Colonel Jeff Cooper has passed on. Armed Liberal writes a very nice eulogy, based on personal experience.

It had always been something of a probably unrealistic hope of mine to attend a Gunsite shooting class taught by Cooper himself. Now that won’t happen. So there’s a lesson there somewhere, probably.

OK, poker peeps…I’m in San Diego (a.k.a. Paradise) thru Thursday with free evenings. Where do I go play some of that famous California poker? I haven’t turned a card in forever…

About baseball’s regular season coming to an end and the As taking the AL West for about the 200th time in a row is that Big Dick Bennett tends to write more about his hometown 9 and less about lotus-eating socialists trying to take over the phone lines and CableCo internet tubes. BD’s a funny writer, of the A-hole Homer variation:

Then the genius Scioscia walks our strike-out king Swisher to set up the DP and moves his center fielder Bilbo Baggins into the infield where he spends all his time chatting with the other guys about who covers second. He has his tired reliever Krod throw nothing but high fastballs and guess what? Marco hits one to center to win the game, his eighth walk-off hit in like two years of part-time play.

Here’s to the Athletics doing a wee bit more than quietly expiring in the first round, as I would enjoy a good run by them, and the resulting Bennett rants.

What is the purpose of blogging?

Damned if I’ve been able to figure that one out so far.

But it’s a nice, earnest look at just what the hell is being achieved by thousands or millions typing into the internet. That, by the way, is what Layne called it, and I think that’s about as good as it’s going to get. Convincing? Not a chance in the world, pard. Particularly in the instance of politics. I’m not going to convince anybody, nor is anybody going to convince me. My “purpose,” such as it is, is just to get crap off my chest since I’m no longer holding down a barstool next to four or five random nerds six nights a week.

Which, of course, is not to say that there is not good blogging. Music blogging, knitting blogging, art blogging, poker blogging — that stuff’s a net good to the world. Politics, though, not so much. You’re either a socialist, or you’re not. More are of the former every day, as it goes. It’s the price of the game, once you decide it’s OK for the state to make sure you’re wearing your seat belt or that the Federales owe you a living in your old age. All I can do at this point is bitch about it, and it’s not like anybody here lacks for bitching in their life, so it’s not as if I’m doing some sort of service to the general public by my typing into the internet. I thought once there might have been, but I was a fool.

But please, everybody else — do carry on. I like reading it, mostly. Seriously. I learn something new every day.

This Bolivar Mini-Me is the gift that keeps on giving…

OK, now I know what Texas Garage Rock is. It’s three guys with guitars, backed up with a tight little rhythm section. It’s all the various Texas influences you would expect from San Antonio, plus some California surf, plus some North Carolina shag, plus some psychedelia, all dumped in a big old dutch oven and simmering, with the occasional boil-over that splashed all over the place.

Hang on…let me reel the pretentious faux-Christgau verbiage in.

The Swindles basically just made me all grinny-happy. Playing in a funky little bar/restaurant, under a ceiling of Christmas lights, on a vest-pocket stage. Cold beer on linoleum tables. Small but appreciative crowd. Early wind-up (before the witching hour - the old guy thanks you, boys.) A generous mix of suitable (key word there: suitable) covers that weren’t note-for-note - gave ‘em a good South Texas twist. Two good examples: Spiders and Snakes, and She’s About A Mover, which of course is South Texas to start with, but never mind. Plenty of originals that were well-done. Random moments that made me happy were some nice twangy West Texas guitar sounds, some nice surf guitar sounds, some nice Mexican guitar sounds, some nice blues shuffle guitar sounds, some nice…oh, hell…all kinds of guitar sounds that made me remember why I love Texas Music. Frontman Mitch Webb is the kind of band leader that I love to watch, too. Very clearly having a good time, engaging, charismatic, funny, self-effacing. Basically, not a pompous or pretentious dork. And that’s another reason I love love love these ‘local’ musicians and OKOM. They seem to really appreciate and enjoy playing for you.

Wrapping it up here, I’ll definitely go see The Swindles again. I bought both of their CDs, too. You can, too, on Lone Star Music, and you should. And I’ll definitely BOLO for more of this so-called Texas Garage Rock…I’d definitely forgotten how much dang fun it is to just watch the guitar players play…mucho fun hearing the TwangSurfMexBlues…the world needs more of that.

P.S. I’m thinking of sliding up to Gruene Hall tomorrow to see Ponty Bone. A little early-evening zydeco accordion would be good warmup/foreground for what’s sure to be a another boring Pokes game, no? Here’s a good backgrounder on Ponty Bone — I guess all states have this kind of family tree for their musicians, but c’mon — Jimmy Dale Gilmore, Joe Ely and PB on a stage in Lubbock in 1964. Top that. Joe Ely’s at Gruene on the 30th, by the way. OK, then — over and out.

I’m seriously jonesing for some twang, so I scanned the San Antonio musical landscape, and here’s what I came up with:

• At Floore’s, there’s Los Lobos and James McMurtry, both of whom I’d enjoy seeing, but as it’s been a long workish week with lots of hard, hard thinking, I’m not interested in being preached at. Both of these acts can and probably will be that way. I have to weigh whether it’ll be light preaching with more fun or heavy on the sociological criticism horseapples. I think I’ve already talked myself out of this one.
• Rolling Oak Sports Bar has a blues guitarist, proclaimed as “San Antonio’s finest”. Hmmm…not twangy enough…some other time.
• Bandera Cabaret has Cory Morrow, whose songs I’ve heard on the radio, but don’t have any CDs, nor have I seen him live. Cory gets lots of play on the red dirt scene, so I probably should put this one on the “possible” list, but it’s sure a hike to Bandera.
• Gruene Hall looks like more blues, with bonus swing added. What is blues/swing? Regardless, no blues for me tonite.
• Casbeers has The Swindles, which is labeled Texas Garage Rock, which what the hell is that? But when you go to their site, you see the picture below. I spy with my little eye at least two Fender Telecasters in the band, which is always a good sign for twang in my experience. Throw in the pearl-snap shirts and the hat and the sixer of Dos Equis on the drum stand, and I think I’m willing to give this a shot.

“…hand me another one of those brews from back there.”

Muslims express fury over pope’s remarks

Muslims around the world expressed outrage Friday over Pope Benedict XVI’s comments on Islam, with Turkey’s ruling party accusing him of trying to revive the spirit of the Crusades and scores taking to the streets in protest.

I’ve been listening to various ayatollahs, imams, sheikhs, clerics and prophets talk their Islamist bullshit since 1978. I haven’t burned anything in the streets yet. I think I’m fixing to be about ready to start.

UPDATE: Left out an important part — “their anti-American, Great Satan Islamist bullshit.” I, in general, got nothing against no Muslims. But the ones freaking about a quote from a medieval emperor need to grow the hell up if they ever expect to be taken seriously as a part of 21st century civilization. That is all - over and out.

Roped the Devil, rode him into town
With $50 and a flask of Crown
- Bleu Edmondson

If that doesn’t appeal to your inner wild child, what does?

Yeah, I know. But I really wish I was going to Al’s bash. Instead I’ll be in Dago prepping for a show. Life at a startup, baby…look at it this way - someone’s gotta employ all you aging Gen-Xers staring down the barrel of my retirement.

One day, though, I’ll make it. Pinky-swear. It’s my kind of deal, never mind all that rock star business they have in Philly. I’ll get a fake mullet and fit right in, heh heh.

Falling, Dead Pigeons Mar City Festival

Poisoned pigeons began nose-diving into pavement and dying on downtown sidewalks, marring the city’s annual festival. Authorities cleaned up more than 25 sick or dead birds that apparently had eaten poisoned corn from the roof of a nearby bank branch.

Upshot: pigeon flies into bank, poops on customer, bank orders pigeon extermination, exterminator tries to deter pigeons from bank…WITH DEATH!

Ken Layne could do so much more with this.

Here is the best blog post I’ve read today, by Peter Saint-Andre at Albion’s Seedlings.

Here is the best short essay I’ve read today, by Christopher Hitchens.

Here is the best long (really long, but quite excellent) essay I’ve read today, by Martin Amis.

And this is still also the anniversary of the best day of my life…my daughter’s birthday. She’s 26 now, about to graduate from chiropractic school in three months and join the mean old working world, and just six short months ago, turned me into a grandfather. She’s done very, very good, no thanks to a certain over-working, over-drinking, over-cussing, over-gambling, over-smoking bad example, but I’m still a very, very proud dad. Happy birthday, kitten.

One of those “no shit” moments from academia:

Celebrities have more narcissistic personality traits than the general population, and people with narcissistic tendencies seem to be attracted to the entertainment industry rather than the industry creating narcissists, according to a groundbreaking study conducted by researchers Drew Pinsky of the Keck School of Medicine of USC and S. Mark Young of the USC Marshall School of Business and the USC Annenberg School for Communication.

Thanks, science!

The funnier part? This Pinsky guy is apparently “Known to millions as a radio host, TV personality and author.” There’s a word I’m looking for here…

Jumping Jehosaphat — enough with the Katie talk. It’s one-forty eighth of the broadcast day on one stupid channel. Who sits down and watches network news anymore, anyway? Well, I’ll tell you who — people in nursing homes, that’s who. Everybody else either watches a hell of a lot more on their favorite cable channel, or reads it on the internet tubes, or they don’t give a durn about “news” and they’re watching Tivoed junk shows at 5:30. They could stick a robot on there. They should stick a robot on there. I think an animatronic grizzly bear in a stovepipe hat would be genius.

A Cosh digression caught my eye:

This isn’t a problem except insofar as it may lead some Americans to treat Canada as a joke… as they implicitly do when they wear the Maple Leaf to get by more easily overseas–a practice that is recommended often to tourists in complete earnest, that is insanely offensive, that’s disgraceful from a patriotic standpoint, that (to the degree that it might even succeed) unjustly imposes on Canadians the hazards and nuisances that it is meant to deflect, and that no one in the U.S. has ever, to my knowledge, denounced or apologized for.

Consider it denounced, my young Canadian friend. An American trying to pass as a Canadian is an embarassment to both countries. If someone, somewhere were to recommend such a course of action to me, I would a) likely be drawn to poke them in the snoot, and b) remove them from my immediate environment or me from theirs. And C), I would be am more likely to be more pronouncedly American, yea unto the point of ugliness, all so I could match up to their water-headed stereotypes. I never viewed an overseas trip as purely and only an opportunity to soak up their culture…nay, it was equally a chance to export mine, including Tabasco, Luccheses, Marlboros, Waylon, and Resistols. After all, my over-schooled betters with all the letters after their name constantly tell me that all cultures are equal. Right?

P.S. Get an apology from the chowderheads doing the recommending.

P.P.S. Greatest thing I took from Canadian culture: as a young lad, I was part of a traveling team of Texans led by my uncle to the Great White North for the sole purpose of smallmouth bass fishing. Some random wandering took me to a street-corner mobile french fry unit, wherein I was introduced to the glories of papas fritas soaked in vinegar and crusted with salt wrapped in newspaper. I know that’s not terribly cultural, but you have to measure it against the colossal impact on 10 year-old from Dallas in 1970, where the only thing that came in contact with a french fry was ketchup. I was hell on the family after that, trying to find new stuff to eat. Opened my eyes up, it did.