Compromise

Lot of things in life involve a trade-off. You do so because, while ideally you might do it this way, that way is necessary.


Couple simple examples: If you want to walk around armed with a gun,  you probably will have a pistol or revolver tucked away. (And I'm speaking to those folks who have the license and not you illegal miscreants.) 


This probably won't be a long-barrel target pistol, nor something you'd use to hunt deer or bear, and why not concerns both length and weight. If it sticks out the bottom of your jacket, that's no good. If it gives you a slipped disk or a hernia to carry it, then you will start leaving it at home.


Which is why small frame revolvers and pistols and even mouse guns get carried way more than big hog legs. 


Now, for pure punch, a big-bore shotgun or rifle hits a lot harder, has more effective range, and are apt to be more accurate, least in the rifle's case. But since strolling down the avenue of a Sunday morning with a long gun resting on your shoulder is apt to get you strobed with red-and-blue lights and a fast acquaintance with your friendly neighborhood law enforcement officers; who, given the circumstances might have twitchy trigger fingers. So, that might not be your best option. Yeah, you might legally be able to walk around with a rifle in a lot of places, but it will get you attention that could be bad for your health.


I have a neighbor likes to mow his lawn strapped. Perfectly legal to do so on his property, but every time he does, the local SWAT boys show up. Man-with-a-gun reports get LEO attention, even if they think they know who he is. Because you can't be sure.


So you carry a handgun under your jacket, nobody knows it is there, nobody gets excited to see you amble into the local stop 'n' rob store for a six-pack. The weapon is less powerful, unless you want to weigh your belt down with one of the custom .50's, like the one I showed a picture of here a few posts back. And a revolver that powerful has what is known as a stout recoil. Better hit your target with the first shot, because you'll need a crane and a crew of teamsters to haul the thing back down to line up the next one. I had a villain in a book carry such a thing, but he was a very large man, ex-SEAL, and macho out the wazoo. Plus he got killed by the good guy. 


Gloves.


When is it cold and I am going to be out and about, I like to protect my hands from Jack Frost. But while there are nice thinsulate thingees and critter-fur lined ones that will keep my hands toasty, they tend to be bulky. If I am walking the dogs, I need to be able to hold the flexi-leads comfortably, reach into my pocket for a plastic bag when it becomes necessary, and then tie a knot in said bag, which I carry looped over a finger until I find a trash can. 


I also need to be able to take my knife from my pocket and open it, should that become necessary, and now and then, pull other hardware from my belt–cell phone, iPod, this and that. 


So the gloves I wear need to allow such activity, and that means they have to be thin, allow me to grip small object, and that means they don't keep my hands real warm. Better than nothing, but not what I'd wear if I was out in really cold weather sans dogs. 


I like the thin and tight leather gloves Nike makes for wide receivers playing football. In Cotton's garage, when it is chilly, I can wear these and on days when I'm fasting and there's no fire in the basement, that helps with the cold fingers when I do silat. 

Old Pictures

Came across this one in the box–it's one of the beaches in Hana, Maui, Hawaii, circa November, 1991.


I don't recall if it was the black, red, or yellow sand beach, all of which were beautiful, and you can't tell from the picture.  I don't remember that the black sand beach was this large, and what they called red wasn't all that red. 


Well, whatever. It's a beach.


The fellow in the Speedo down in the left corner was the only guy in the water, and there was only one other person on the shore at the time, the wader's wife, who took the picture. 

The trip was in celebration of their 25th wedding anniversary. 


On a day that started out here with an hour's worth of snow, which was washed away with a cold rain, and typical winter temperatures of about forty degrees, that beach at a balmy eighty degrees in Hana is a magic memory ...

Neologisms: What's in a Made-Up Name?

If you are a writer, you will have occasion to name your characters. While a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, if you called a rose "fresh dog turd," chances are you wouldn't get many takers if you asked the question: "Want to smell a fresh dog turd?"


Reading a novel doesn't involve your sense of smell, not literally, so words are what you use to evoke a response. Use the wrong ones, the story might stink–figuratively, at least ...


If you write mainstream or romance or stuff set in the here-and-now, you can get away with using names you can find in the phone book. A caution, however: Don't do that. If you pick a name for a heinous character and the person you took it from reads your story, they might sue you. Probably they'd lose, but why risk it? If you must use a phone book, pick a first name from one page and a last name from another part of the book. A coincidence without any direct connection to a real person is acceptable.


Even so, whatever name you choose has a resonance, and you need to understand this. If your deadly SEAL assassin is named "Whiffenpoof" or  Fauntleroy," you start out in a hole. Doesn't mean you can't pull it off, if you are skilled enough, but unless you have a good reason for going there, maybe you might reconsider.


Anakin Skywalker was called "Annie," as a youngster. Not that great a nickname, is it? No wonder he turned to the dark side.


Think of books or movies with manly men or womanly women who kicked ass. What were their names? 


Generally, short and punchy names work better than long ones, and if you must give a character a long name, like, say:  Seamus O'Reilly O'toole MacManus, better you call him "Mac," and get on with it. 


It's also not out of the question to consider how hard it will be to type the name, since you'll be doing it a lot. 


If you use half a name for your character, which in dialog and action and description and even interior monologues, you usually will, decide which any character will use. If his name is Sam Spade, then some folks will call him "Sam," and some might use "Spade." When I have my characters thinking of themselves, they tend to use their last names, but that's just a personal preference. 


Also not a good idea to have all your characters named something too similar. I've been in a group of five people and three of us were named "Steve," but that might be confusing in a novel. If your book is peopled by Shirley, Sheryl, Sharon, Sam, Shawn, and Sean, you might want to consider other names. Try not to confuse your reader unless you have a good reason.


If you write fantasy or science fiction, you have a whole other realm in which you can play, neologisms, but you must take more care there than here, for different reasons.


I've come up with a few suggestions you might consider when naming people, things, and place in your made-up world.


Say it out loud. If you can't pronounce it, lose it. Period.


There are a lot of fast readers whose lips don't move when they read, but a word full of X's, Q's, Z,'s and not enough vowels to make them flow will stop a reader. 


If, as in, say, Hawaiian, you have a lot of vowels and few consonants, that can also be a problem. One  you can get away with; a lot of them will run together. 


You do not want your reader stopping to puzzle over how something would be pronounced. Or for any other reason. If the prose is lousy, that'll do it. If you work really hard to make the prose shine, to the point where they stop to admire it? That's also bad. The tale is the thing.


Jack Vance is the example of how to do it right. He has long and sometimes complicated-looking names for planets and places and creatures upon them, but all are easily spoken aloud. This is key. If you can't say it, don't use it.


Oh, really, Steve? This from the guy who gave us "Xizor?"


Yeah, well, I presented it, but it wasn't mine, and I made an effort to tell readers how to pronounce it by having a chair's computer offer a slurred version of it. Sometimes you work with a term you didn't create, and you just have to make the best of it. ("She-zor," by the way, is just like "razor," but with "she" instead of "ray." From Portuguese, I think.)


Readers don't have to know what a term means at first glance: My first novel was The Tularemia Gambit, and not everybody knew was tularemia was, but they could pronounce it. I told them all about it in the book, so by the end, they knew what it meant. (It's rabbit fever.)


Consider a foreign language for a consistent sound. In the Matador books, I used Swahili. My dictionary wasn't always dead-on, I found out from somebody who speaks the language, but the flavor of the names was relatively smooth and even. You don't have to do this throughout, there are a lot of polyglot cultures, but look at Dune, then a map of the Middle East from forty years ago, and you'll see where Herbert got most of his flavor for that book.
The dunes came from the Oregon coast a few hours south of here.


You can make the name mean something in foreign language. Many of mine do. Spetsdöd means, more or less, "point-death." Teräs Käsi, means "steel hands." "Dirisha Zuri," means "window to beauty." ("Dirisha" came out of my head, and just happened to have a meaning in Swahili, and I added "Zuri," to complete the effect.)


All female characters don't have to have names ending in "a" or "i," but since that's big in romance languages, it's usually acceptable. Tazzimi Bork, Saval's sister, I called "Taz" all the way through those books when she appears. 


Must meanings be precise? Nope. You aren't writing a phrase book. Sometimes, I switch out a letter or two because it sounds better to me.


Don't throw too many jawbreakers at the reader at once:


"In the Slplxyl System, the fourth planet of Doehgpw, in the underground city of Wfjs'ppl, there lived a race of giant reptilians, the Uhdytsl'higex ..."


Bad idea. My wife doesn't read fantasy for this reason. Every time she picked one up to try, she got an eyeful of gobbledegook like that previous graph. And none of those names work, by the by. Like the villain the old Superman comics, the imp from another dimension, Mr. Mxyzptlk, who had say his name backwards to be banished. I always saw that as "Multiple X," even though that's not within a parsec of how to say it: mĭks·yĕz′·pĭt·l·ĭk.


Made-up words are like hot peppers. A few can make the story pop. Too many kill your reader's appetite for the rest of your tale. 


There are some other things, but I think that's enough for now. 


Oh, wait. The picture. In Nabakov's classic, Lolita, the narrator, one Humbert Humbert, came up with the name "Lolita," for the little girl he molests in the novel. Her real name is "Delores." Wouldn't have had the same ring as a title, would it? 

Change Your Oil, Mister?

Let's talk about fats. No, not adipose of which you are most likely trying to rid yourself, though we will touch on that in passing, but those that you ingest.


You need fats in your diet. Certain vitamins, A, D, E, & K, are what are known as fat-solubles, which is to say, you need fat to digest and absorb them. Deficiency in any of these vitamins is bad. A fat-free diet will eventually make you sick and probably kill you.


Fat produces slightly more than twice as much energy in the way of calories than do proteins and carbohydrates. Your body knows this and craves fat. It has a silky feel in the mouth–think really good ice cream–and it satisfies the taste buds in a way nothing else does. The old joke is that there are four main food groups -- fat, sugar, salt, and beer, and left alone, your body would gorge on 'em if your brain didn't step in and slap your body upside the head.


Some fats are worse for you than others. I say this without qualification: Animal fat will help clog your system more than plant fat. Saturated fats–those that are generally solid at room temperature–are not as good for you as unsaturated ones. (The jury seems to be still out on coconut oil, which is a solid and seems to be okay, but the verdict is "guilty" on lard. Even though everybody knows that lard makes the best pie crust.)


As a general and unhappy rule of thumb, the better it tastes and you more you crave it, the worse it is apt to be for you. Welcome to human physiology. The final exam counts for half your life expectancy ...


Cholesterol, which is a kind of waxy goop made from fat and necessary for cell health, is not a fat itself. It is usually broken out into HDL and LDL, and you want more of the former and less of the latter. If most of what you eat is steak and eggs slathered with butter and cheese and washed down with a triple-thick milkshake, you aren't getting them in the right proportions, trust me. 


People who say there isn't any real evidence that high cholesterol in your system is linked to cardiac problems? They mostly live in the subdivision next to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, in Fantasyland. Take your advice from them, you are playing Russian roulette with four loaded chambers. 


Better you should get your fat from extra-virgin olive oil than from butter, cheese, cream, milk or eggs, despite what the American Dairy Association would have you believe. 


Lean meat is better for you than marbled. Animal fat gums up your arteries, except fish oil, which tends to be in the "good" category. Assuming you aren't born with a genetic predisposition, how you usually get high cholesterol is from eating stuff with too much animal fat in it. The little cholesterol makers have a field day and go bananas.


The first time we really realized this was in doing autopsies on American troops killed in WWII. Here were all these farm boys, nineteen, twenty years old, who already had sclerotic arteries coated in cholesterol. Nineteen-year-olds from third world countries didn't have this problem. Why was that? 


In a word, diet. 


I'm not saying you shouldn't eat that omelet, nor that baked spud with butter and sour cream, but when you get right down to it, french fries cooked in quality vegetable oil are, in some ways, probably less likely to cause you medical problems, how is that for a twist?


Yeah, yeah, frying does carcinogenic things to oil, too, just like barbecue on the grill does, stipulated. Cancer kills a lot of folks, though heart disease and stroke combined are still the big winners, about 30%, with cancer at 23%, at least here in the U.S. And there is all kind of evidence that bad fats contribute to several kinds of cancer–bowel and breast and prostate all come readily to mind.


Okay, so don't trust me–you can look it up. 


The stats aren't brainbreakers: The big three take out more than 50% of us in the states, and diet affects–to different degrees–all three. 


Unsaturated fats–we are talking oils—are better for you. 


Not every oil is equal. Monosaturates, like olive or peanut or sunflower tend to be better than polysaturate blends. Some, like palm or cottonseed, are cheap and used in fast foods, but don't offer some of the benefits of others. 


Avocados drip with oil, as do nuts; you have to squeeze some things really hard to get the oil out, and how you process it makes a difference. Some oils are robust and work great for high-heat, especially frying. Some are delicate and break down when you crank up the fire. Olive oil makes a great dressing. It starts to smoke in the pan before sunflower or safflower do. I haven't tried macadamia nut oil yet, but I hear it's really good stuff on a green salad.


Eating fat does not make you fat, per se. But since it is calorically-dense, you do need to be aware that you are getting nine calories per gram instead of the four you get from carbs or protein. You get fat because you eat more than you burn. Nothing complex about that–if you eat less than you burn, you lose weight. The same? Why, you stay the same.


Read chapters 1-5 for next class. Any questions? Okay, we're done. 

Roy Rolls On

And here, the first scene in another little demonic gem, just finished it a few minutes ago ...

Alliance

by

Steve Perry

In the kiosk, Roy sat with his bare legs propped up on the desk, staring at the gate. 

For some reason, Roy had been switched to graveyard shift, and the normally-slow business at Hell’s South Gate on this shift was a crawl that made an advancing glacier seem like a bullet train. 

Not that there were any advancing glaciers anywhere in the neighborhood these days; The Chief had scored a major mojo when he’d come up with global warming. Another couple million years, it would be as warm out there as it was in here–Venus would be a place to visit if you wanted to cool off ...

The portal itself was something with which he was most familiar, having observed it for a while. Ten feet tall, fifteen feet wide, straight across the bottom and with a stretched-out double-ess curve forming the top, the upright bars were as big around as Roy’s wrists and  while it looked like iron and everybody called it that, it actually was cast of some alloy that made spun carbon fiber seem like tissue paper for relative strength. The bars were spaced about six inches apart. You could slam a herd of gigantosaurs at full gallop against it and the gate wouldn’t budge. Though it wasn’t proof against cat piss–which everybody knew, too. 

To look at, the lock was nothing but an old-style spring-thing–the skeleton key that opened it was almost a foot long, but that was just its appearance. You were supposed to wear the damned thing on a thong around your neck, but most days, Roy hung it on a peg. Who was gonna come here and steal it? If Gate Management thought it was any safer around the gatekeeper’s neck than a few feet away, they were stupid. 

The lock and key were stuffed with electronic doodads that ran through constantly-shifting encrypted UHF radio waves that had to match exactly or the gate wouldn’t open. Absolutely unpickable, according to the smith, and you could set off atomic bombs next to it all day and it wouldn’t break.

No matter how much rendered fat you used to oil the hinges, it always squeaked when you opened the thing, a nails-being-pulled-from-wet-wood skrinch! that set your fangs on edge every time. Not as loud as the Main Gate, but, still.

Part of the ambience. Just like the dead PC on his desk, and good luck on living long enough to see the IT imps drop by to fix the fucker. 

Outside, the closest house, Mrs. Bentley’s, was dark. She’d be up at dawn, out in the garden, that fucking cat of hers dancing around, but for now, it was as quiet as a grave.

Quiet. Dull. Boring. 

That was fine with him. Boring was good. Especially given all the other shit in his life since he’d hooked up with Larry’s group. And, um, hooked up with Larry’s mother, Lilith. There was a love-hate relationship. He loved the sex, there was nothing like it, the woman could tie a bowline knot in a cherry stem with her tongue; on the other hand, he hated the thought of what would happen to him if her husband found out and decided to take Roy to task for it.

Having the Most Low Ruler of Hell pissed off at you? That would be bad ...

Roy felt a rumble vibrate up into his ass from the chair in which he sat, as if there was a small earthquake shaking it. But it was a rhythmic thing, boom-boom-boom, that he knew wasn’t a quake, but somebody–or some thing large approaching.

He pulled his feet off the desk and sat up straight, trying for a professional demeanor. 

Somebody plodded down the hall toward the kiosk. Two very large somebodies marching in step together. 

Stan and Ollie lumbered into view.

At seven-and-a-half feet tall and three-fifty on a good day, Roy was a tad larger than the average demon. Stan and Ollie made him looked like a shrimp. Both of them were pushing ten feet in height, and an easy five hundred pounds, most of it in muscle. Both of them liked glow-in-the-dark tats, covering most of what skin was visible, which was all of it, since they never bothered with kilts. They even had tattoos on their dicks, designed to change with tumescence. Ollie was something of a wag, he was, and he’d had his penile art work designed after an old joke: Flaccid, it seemed to say “Wendy” on his  male member. Erect, it was supposed to read: “Welcome to Jamaica, mon. Have a nice day ...”

Not that Roy had been close enough to read it that way, nor did he want to be. 

Stan and Ollie were Larry’s bodyguards, and while they were blocking the passageway and he couldn’t see, that must mean Larry was right behind them ...

Stan and Ollie came to a halt next to the kiosk. They were alone.

“Where is Larry?”

“None of your fucking business,” Stan said. Despite his massive size, Stan had a voice  than an opera soprano would envy–high, clear, feminine. The first time Roy had heard him speak, he’d almost laughed. Almost. But he had heard stories of those who’d laughed at Stan’s voice, and they were none of them pleasant tales ...

Roy shrugged. “Okay. Then why are you here?”

Ollie, who was a bit more congenial, if not convivial, and whose voice was a basso-profundo as deep as Stan’s was high, said, “Escort duty.”

Roy frowned. “For me?”

“Nah,” Ollie said. “We got a visitor coming in.”

Roy glanced down at the handwritten gate schedule. “Nobody on my list.”

“Off the books,” Stan said. “You got a problem with that?” 

Stan would love for him to have a problem with it, Roy could tell.

“Not me,” Roy allowed.

His brain whirled. An off-the-books visitor? That usually meant somebody from On High, and if they were coming through the South Gate instead of the Main, without any pomp? Hmm. That put an interesting spin on things.

As if on cue, somebody arrived at the gate. Roy caught the motion and looked up. 

A pair of seraphs stood there.

Roy blinked. He’d seen angels before, though usually from a distance. He hadn’t realized they came so big–these two were equal to Stan and Ollie in size, though the shining white robes they wore mostly hid their sexless bodies, you could tell from the veiny, muscular forearms peeking out from the three-quarter sleeves they weren’t carrying any fat.

Ollie leaned down toward Roy and in a stage-whisper, said, “That’s Martin and Lewis. Martin is three-time On High MMA champ; Lewis holds the record for clean-and-jerk, squat, and bench press.”

Roy blinked. Angelic bodyguards.

The seraphs moved apart, and revealed behind them a short human, five-and-a-half, six feet tall, kind of swarthy, big nose. Guy had a crewcut, wore a Godspell T-shirt, blue jeans, and Vibram Five-Fingers on his feet. 

“Let them in,” Stan said. “And gatekeeper? This didn’t happen, you get it?”

He got it. Yeah, they weren’t in the book, but if Larry’s goons were here saying let somebody in, Roy wasn’t going to argue with them. He was still a gatekeeper, but he was working for Larry. 

He stood and reached for the key.

The human smiled. “Save yourself the trip,” he said. “I got it.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “You think?” 

“No problem.” He waved one hand.

The gate’s super-duper-can’t-be-picked-bomb-proof-high-tech lock clicked. The gate swung open on its own.

Nary a whisper of a squeak from the hinges, either, the gate moved as smoothly as a drop of hot mercury rolling down a polished titanium plate.

Motherfucker. This guy, whoever he was, had a mojo out the fucking wazoo.

The trio stepped inside.

The seraphs and demons gave each other hard stares.

Stan said, “Martin. Lewis.”

“Stan. Ollie,” one of the seraphs replied.

The air practically reeked of testosterone. And whatever seraphimic equivalent it was that motivated angels. These four wanted to slam dance, a blind demon could tell that. Be something to see, too, that fight. 

From a distance.

Roy moved, intending to close the gate. He didn’t need the key, it would latch automatically. Well, normally it would.

“Let me,” the human said. He waved his hand. The gate swung closed. Click.

Roy shook his head as he watched the five leave. Stan glanced back at him. Forget this happened, that look said. 

Motherfucker. So that’s why they’d changed his shift.

So much for boring.

Gator Got Yore Grammy

I didn't watch the whole Grammy show last night–missed Lady Gaga, though I did catch her appearance on 60 Minutes. Shrewd young woman, and a lot smarter than you'd think looking at the costumes. Madonna's heir apparent; she knows exactly what she is doing.

Most of the music in the running for awards I'd never heard, nor of the groups who sang it. The group that won album of the year did a number that was for me,  unwatchable. The light show was idiotic, and the music punk-rock monotonic and a yawner. Yeah, Eminem won something, and Rihanna has great junk in the trunk and all, but the cutting edge is so far ahead of where I am I'd need the Millennium Falcon to catch up to it, and–let's be frank here–I don't care to ask Han for the loan, you know? Not my music, never gonna be.

The one pleasant surprise was Esperanza Spalding, a local jazz singer and stand-up bass player who became the first jazz singer ever to win Best New Artist. Blew right past Drake and Justin Bieber, showing that, now and again, talent does triumph. 

The New Yorker ran a piece on Spalding last March, and she's a great success story. Raised by a single mother in a poor neighborhood in Portland, the child was pulled out of public school in the fifth grade because her mother was convinced the school wouldn't allow her to reach her potential. 

Home-schooling sometimes works out ...

Link to My Martial Arts Content

Now and then, I will post here a tidbit on martial arts, usually when it is something that is more generally accessible to an audience not steeped in my art, Silat Sera. Stuff that people might find interesting and mayhaps useful, regarding things like guns, knives, or push-coming-to-shove, like that. I'm not an expert, but I can offer what I know, and in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man and all like that. 


There is a link down there in my list to my other blog, which started out as a placeholder for Maha Guru Plinck's web-presence when his server died, but which has grown a bit because I've started posting articles more specific to silat on that site. Lot of bits I would put up here now go there instead. Once in a while, I'll put up something both places, but mostly it's hither or yon.


The silat guys who come here know about it, as do some other folks into things martial, but just a heads-up for those of you who might not: If you have any interest in such things, that's the place to drop round and have a look. 


There are articles done by Todd and Tiel regarding some basics; some history that I've cobbled together; some postings that speak to the philosophy and/or physical aspects of our art. Even a couple of videos, the most recent of which is a quick primer in how to count the waves on a keris. Never know when that will come in handy. 


It's a niche page, and you'll get more out of it if you already have some idea of what I'm talking about, but it's also a resource for folks who want to know more and can't find it elsewhere. This is not to get into conflict with other Silat Sera folks who offer their versions; however,  it is my bias that what I offer is more accurate with regard to what we do than what you'll find in most other places, and better-written, too. 


Pukulan Pentjak Silat Sera Plinck.

Morgue Monsters & Jello Junkies

I've spoken to this topic before, but since my titles, while sometimes clever, don't always indicate the content of the post, and to save anybody looking from having to scroll through a couple thousand pieces, I'll speak to it again. 


If you are writer who has characters using handguns, you need to know about stopping power. 


There are two main schools of thought, and I won't get into them in depth, but basically, one school uses ballistic gelatin, measures things like stretch cavities and penetration and such, and gives various calibers and bullet types a number. Higher the number, more likely it is to do an instant stop. The other school uses stats from actual police shootings–how many people got shot with a particular caliber and stopped what they were doing right then.


Which is how a "stop" is defined. The bad guy trying to stab or shoot you instantly ceases this activity when you plug him. Drops the gun, falls over, desists all hostile activity, whatever.


Whether he dies or not isn't what matters here. If you were justified in shooting, that's the legal and moral coverage. You aren't trying to kill him, you are trying to stop him killing you.


Stopping power is related to, but not the same as, killing power. More people have been killed with .22s than any other caliber, at least that's what I found last time I did the research. But a .22 LR out of a handgun will only stop somebody cold 30-40% of the time with a single hit to the body. So he might wander off and croak on the morrow, but have plenty of pep to shoot you in the head right now. 


This is what is known as a pyrrhic victory.


If you are an LEO or soldier or civilian protecting the citizens, your family, or yourself, what you want to happen is for the bad guy to not-shoot-not-stab-not-do-anything-lethal after you shoot him. And yes, unless you are using a dueling pistol, you can shoot him more than once, but the odd thing about people is that if the first bullet doesn't do the job, the second or third might not do it, either.  


A lot of police shootings take place on tachypsychia autopilot–once the action starts, it doesn't stop until the gun runs dry, and since this might take all of a second or two when the hormones are roaring, the conscious mind's decision to cease fire might not get there in time:


Gun! Gun! Shootshootshootshootshoot–!


And the brain kicks back on, the tunnel vision clears, the ears click in–after the incident is done. 


The link takes you to a place where you can key in a caliber and even a brand of ammo and see how it fared in actual one-shot stops. Sometimes the total numbers in the sample aren't very big. Not a lot of police use mouseguns. And some calibers don't show any stops, because nobody has admitted to shooting somebody with them. I don't see a lot of .454 Casull or .500 Reeder shootings, though I'm pretty sure that a gun that will drop a charging brown bear or a rhino will cause most people to reconsider their actions, too ...


The best commerical centerfire handgun rounds run to 96% one shot stops, usually in .357 Magnum JHP, or .40, maybe a couple of the 10mm rounds. The worst, usually .25 ACP ball, will do it less than 25 or 30% of the time. Ten guys coming at you, you shoot them all center of mass with a .25 ACP, six or seven of them keep coming. Not so good.


Ten guys, a .357 Magnum, nine-and-a-half of them stop. Much better, but still, the other four-tenths guy might eat your lunch. It has happened.


So even with the best commercial handgun round, your revolver or semi-auto or single-shot pistol is not a magic wand that you can wave and guarantee that all will fall down. 


The surest instant firearm stop is a big fast bullet to the brain or cutting the spine up high, and rifles are better than handguns. A handgun shot to the heart or lung or liver will probably be fatal a lot of the time, but not instantly so, and it only takes a moment for the shot guy to shoot back. 


There are people who fall over dead that fast with a single shot by somebody's nine, or Saturday Night Special in .32, from shock, but they are the exceptions and not the rule. If your good guy is cooking, you need to keep that in mind. 


People can be fragile, but they can also be most durable. 

Treeware

Lest you think I'm so far gone down the ebook line as to think paper is dead, nope, I'm not. While we are down on total space -- I think we only have eight or nine bookcases in the house now -- nearly all of my reading is still the old-fashioned kind. 


For instance, we have probably a couple hundred cookbooks. (Editor's Note: No, actually, there are only about a hundred and ten of them. I did a fast count.) My wife is a great cook, and she likes reading about various kinds of cuisine. I saw a cookbook yesterday on a table: Vegan Comfort Food.


There's an oxymoron, I said. 


She laughed.


And speaking of books papier, I did read the latest Stephen Hunter novel, Dead Zero, which features Bob the Nailer and a new sniper, Ray Cruz. If you are a fan, all I need to say is that it is out. If not, there are a bunch of novels by Hunter–one of which was made into a so-so movie with at least one great character–that you should check out. Hunter goes to great lengths to get the gun stuff right, and he generally fools me if he misses stuff. 


Bob is getting long in the tooth, he creaks, he aches, and given his adventures, it's a wonder he's alive at all. (A year older than I, Bob is.) This one has a couple of unexpected twists, one of which seems like an oh, really? coincidence, until you think about it, at which point it makes sense. Lot of gunfire, shit blowing up, bad guys hither and yon. Always a ride worth taking, Hunter's books. 

This 'n' That

Having gotten a bit better on cover design, albeit won't ever be my calling, I've gone back and changed a couple of the early ones. Still nothing to write home to mother about, but they are cleaner than the originals.

What If I Did This!? uses a photo I took of my first keris, which I also used for my letterhead logo. (You can see the logo on the grip of the Colt .25 ACP pistol on the cover of Bristlecone, below, scrimshawed into the faux ivory by Yours Truly.)

No Man But A Blockhead uses a public domain clip-art concrete block. Both will be up on Amazon.com in a couple days, and I've changed them in the book listing here.

And the beat goes on ...

Instant Karma

One shouldn't feel happy about the death of a fellow man–well, mostly, because we all know there are some who should go–but I found this one didn't make me particularly sad. 

Another Busy Day ...

Which included going to our lawyer's and signing a family trust and will, enough autographed paper to cover a school bus; lunch with our son at a nice Indian restaurant downtown; getting my wife a new iPhone for her consulting business, with my son's expert help; assorted dese, dem, and doze so that it's only just starting to settle down.


Haven't had time to practice djurus, nor my guitar, and the dogs are agitating to go for a walk. 


Never, I might have mentioned before,  a dull moment ...

Always One More Dirty Dish to be Washed ...

Small epiphanies arise now and then, and I had one last evening, whilst doing the dishes. I'll share it with you ...


Those of you who have had such KP duty have probably noticed a certain phenomenon, especially after a meal whereupon a lot of folks chowed down, such as a family gathering. You wind up at the sink, your elbows sloshing in the hot soapy water, scrubbing and racking pots, pans, plates glasses, flatware, maybe even the gravy bowl. Wash, rack, or into the dishwasher if you have one,  to sterilize the "pre-washed" dishes. 


Doesn't "pre-washed" mean "dirty?" I think what they mean is "half-assed washed."


Um. The supply of dirty bowls and whatnot just keeps on comin' and they fill the washer or drainboard rack or both, and after what seems like a really long time, it looks as if you have done them all. Hallelujah.


So you turn off the water, squeeze out the sponge, and start to dry your hands, when, lo! there's a coffee cup you missed, right there next to the toaster, in plain sight. Been a snake, it'd bit you.


Crap!


Okay, so you grab the glass and wash and rinse it. Done.


But–no.  Then there are the cheese plates and crawfish-handled knives that somebody forgot to collect from the sideboard, so you you grab those and truck back into the kitchen. That cheese has been sitting out all evening and looks dead, but maybe the dog will eat it ...


By now, you might laugh and figure this is going to be like one of those Terminator movies where you think the thing is dead, but you know it isn't really, so you make another pass, and you aren't all that surprised when you find the plate your little nephew put on the floor under the table for the dog to eat his broccoli. Gotcha!


This can go on for some time, but eventually, all the wayward dishware is finally collected and you are really done. Or at least you aren't going to look for any more, fuck it, it can wait until tomorrow if it's hiding that well. 


Sometimes, he says, making an allegorical simile, life is like washing dishes. You think you have things all cleaned up, and it turns out, you don't quite. 


Words of semi-wisdom, from the sage of Beaverton ...

More Roy

So, I finished Roy the Demon's latest (the 4th) adventure, "Balance of Power." This one is a little harder to the R-rated side–language and sexual situations. I mean, it's Hell. Place isn't full of saints, is it?


I've trundled it off to Dan'l, and in due course, when he has time, I expect he will stick it up in the store.


If you've read any of these and like them, tell somebody. At ninety-nine cents, split three ways twixt PayPal, Dan, and me, none of us are going to get rich, but the wider an audience we can reach, the better. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, sometimes you can gather enough mass to make a big 'un ...

Annie Oakley

I sent a letter to the editor of the local paper today. I dunno if they'll print it, but I thought I'd offer it here.


Here's what I said:


"There was another letter in The Oregonian today from somebody lamenting the shooting of an armed suspect by Portland police, and wondering why the officer didn't just shoot the attacker in the arm or leg. (Or maybe just, you know, shoot the knife out of his hand, like they do on TV and in the movies.)

Shooting in a potentially life-or-death situation isn't done like it is in the movies for a good reason. The physical and psychological changes during an adrenaline storm tend to destroy precision muscle control. A miss at close range endangers the officers and anybody else who might be around. A man with a drawn knife, as shown in a common self-defense drill, can cover twenty-one feet before most officers can draw and fire their handguns.

Nationwide, police are taught to shoot for the center of mass, and to continue shooting until the threat stops. If he keeps coming, you keep shooting. 

Bad guys were killing folks with knives for a long time before guns were invented, and a sharp blade works as well as it ever did to do that.

Getting your martial arts education from TV or movies is a bad and potentially fatal idea.

"

Busy Day

Down in CentCal, my nephew and his wife had their baby early this morning, 6 lbs., 9 ozs, after a forty-three hour labor, first child. Not named yet, but mother and child and dad all doing fine, albeit tired.


We just got back from the gym, and the Super Bowl is this afternoon.


The painting above, done in fluorescent colors on black velvet, is my son's latest. Cool effect under a black light. Welcome back to the psychedelic sixties posters ...


Saw a documentary last night on the Holy Modal Rounders, an early-sixties kinda-folk group out of NYC. If you remember them, it's most likely from the Easy Rider soundtrack, for their song, "If You Want to be a Bird." They were kind of anti-folks singers, back in the day, and those who are still singing, still are ...


I had dinner with one of the founders of the group when I went to NYC, back in the early '80's,  to meet and network with book editors. Peter Stampfel is married to Betsy Wollheim, and works at DAW as an associate editor, where Betsy is the publisher and senior editor. I had completely forgotten about that until I saw the documentary. 


Weird connections. And the beat goes on ...