis at the link above.

It was weird, but oddly entertaining.

Maybe I need therapy ...

I managed to squeeze in another film on Sunday night, The League of Ungentlemanly Warfare, which, while entertaining, was rather a disappointment. I was expecting so much more.

U-Boats controlling the coast of Africa from Senegal to Gabon, the Germans occupying various coastal areas, the Royal Navy controlling the waters to the west of that, it was all so very contrived.

Now I'm not a huge fan of Sir Dudley Pound (PQ-17 and all that) but the movie made him look like a right berk, didn't like that at all. The premise of the movie was flawed, and the characters portrayed are based on real people! Come on, take a bit of history and put it in there Hollyweird, I know, it might require picking up a book, but damn, what a bloody disappointment.

It did have the benefit of being mildly entertaining, I will give it that, but I'm awfully glad that I didn't spend money at the theater to see it!

Speaking of weirdness, I love this scene from Dune ...

Maybe I really do need therapy ...

Anyhoo, how was your weekend?