Stomping Grounds.

Just a taste of the area I used to patrol when I was with the ODF in firefighting days.  We drove up to a spot that makes Michiganders nervous.  Bohemia Mountains, these are… and they are way more rugged than you would think.  This is about 6000 feet elevation (just shy of).

I experienced actual physical bodily pain when driving down and away from them.  Sigh.

Eastern Oregon is a little easier in spots and not so heavy on the huge trees, but their fires are frickin’ hot, too.

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You can never go home, but you can shop there.

I am near to going home after a week with family. It has been fun but I am ready to go home. Sleep in my own bed, sit in my own chair, and kick my own cat.

Let us be clear… I love seeing my family but I hate coming back to where I grew up. Too many memories.

In a handful of hours I will be back in my own home, and thrilled to be there.

But I enjoy seeing my dad. He and I got on the topic of adults that we ran across in our young lives that took an interest in us but we never understood why until years later, or may not have ever done so.

He mentioned one teacher who wrote in his book “‘Can’t’ never did anything.”

It is an unusual thing to say in a kid’s autograph book and surely had a reason.

I told him that I had a teacher give me “The Count of Monte Cristo”. He remembered her well.

Out of all the kids she had in her classes she wasn’t known for handing out books not on the reading list and saying things such as “I think you will really identify with the main character.”

And I still wonder what made her do that. I can make all sorts of guesses but what did she know or think she knew about me and my life?

If you have had that happen, I would love to hear about it, and why you think it happened.

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Mashed post.

Note:  Make sure you read yesterday’s post, too.  It’s chock full of fun.

Scroll on down to where it says “amiable old man showing a Star Trek tractor beam in action”.  Now, “tractor beam” is total BS and has nothing to do with localized magnetic domains on a macro-scale.  Just enjoy the video.  Super damn cool.

If you are the Yorl-ing type, you might be tempted to wander over and grab one at the amiable old man’s website.  You could make this yourself without too much effort through K&J Magnetics (I’m aimin’ to).  By the time I paid shipping and exchange and Euro prices I could do it cheaper through K&J by 40-50%.  Don’t feel so bad about telling you that because he has a buttload of other things I really want and couldn’t hope to make…

****

Piano Guys again. I like ’em.

****

You are probably aware that my name is Lemur King and I am a Redbullaholic…  I fell off the wagon this morning after five days of being clean.

But if I embrace that side of me…

It is by caffeine alone I set my mind in motion,
It is by the beans of Java that thoughts acquire speed,
The hands acquire shaking, the shaking becomes a warning,
It is by caffeine alone I set my mind in motion.

Thanks to alert reader Black Lab on Amphetamines.  Sayeth he on the source:

(Around a while; found it on web page that's been up since 1996: 
https://www.cs.cmu.edu/afs/cs.cmu.edu/user/clamen/www/caffeine/Caffeine.html)

The BLA is a fountain of trivia.  He scares me with some of his tidbits but by walking into his office sniffing markers I can weird him out so we have a stalemate.

****

And from Orygun… Smoke… jumpers… duuuuuude.

A team of smokejumpers parachuting into a fire in the mountains of Southern Oregon landed in an illegal marijuana garden being prepared for growing season.

[snip]  the smokejumpers notified authorities, who hiked into the remote site in the Rogue River-Siskiyou (SIS’-kee-yoo) National Forest… [snip]

The smokejumpers extinguished the fire after it burned less than an acre.

You could get some serious smoke-related exposure after close to an acre of smoke.  I suppose they had to stop at some point to arrange for “supplies” from Dominos or something.

Now that section is prime growing area (from what I hear) and can be nicely cut off from the rest of the world.  Perfect for an enterprising farmer.

****

Now, look at the Mars Rover tracks below and tell me what you see.

Stare at it hard before you go read about it.  WHAT DO YOU SEE?  Record your observation and then go linky.

Sorry, some guy must’ve spent some time mapping the projection and path for this shot.  Or it’s a photoshop.  But there are geeks who have been known to put their initials on parts bound for oh, say, Mercury, so it’s not impossible to fart around with things.

****

You want one of these… yes you do.

http://www.dudeiwantthat.com/style/kids/raised-by-wolves-onesie.asp

****

Dear Dr. Lemur –

I am troubled by this attack by native American Indians on sports teams that they deem are offensive or racist.  Is there anything that can be done about this bullying?

– Agness, Redskins Fan A-Number-1

“We will never change the name of the team,” Snyder said. “As a lifelong Redskins fan, and I think that the Redskins fans understand the great tradition and what it’s all about and what it means, so we feel pretty fortunate to be just working on next season.”

But what if his team loses the trademark case? Would he not consider changing the name even then?

“We’ll never change it,” Snyder said. “It’s that simple. NEVER — you can use caps.”

And what of the question Blackhorse wanted to ask if she ever met him? Would Snyder dare call her a redskin to her face?

“I think the best way is to just not comment on that type of stuff,” Snyder said. “I don’t know her.”

Blackhorse says she is not surprised at Snyder’s answer.

“If it was appropriate to call me that, he’d comment,” she says. “It must make him uncomfortable to talk about it, and it should make him uncomfortable.

“He’s right. He doesn’t know me, or my people. And if he did, he would not use that name.”

Dear Agness,

This sort of drivel is perpetuated because we allow it to be.  If everyone would resort to one sentence and one sentence only in any communication with these people then the issue would dry up soon enough like a festering sore packed in pickling salts.  Just say “Go blow a goat” and only that to anything they say to you.  NO MATTER WHAT.   If one of them is on fire and needs water you say “Go blow a goat”.  One of them wants to discuss something with you, “Go blow a goat”.  Eventually they’ll get tired of it and realize that their behavior drives how they are treated.  If a kid whines and every time he whines he gets a two-finger rap on the head, after a while whining just doesn’t get the desired response.  As soon as they take their ridiculous case out of court life can return to normal.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to run out and buy a pair of Redskins tickets.

– Dr. Lemur

http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/nfl/redskins/2013/05/09/native-americans-washington-mascot-fight/2148877/

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The Taternator: Stories of a Loosed Potato Cannon

The Summer of ’93, I think it was.

I had not quite met Cruel Wife at that time, being a few months off before that particular Life Story.

There was to be a gathering in my hometown at my folks’ house and everyone was going to be there.  As it turned out my nephew wanted to come and my brother dropped him off in a town on the way and a college buddy/roommate and I picked him up.  The roommate from college, who I’ll call “The Wetback”…

GOV’T CORRECTNESS  POLICE AGENT:  Stop the presses!  STO-O-O-O-P THE PRESSES! Hey, there’s a blogger named… uh… Lemur King… he just used the “W” word… the derogatory term.  You want us to send out a team to bag him and tag him?  What?  He had a disclaimer?  Sure, I’ll read it to the guys…

(and it read like this)

Yes, I called one of my dearest friends “The Wetback”.  We’ve known each other since roughly 1988, we’ve roomed together off and on over the years first in college and then when he moved into the same town I did years later.  His parents were originally from Mexico.  His mom was my second mom.  She was fantastic and she did a great job raising him and his siblings largely by herself, and I miss her terribly.  You could meet her once and you felt like you’d known her forever, she was so genuine.  Cruel Wife could attest to that.

It happened that one day in college we had a particularly rough term, finals were looming, we were on edge, and I needled him with a family joke.  We were watching TV and he noted something that actually was very profound.  A minute later I said “Not bad for a wetback.”  Now, in (most of) my blood family you can say just about anything as long as the other person knows that you mean anything but that.  I would never say this to someone if I didn’t know them and care about them.  Strange but true, that’s the way I am.  I can say to Cruel Wife things that would sound like the most awful stuff and people will be horrified, but they should know that if I had actually meant it, she’d have killed me.

Case #1: She was pregnant.  Lying on the bed on her back to take the load off her back.  I ran into the bedroom with a spray bottle screaming “Keep her wet until we can get her back in the water!  GO GO GO!”  (spritz spritz spritz)

Case #2: She would waddle by (pregnantly) and I would affectionately call out “Moooooooooo”.   And she would mooo back.   One of the church ladies was pissed at me, until Cruel Wife said “relax, he doesn’t mean it and he says that sort of thing if everything is ok, if he stops, something is wrong”.

And she is right.  I mock the situation, the circumstances, the facts, the scenario, I don’t aim to hurt the person.  If she thought I’d meant it, I’d be dead.   She is too good of a shot with a .357 Magnum.

So a few minutes later, his arm pistons out, shoves me violently off the couch and I slam into my butt, causing (additional) minor brain damage.  Very quietly in a Clint Eastwood kind of way (which I really envy to this day) he mutters “Don’t call me a wetback.”

A week later I left my shoes out in the middle of the floor.  Wetback tied the laces permanently through the rungs of a chair.  I cut them off since I was late for class and I used my knife, which was then plunged through Wetback’s calculus book through half the thickness, and left there as a message.   A week after that, we traded punches over and over for about 45 minutes, leaving each other black and blue over 50% of our arms.  It was pretty damned awful looking, my arm, and one of my profs said “WHAT happened to you?”   I pointed at The Wetback and said “He did it.”  Our prof said “WHY?”   The Wetback pointed at me and said “He did it” and raised his shirt arm to show his awful bruises, which didn’t look as bad given that he has dark skin.  Our prof just shook his head and went away because we hadn’t really answered his question.

Three years later, he moved in for a year when he got a job in the same town I lived in.

Fifteen years ago he was the best man at my wedding.

I’m calling him The Wetback.  Get over it.

GOV’T CORRECTNESS  POLICE AGENT #2: Whoa?  Really?  It says that?  Ok, we can’t wax this guy – let him go.

So where was I?  Oh yes, The Wetback (hereinafter just ‘Wetback’) and I picked up my nephew, who we will call… The Teacher.  Yes, that will work nicely.  We drove six or so hours to my my folks’ house and crashed.  It was a good trip but three guys in a Jeep’s front seat is too friendly for that long of a trip.

Next day was bright and sunny, a great Oregon summer day.  Fourth of July, or was it the 3rd?  Must’ve been the 3rd since we found a hardware store.

My brother-in-law, who we’ll call my brother-in-law (oh fine then, if you must have a name let’s call him BiL) brought a buddy of his along who I will call Six Cans Short of a Six Pack (SCSSP) because the man is totally insane.  So BiL and SCSSP are telling me, Wetback, and Teacher about a New Thing.

We hadn’t heard of one, anyway.

Lemur King:  A Potato Gun?  Oh.  That’s great.  Great, guys.  We carry little plastic pistols around, stick ’em in a spud, and shoot little potato pills at each other.  Great.  I’m going to go get a beer, let me know how that goes.

SCSSP said “No, no, no, no, no…” and starts sketching on a pad of paper what he’s talking about.

I whipped out my wallet and said “Yep, I got cash, let’s go.”

We got the parts mostly to his specs except that I insisted that we make everything a bit bigger.

We were just finishing putting it together when my grandparents drove up.

So Granddad gets out of the car and says “What you got there, Lemur?”   Grandma shakes her head and goes in with the wimminfolk.

“Lemur” was not my grandfather’s name for me.  He used a name that no one else used, it had no profanity laced into it, and he was the only person I’ll ever allow to call me by that name, even as close as it is to my real one.  This was a cool thing.  Just sayin’ he didn’t call me “Lemur”.

Also, Granddad gets to keep his official title.  No false stage names – I respect him too much for that.

Sketches of my grandfather…

• Telling me when I got hurt in the mill “No offense, Lemur, but there are easier ways to get out of work, and this wasn’t the smartest way, either.”
• After announcing our engagement, Granddad asking if Cruel Wife’s family was rich. I said no they weren’t rich. “Well, you let me down, Lemur, you were supposed to marry a filthy-rich gal and keep the family well-cared for.” I don’t think it mattered in the least as long as she gave him a big hug whenever we came to visit. Cruel Wife and I came out one time, and Granddad said “Come here and give me a hug. All my girls give me a hug.” She hugged him and gave him a big smack on the cheek and said “I’ll give you one better.” Granddad looked a bit surprised and gave her a smile.
• One year granddad had been telling mom not to grab a crab the way she was doing it (had been for years).  I heard him tell her several times that one day alone.  Then there was an “AAAAAAH!” and mom was on her knees as this crab mangled her index finger.  Granddad got up really slow and calm-like, reached into his pocket to get his knife, picked the blade he wanted, stepped  over and grabbed mom’s now-bloody hand and pried the claw open.  He whipped the crab around violently and gooshed it silly against the pier.  Then he went over and sat down again and said softly “I told you, Joansey, not to grab ’em that way.”   Boy, let me tell you, that was a thrilling couple of minutes.  Her anger rolled off of him like water off a duck’s back.  He was a master and I wasn’t even a grasshopper.
  

I said “Granddad, this is a Spud Gun” and bursting with pride I held it up so he could inspect it.

It was black ABS 4″ pipe, the combustion chamber was about 2-1/2 feet long, it narrowed down to a 1-1/2″ section that was about five feet long, maybe six.   Picture a seven to eight foot long black bazooka that fires potatoes.  It glinted darkly in the sunlight.

One of my favorite memories of my granddad, who I’d kill to see this day, was sitting on the deck figuring out the best way to fire this new toy.  Let’s see, he’d have been mid 80’s about then, so you have him, myself, Wetback, Teacher, BiL, SCSSP, and my dad.   Have we named my dad on the Folly yet?  I don’t think so.  We’ll call him Sparky even though we probably won’t use the name in this posting.  So here’s this old gentleman sitting with us younger fellas discussing how much Aqua Net hairspray should be used, how tight the potato should be in the barrel, hand positioning when lighting it, etc.

We learned as a group of men with varying amounts of beer do, through trial and error, and eventually happened upon the perfect mixture to send a potato on a ballistic trajectory that ended up about 150-200 yards away.  It was amazing.

Much like the horrifically dangerous time before seat-belts and bicycle helmets we somehow managed to survive this, too.

I clearly remember our failed attempts to hit a cow down in the field.

GOV’T BOVINE PROTECTION AGENCY AGENT:  (dropping his surveillance equipment with a gasp) Whoa!  Whoa, whoa, whoa!  He said WHAT???  Did he say what I thought he said?  We’re gonna go down there and…

GBPA Agent #2:  (Sipping his Diet Tab)  Easy, killer.  This family does this sh*t all the time.  They’ve got a grandfather clause, we can’t touch ’em.

GBPA Agent Chorus:  Aw, man!  This SUCKS!

GBPA Agent #2:  I’m telling you, leave ’em alone unless you like lots of paperwork and public apologies…

Where was I?  Annoying fellas, aren’t they?

Oh yes, I clearly remember our failed attempts to hit a cow down in the field.

Granddad said, “Aim it down a few degrees next time, Lemur…” We did and on the next shot or so, we hit ourselves a cow.  Amazing, the things you can learn from your Granddad.

The cow leapt up in the air about five feet, which is good for a cow at-rest.  Bovine inertia is not like other inertia.   Four hooves went in four directions and then it came down and hit the ground running.  It stopped, went back to where it was, and found a warm meal waiting for it.

Also amazing is how this story started as a story about a spud gun, but ended up about my granddad.  I can think of much worse ways to end up.

****

Epilogue:

The cow was not permanently harmed and in fact got a warm meal of fries for it’s trouble.

The spud gun was christened “The Taternator” and was used that day to fire everything from potatoes, rocks, crabapples, and a handful of mustard packets.  It was last seen in southeastern Washington, west of Walla-walla and has not been seen since.

The cow and its companion were very tasty with ketchup and a pickle.

The Taternator features in several more stories before the time that it was lost.

Lemur’s granddad, Buck, lived for eight more years, lives on in his family’s memories, and is sorely missed by Lemur.

This story is the starting place for a concurrent story called “Cutting the Mustard”.

The Gov’t Bovine Protection Agency now checks that lids of each and every shipment of Play-doh is tightly secured prior to shipping.  They are *that* good.

Lemur and Wetback continue contact to this day.

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A Short Story of the Long Jittery Arm of the Law.

Inspired by The Curtal Friar‘s comment to the Death/PaleHorse post…

When I was twelve or so my family went to Winchester Bay, Oregon – typical small coastal town.  The neighbor kid who we will call “Pees on Electric Fences” or Pefs for short came along with us.  He was a few years younger than me but was an OK kid other than being a bit susceptible to suggestions.

Pefs developed a severe phobia regarding caterpillars after we told him they were poisonous and he did indeed pee on an electric fence at my prompting.  I felt bad after that but got over it in a few seconds.  There was a steady stream of urine, it grazed the wire, and stopped instantaneously and was followed by a huge all-body jerk, a wail/cry/keening, and it ended badly with him running to tell on me.   Kids are cruel… for instance, it was terribly cruel of him to tell on me like that.

Anyhow, I am not much of a fan of crab so I asked if we could bag out of the trip the folks had planned to go out crabbing.  They said it was OK to hang out as long as we stayed in the RV area or the store down the road.  We were right next to the dock in that particular spot.

Note:  I’ve been looking at the Google satellite maps and I’ll be darned if I can remember it well enough to point to where the hell we were at, exactly, but it was real enough.  It was 30 some years ago, so I’m not surprised I don’t remember it all that clearly.

So Pefs and I decided we were going to go down to the little store.

We were walking along the road and thought “Hey, if we cut around behind the restaurant we can save a bit off of a longer hike.”  It was a fair distance as I recall.

Pretty straightforward thinking, that.

But the best laid plans of mice and men oft go agley, so sayeth Burns.  Hell if he wasn’t right.

We walked around back and there was this guy with his back to us in a grey uniform.  Lets call him “Man in Grey” or MIG for short.

I said something to Pefs only to have the MIG (an overly inbred second cousin to Officer Thanatos here in Michigan) whirl around and point a shotgun at me.  I come from a hunting family and was able to recognize from the business end that I was face to face with a shaking representative of the Mossberg family of shotguns, that it was a Mossberg 500 in fact, and that it was a 12-gauge with no choke.  My guess it was the Special Purpose variant but by the time all of this consciously registered I was paying far more attention to the twitchy Man in Grey.  Maximum focus.

MIG: “FREEZE!  PUT YOUR HANDS UP!”

Me:  “What?  What is going on?”

MIG: “SHUT UP!  PUT YOUR HANDS AGAINST THE WALL – NOW!!”

Me:  “Okay, okay, take it easy.”

As I was turning around I heard a hollow thump sound.  I looked over at Pefs and he was already spread-eagled, leaning into the wall, and shaking like a leaf.  I’d love to say for dramatic effect that there was a yellow puddle underneath him but sadly there wasn’t.  He was about *yay* close to it though.

So the MIG frisks us, getting a mite too “personal” at one point – not quite a healthy feel but long enough contact “down there” that I felt like saying something.  Strangely, however, when one has a jittery person behind one’s self and that jittery person is holding a shotgun with a HUGE looking barrel, one’s tongue seems to freeze.  It was probably for the best.

MIG:  “Ok, walk over to that light pole.”

Naturally we complied.  It was that whole jittery/gun thing with the MIG again.

I swear this next part is true…

MIG:  “Put these handcuffs on your wrists and run it behind the pipe.”

Again, you don’t argue with the jittery MIG when he has a gun.

MIG:  “I’ll be right back.  Stay here.”

Like what kind of choice did we have?  WE WERE HANDCUFFED.

Years later the MIG came back.  Pefs hadn’t said a word by that point and looked really green like he was about to throw up.

MIG:  “I had a report of a possible breaking and entering and you guys snuck up behind me.  I’m going to let you go but I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

We snuck up on him?  Yes, us twelve and ten-year old ninja assassins tend to do that a lot...  He was watching way too much Rockford Files or something.  Maybe Kolchak or something like that.

Me:  “Uh, ok.  Bye.”

We slunk (slunked?  slinked?) back to the RV camp like the furtive hardened criminals we were just as my folks were getting out of their boat with some crab.  Stumbling over each other to relate the story we told them what had happened and they essentially tried to  call bullsh*t on us.

Me:  (animatedly pointing at the MIG) “It’s true!  Look he’s right over there!”

As soon as the MIG saw dad walking towards him he drove off.  I guess his job was done for the day.

See, my experiences with the police have not all been positive.  An episode in Tennessee sixteen years later was even more profound.  That is a story for a later posting.

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Pooh v. Piglet – the Mocking Post.

Update: Saw this over at doubleplusundead, and it takes precedence over anything else you’ll read here.  It’s a two-hanky kind of thing, and it puts our soldiers where they should be – in our highest respect.

More here on US Army 1st Lt. Brian Brennan.   As far as I’m concerned all of our servicemen/servicewomen are heroes, but stories like Brian’s should be told because of his unstoppability.

****

It’s a mocking post, so lets be really annoying then, shall we?  The snippet of news in the graphic was fresh fairly recently although it may have been missed by most.

click to enlargenzoomify

So I says to myself, “Self, how would you poke obnoxiously at a set of values that puts everyone in this kind of asinine situation?”

Let’s just say that if you are a woman in Saudi Arabia trying to buy a bra… this has to really suck ass.

****

Ok, this is terrible.  It’s funny.  It’s got a bad word in it.  Don’t read the bad word.  Laugh.  Live a little.  Make fun of life.  Life is ugly, so mock it and mock it often.

I don’t know who did the graphic.  Love it though.

****

Stolen shamelessly from McGoo.  I am a bad person.  But then he stole it from someone else, so two wrongs cancel out and I can sleep comfortably at night.

Being able to mock frequently is as important as good daily… Thai food.

****

They say that this is not suggested but I thought it was obvious.  You wouldn’t want to catch swine flu.

****

As a public service announcement two very highly placed individuals at my office – guys I eat Thai food with – say that Bruce Campbell’s new movie “My Name is Bruce”.

As an Oregon boy, I can’t say as how I’ve seen it yet but I will this weekend, as dog is my co-pilot.  (that would be Zoe)  The plot synopsis starts out well – here’s the first paragraph.

My Name is Bruce is the heroic struggle of a small mining town (Gold Lick, Oregon) to rid itself of a vengeful monster. Guan-di (Jamie Peck), the Chinese god of war and protector of the dead, has been unleashed by cemetery desecrating teenagers to protect the graves of Chinese miners lost in a deadly cave-in of yesteryear.

I grew up in an actual small-mining town in Oregon, so I should know about towns named “Gold Lick”.  First, there is no town named “Gold Lick, Oregon” and second, why did they make the town name sound like a brothel?  Or was that the point?

Whatever… Bruce, you rock dude.  Live forever, and I hope you are enjoying doing Burn Notice as much as I am watching it.

****

Over at doubleplusundead, DPUD has provided a link to Tactical Bacon.  God, I am so happy I could just DIE.

BACON IN A CAN.

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Obama Promises…

Update:

A bit of a positive piece of information…  not only is this almost too cool, it IS too cool.

As an ex-swimmer and water-polo player, I absolutely am thrilled for her.

Swim like a mermaid.

****

Tonight’s Obama speech… he promised (per Drudge):

Obama Says USA will rebuild and emerge stronger...
Obama vows to increase number of soldiers...
Obama vows to seek cure for cancer 'in our time'...
Obama says bank bailout may cost more than expected...
Obama promises universal EDUCATION THROUGH COLLEGE...
Obama promises universal health care...

I read this off to Cruel Wife.

“Oh,” she said. (long pause) “So why not the sun, moon, and the stars while we’re at it?” (brief pause) … “And a pony. I want a pony.”

Well, hell, why not?

The waves can’t get much worse…

****

Archbishop warns against deification of Obama Robbin’ Hood.

Sorry, adulation.

What would be the consequences?  Oh, I don’t know… election of a socialist president, passage of obscene spending bills, and a perceived mandate on the part of the moonbats/democrats?

His warning came too late.

In a reference to the messianic treatment the Barack Obama received from some Americans during the presidential primaries, Archbishop Chaput delivered his second point: “in democracies, we elect public servants, not messiahs.”

****

$648B (that’s billion) dollars towards Universal Health Care.

Aides Call Money a ‘Down Payment’ Toward Universal-Coverage Efforts

A down payment is all it will be and it won’t amount to a pee-hole in the snow in terms of what a Universal Health Care system will actually cost.  If you thought SS and Medicare were frightening shadows in the wings, then this ought to make your bowels turn watery.  Mine already deliquesced a few days ago.

Our president is something of a naive joke, and I’m afraid a lot of people are going to listen to him until too late.

****

Dentist says groping chest massage part of the treatment.

Unless he can present three men who were also “massaged” he needs to go to jail as a sex offender.

Apparently Dr. Manny tends to agree with me that this is no therapy.

****

Being a card-carrying redneck, I was (rightly) concerned by the precedent which may be set by my once-home state.

Oregon is embroiled in a controversy over guns. Now, this is odd for a state that has always been pro-gun, was founded with guns, and has fed so many families and sportsmen alike.

Recent weeks have witnessed a fair amount of thrash in the Oregon Concealed Carry community. It started with a group seeking the release of the names of CCW holders statewide. Many Sheriff’s departments have declined to provide this information, including the Rob Gordon, Sheriff of Washington County

Rob Gordon, sheriff of Washington Country (a good man by the way)  said in a letter to his county’s CCW holders:

As your sheriff, I refused to disclose that information because I believe many people obtain a concealed handgun license for personal security and would not want that information made public. I also resist disclosing personal information because of the continuing identity theft risks.

Despite my belief (shared by sheriffs across Oregon), an Oregon court recently decided that there is no evidence that people obtain concealed handgun licenses for security measures. The court ordered the Jackson County Sheriff to disclose a list of all the concealed handgun license holders in his county to the local newspaper. The case is now before the Oregon Court of Appeals.

This issue should concern anyone with a CCW (and actually even if you just own weapons because this will be a slippery slope – it’s not just about CCW), because as soon as this newspaper sued to get the list, and was granted the ok by an activist judge, other newspapers in Oregon began to do the same.   It is not going to happen without a fight, but you ought to be outraged.

The issue as of Monday (yesterday).

Here’s one liberal bedwetter’s excuse for trampling on people’s rights:

However, an open records advocate said supporters of the bill have made no compelling case for further chipping away at Oregon’s public records law by closing off the gun permit records from public disclosure.

“What is the privacy interest in this case? What abuse has occurred as a result of these records being open?” said Tim Gleason, dean of the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism.

Those records should remain open as a practical safety matter, Gleason added.

“What if you’re an abuse victim, and you want to know if the person who’s abusing you is carrying a concealed weapon?” he said. “That seems like a legitimate question to ask.”

Oh yes, the argument that pretends to be innocent and legitimate concern…  Answer:  Then you go to the police, tell them you’re being abused, have that person checked out by the police, and if there is any proof at all, they’ll take care of it.  In the meantime, take a gun safety course and get your own damn CCW.

More on this so you don’t have to go looking…

MEDFORD, Ore. (AP) – The Medford Mail Tribune has sued the sheriff for a list of concealed handgun licenses in Jackson County, hoping to determine how many are held by teachers.

The newspaper said it wants to determine the impact of a ruling in another suit, brought by English teacher Shirley Katz. She has a permit and wants to be able to carry a gun to class.

Sheriff Mike Winters said he would oppose the newspaper’s lawsuit, filed last week.

For both privacy and safety reasons, Winters said, “I don’t believe it’s anyone’s business who possesses a concealed handgun license.”

The newspaper does not plan to publish the names of license holders, said Mail Tribune Editor Bob Hunter. It wants the information for research about how far-reaching a ruling on the Katz lawsuit could be.

There are about 6,500 license holders in Jackson County, according to the sheriff’s office.

“We feel Sheriff Winters is allowing his personal feelings to interfere with his duty to enforce the law,” Hunter said. “This is information bought and paid for by the public, and the public has a right to it.”

He said the Multnomah County sheriff’s office released a similar list to newspapers.

The director of the gun rights group that has financed Katz’s lawsuit against the Medford School District, which bans employees from bringing guns on campus, said that as a matter of law, handgun licenses are a public record.

“Obviously, I’d like to see those people’s privacy protected, but I doubt (Sheriff Winters) has any legal justification for withholding what is a public record,” said Kevin Starrett, director of the Oregon Firearms Education Foundation.

Jackson County Circuit Court Judge Philip Arnold heard oral arguments Thursday on Katz’s challenge, but had not issued a ruling.

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I’m starting to worry at the number of people that are going to be increasingly angry about their rights being eroded, their money being taken and given to those who can’t be responsible, the loss of their home values, the loss of their retirement funds, the (potential) loss of their jobs, and the fact that we’re essentially being taxed with representation, as lame and criminal as it is.

I mean… me, I’m just pissed.   I blow steam, and I’m good and so are many many other people.  But there are folks out there that are just not so inclined and frankly, some of them scare the poop out of me.  A handful of nutjobs could end up hurting a lot of nice people if we aren’t careful.  Scary.

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