September 28, 2012
Rain has begun to fall. We finished baling and hauling hay from the fields just in time. A friend called to tell me we could have deluges of up to 10”. In Texas, where rain is concerned, it’s either feast or famine. On a hunch, one of my ranch hands moved cattle from the pecan bottom at the Dos Rios Ranch. It’s there the Guadalupe and San Marcos Rivers merge and cattle may become trapped and washed away by flood waters.
Leah and I watched End of watch last night. Her review of the film can be summed up in two words. Don’t go!
But that’d be like someone telling you not to ride the baddest roller coaster in the land.
The film is gruesome as hell.
Unfortunately, it does a good job of showing what it’s like to be an inner-city cop in these trying times. I say unfortunately. By that I mean that it’s unfortunate that our society has devolved into such a dangerous and awful condition. Sodom and Gomorrah pale by comparison.
Coupled with the recent shooting at our farm, my utopia is quickly becoming a dystopia, a less than secure refuge in a world gone mad.
I remember a scene from No country for old men, where two old time cops reflect on their lack of preparedness for the changing world in which they live.
I can relate.
PS.
Link to this article at the Agonist where a few lively comments matisized.
Don't guess you can please everyone....
Friday, September 28, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Gary Johnson for president
Did you know there's a third-party candidate running for president? I didn't until a few minutes ago. I did however notice that Republicans culled him from debates early on and I like his message far better than the two pieces of work the primary parties profer.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Say goodbye to Tiny
Someone shot my dog.
Tiny was born on this place. A Great Pyrenees, daughter of Chiquita. She was the runt of the litter, hence the name.
Sometimes I have to go out at night to check on an irrigation pivot. I drive when I do. Invariably when I’d get to the pivot, I’d see a white object slip quietly from the dark. My protector.
Tiny wanted little out of life. She never killed chickens, to the contrary, she protected them from coyotes and other predators, all night long, every night. She also guarded goats and cats. And us.
She’d wait to eat until the rest were done, as though she were shy about eating while others watched.
She had one litter of pups, only three. We gave two away and kept a single daughter, Pinky, due to the pink nose. Tiny got neutered after the pregnancy, so she wasn’t one to attract the attention of male dogs.
Three days ago, early in the morning, I saw Tiny walking as if in a daze, her soft white fur bathed in crimson from the neck down.
Manuel told me that a neighbor dog had been out in the front pasture, that perhaps she had been mauled.
I tracked Tiny to a farm implement where she laid down. Blood and saliva flowed from her mouth and a conspicuous small hole leered from a spot to one side of her nose.
Her breathing passages appeared obstructed. Her eyes showed signs of pain and shock.
I carried her to the house.
Tiny rarely went inside. She was an outdoor dog and like being an outdoor dog.
She spent the day laying around, bleeding. And for the first time ever, she spent a night in our home.
The next day she wandered out. I found her in a stall where she had raised her pups that night, I suppose a place of comfort for her. When I first spotted her I thought she was dead, but when I called her name, her eyes opened and she wagged her tail a bit, lifting one leg ever so slightly, as though to invite me to pet her.
I obliged.
Tiny survived another night.
The next day, Manuel pointed out that she could not drink, so I got a syringe and tried to squirt milk down her throat. She refused to swallow; the milk drizzled out of the sides of her mouth pink, mixed with blood and spit.
I took her to the vet, an aberration for me.
Vets charge too much money when it comes to dogs.
I held Tiny on a table in an observation room while we waited. She slid down slowly, relaxing even though afraid, trusting me. Finally the vet came in.
He looked into her mouth and showed me a groove in her lower jaw where teeth had once been. He told me he needed to sedate her to get a better look.
I left Tiny in his care, figuring I would come back in a couple of days to pick her up.
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rang.
The vet told me that a bullet had destroyed her lower jaw and the base of her tongue. He had nothing to work with.
I asked him to put her down.
A few minutes later I paid him a hundred and some odd dollars and walked out with an empty collar.
Although I never found his body, I’m pretty sure someone shot Fuzz.
I know someone shot Tiny. And I can’t understand, for the life of me, why.
Tiny was born on this place. A Great Pyrenees, daughter of Chiquita. She was the runt of the litter, hence the name.
Sometimes I have to go out at night to check on an irrigation pivot. I drive when I do. Invariably when I’d get to the pivot, I’d see a white object slip quietly from the dark. My protector.
Tiny wanted little out of life. She never killed chickens, to the contrary, she protected them from coyotes and other predators, all night long, every night. She also guarded goats and cats. And us.
She’d wait to eat until the rest were done, as though she were shy about eating while others watched.
She had one litter of pups, only three. We gave two away and kept a single daughter, Pinky, due to the pink nose. Tiny got neutered after the pregnancy, so she wasn’t one to attract the attention of male dogs.
Three days ago, early in the morning, I saw Tiny walking as if in a daze, her soft white fur bathed in crimson from the neck down.
Manuel told me that a neighbor dog had been out in the front pasture, that perhaps she had been mauled.
I tracked Tiny to a farm implement where she laid down. Blood and saliva flowed from her mouth and a conspicuous small hole leered from a spot to one side of her nose.
Her breathing passages appeared obstructed. Her eyes showed signs of pain and shock.
I carried her to the house.
Tiny rarely went inside. She was an outdoor dog and like being an outdoor dog.
She spent the day laying around, bleeding. And for the first time ever, she spent a night in our home.
The next day she wandered out. I found her in a stall where she had raised her pups that night, I suppose a place of comfort for her. When I first spotted her I thought she was dead, but when I called her name, her eyes opened and she wagged her tail a bit, lifting one leg ever so slightly, as though to invite me to pet her.
I obliged.
Tiny survived another night.
The next day, Manuel pointed out that she could not drink, so I got a syringe and tried to squirt milk down her throat. She refused to swallow; the milk drizzled out of the sides of her mouth pink, mixed with blood and spit.
I took her to the vet, an aberration for me.
Vets charge too much money when it comes to dogs.
I held Tiny on a table in an observation room while we waited. She slid down slowly, relaxing even though afraid, trusting me. Finally the vet came in.
He looked into her mouth and showed me a groove in her lower jaw where teeth had once been. He told me he needed to sedate her to get a better look.
I left Tiny in his care, figuring I would come back in a couple of days to pick her up.
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rang.
The vet told me that a bullet had destroyed her lower jaw and the base of her tongue. He had nothing to work with.
I asked him to put her down.
A few minutes later I paid him a hundred and some odd dollars and walked out with an empty collar.
Although I never found his body, I’m pretty sure someone shot Fuzz.
I know someone shot Tiny. And I can’t understand, for the life of me, why.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Drug wars- a success story
Usually, when I see a reference to drug wars, the word failure appears in the narrative. That would imply that the idea of the war on drugs is to stop the production and useage of illegal drugs.
Not so, says this man.
excerpt:
LS: You are arguing in your book that the war on drugs is no failure at all, but a success. How do you come to that conclusion?
OV: I come to that conclusion because what do we know so far about the war on drugs? Well, the US has spent about US$1 trillion throughout the globe. Can we simply say it has failed? Has it failed the drug money-laundering banks? No. Has it failed the key Western financial centers? No. Has it failed the narco-bourgeoisie in Colombia - or in Afghanistan, where we can see similar patterns emerging? No. Is it a success in maintaining that political economy? Absolutely.
So I have to say when we are looking at it from that political economy / class basis approach with this emphasis on imperialism and the state rather than simply crime, it has been a success because what it is actually doing is allowing that political economy to thrive.
Not so, says this man.
excerpt:
LS: You are arguing in your book that the war on drugs is no failure at all, but a success. How do you come to that conclusion?
OV: I come to that conclusion because what do we know so far about the war on drugs? Well, the US has spent about US$1 trillion throughout the globe. Can we simply say it has failed? Has it failed the drug money-laundering banks? No. Has it failed the key Western financial centers? No. Has it failed the narco-bourgeoisie in Colombia - or in Afghanistan, where we can see similar patterns emerging? No. Is it a success in maintaining that political economy? Absolutely.
So I have to say when we are looking at it from that political economy / class basis approach with this emphasis on imperialism and the state rather than simply crime, it has been a success because what it is actually doing is allowing that political economy to thrive.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Lawless--the movie
Finally, a movie maker with balls, willing to break the rules.
The story is bloody and violent. True to the subject. Catches the flavor of the depression era south.
If you're like Pavlov's dog, ready for all your standard buttons to be pushed, well this one's not for you.
But if you want an engrossing film you can't take your eyes off of, that drags you unpredictably from one emotion to the next, I dare you.
Watch Lawless.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Pre-election blues
Sunday, September 02, 2012
I hear and read pundits of the two remaining presidential candidates, all but rolling on the floor, slashing themselves with sharp razors, wailing and gnashing teeth to nubs, essentially offering the same message: if the other guy wins, the country as you knew it will be no more.
I’m of the opinion they’re right, in either case.
James Howard Kunstler voices similar sentiments here.
I cannot in good conscience cast a vote for either of the two remaining candidates. So, I won’t.
Manuel showed up looking for work this week. I hired him.
We went to the room where he was shot and he recounted events as he remembers. He speaks through a broken mouth that won’t quite close. Occasionally saliva drips from a corner. His jaw remains swollen and the huge scar under his chin grins approval from ear to ear.
He seems befuddled.
Manuel does not protest innocence, but his words do. I don’t know what happened but I believe Manuel is telling the truth to the best of his recollection.
Which brings up two rather disturbing possibilities. One, that Jesus lied, and not only killed, (or tried to kill), Manuel but now is trying to finish the job with lies, or, either he or Manuel (or both) operated in a state of temporary insanity and is unable to remember the event as it actually took place, a la Angel Heart.
Manuel got charged in the shooting; the shooter did not.
I bailed him out.
In other news, I got stung by another scorpion, the fourth this year.
Satan reigns.
For a time.
I hear and read pundits of the two remaining presidential candidates, all but rolling on the floor, slashing themselves with sharp razors, wailing and gnashing teeth to nubs, essentially offering the same message: if the other guy wins, the country as you knew it will be no more.
I’m of the opinion they’re right, in either case.
James Howard Kunstler voices similar sentiments here.
I cannot in good conscience cast a vote for either of the two remaining candidates. So, I won’t.
Manuel showed up looking for work this week. I hired him.
We went to the room where he was shot and he recounted events as he remembers. He speaks through a broken mouth that won’t quite close. Occasionally saliva drips from a corner. His jaw remains swollen and the huge scar under his chin grins approval from ear to ear.
He seems befuddled.
Manuel does not protest innocence, but his words do. I don’t know what happened but I believe Manuel is telling the truth to the best of his recollection.
Which brings up two rather disturbing possibilities. One, that Jesus lied, and not only killed, (or tried to kill), Manuel but now is trying to finish the job with lies, or, either he or Manuel (or both) operated in a state of temporary insanity and is unable to remember the event as it actually took place, a la Angel Heart.
Manuel got charged in the shooting; the shooter did not.
I bailed him out.
In other news, I got stung by another scorpion, the fourth this year.
Satan reigns.
For a time.
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