It's the Federal Bureau of Incompetance!
8.05.2010
To Conceal, or Not to Conceal? That is the Question.
I make my morning check (that'd be nightly for you daywalkers) and the newsfilter dredges this bit of krill out of the info-ocean for me.
Apparently a man frightened the citizenry of Nashville, simply by legally carrying a firearm. After being detained for several hours, he was released without charge. Later in the year he was again the subject of police scrutiny, when he was reported in the vicinity of a country club, carrying a black powder revolver. Again, Mr. Leonard Embody ws released without charge. Police Chief Tim Eades (Belle Meade Police Department) is quoted as saying:
David Codrea notes a prawn of a particularly putrid flavor coming from Officer.com, a forum for police officersand the perps who love them.
Liston Mathews, a Knoxville Gun Rights Examiner, in a related article opines:
By hiding our firearms we send an unconscious message that guns are somehow bad, otherwise why hide them? Additionally, by carrying openly we invite people to ask us questions about firearms, carry laws and training. I've managed to steer a dozen people to local CCW licensing schools, firearms stores and shooting ranges in the year or so I've been carrying openly. Yes I get hassled by the cops, and I think I've made my feelings known about the people that sic 'em on me too. But I'm willing to endure that harassment in order to acclimatize my fellow Alaskans to the sight of a man, legally carrying a firearm.
Aye, 'tis nobler indeed to take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing the slings and arrows of outrageous LEOs, and ignorant citizens, and by opposing their bullshit, end it.
Apparently a man frightened the citizenry of Nashville, simply by legally carrying a firearm. After being detained for several hours, he was released without charge. Later in the year he was again the subject of police scrutiny, when he was reported in the vicinity of a country club, carrying a black powder revolver. Again, Mr. Leonard Embody ws released without charge. Police Chief Tim Eades (Belle Meade Police Department) is quoted as saying:
"Just because you have a right to do something doesn't mean it's the right thingThe TN AG's opinion was that the law does not require a licensed gun owner to carry concealed. That is, if you wanna carry concealed, go ahead, but if you don't, that's fine too. Looking deeper into the story I see that Leonard's permit to carry was suspended by the Tennessee DOS, sighting "material likelihood of risk of harm to the public". And he's filed suit, alleging violation of his civil rights.
to do."
David Codrea notes a prawn of a particularly putrid flavor coming from Officer.com, a forum for police officers
Liston Mathews, a Knoxville Gun Rights Examiner, in a related article opines:
"...what is legal is not always prudent. If we are to win the hearts and minds of our neighbors, it makes more sense to be dressed like a neighbor when we carry openly."Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a person's manner of dress covered under the First amendment? A long as my clothing does not sport patently pornographic iconography (i.e. nude images of a prurient and lascivious nature), it matters not what I wear. I can wear a speedo and clogs topped with a football helmet if I feel like it, and while I should be prepared for people to point and laugh, neither the police nor the ranger service should be involved. Does it really matter if I add a gun to that ensemble. So what if Mr. Embody's clothing seemed... intimidating to hikers, just so's he's polite and courteous to others. Besides, my Five-seveN doesn't fit under my suit coat.
By hiding our firearms we send an unconscious message that guns are somehow bad, otherwise why hide them? Additionally, by carrying openly we invite people to ask us questions about firearms, carry laws and training. I've managed to steer a dozen people to local CCW licensing schools, firearms stores and shooting ranges in the year or so I've been carrying openly. Yes I get hassled by the cops, and I think I've made my feelings known about the people that sic 'em on me too. But I'm willing to endure that harassment in order to acclimatize my fellow Alaskans to the sight of a man, legally carrying a firearm.
Aye, 'tis nobler indeed to take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing the slings and arrows of outrageous LEOs, and ignorant citizens, and by opposing their bullshit, end it.
8.03.2010
A Pair of My Saturdays
So a while back I’m going about my Saturday (armed, natch), and I stop to take care of some banking. Now in Alaska even in Anchorage we believe in personal responsibility and the fact that Ursus Arctos sometimes wanders into town. Hence the open carry (I personally open carry rather than concealed carry because I feel that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure). And we so believe in personal responsibility in the last frontier that you can even carry in the bank (just don’t draw, they get all twitchy when you draw).
So I’m in the credit union meyhap twenty minutes (fifteen minutes in line, five with the teller), my Five-seveN and The Blade in plain view and nobody says boo. I do my thing, finish up and didi-bop out the door, and (feeling a bit peckish) drive across the way to the Toxic Hell for a nosh. I roll through the drive-thru, get my junk and park the truck to enjoy the sun and my tunes and some "authentic faux-Mexican" cuisine. Just as I bite into my burrito, I hear a voice in my head.
Now I have heard voices off and on all my life. Usually they say things like; “Don’t do that, you’ll look stupid.” or “Try it with no hands, that’ll impress her.”, this was the first time the voices in my head said “Keep your hands where I can see them. Sir, do you have a weapon in the vehicle?”. Glancing into the side mirrors I saw not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR police cruisers blocking me into the parking space, and no less than eight police officers approaching my truck with weapons drawn.
No wanting to audition for the roll of John Dillinger, I kept my hands on the wheel and answered in the affirmative. I was then asked to list my weapons, which I did; one pistol (Five-seveN), Three knives, one large (The Blade), two small. I was then asked to exit the vehicle backwards so that the officer could secure my weapons, which I did, and the silly fucker couldn’t figure out the SERPA holster and I wound up doing it anyways. My weapons secured and unloaded I was asked for ID and then told to wait, which I did, for two minutes, before asking if it was OK to eat my (so called) food. Which after a moment’s conference it was decided that eating would not pose a serious hazard to the safety of the officers present.
While eating I casually asked one of the officers, “Not that I’m confused officer but, what’s going on?”
The officer in question looked perplexed and conferred with her colleagues for a minute and apparently reached a decision that yes, I was allowed to know what I was accused of. “Sir, were you recently in the Credit Union across the way?”
“Ayup.” I replied.
“And you were armed?” They asked.
“Ayup.” I replied.
“Were your weapons concealed?” they asked. There was a distinct feeling of “Gotcha Sucker” in the tone used.
“Nope. Not that it’d matter, law says I can carry anything not federally prohibited, concealed or openly, anywhere that is not:
a) A State or Federal reservation that prohibits the carrying of a weapon (i.e. Courthouses).
b) An establishment whose primary business is the sale or distribution of alcohol (i.e. bars & liquor stores).
c) A building or residence in which I have been asked not to carry, either through verbal or written notice (i.e. The Village Inn (posted) or my friend The Librarian’s place (verbal).
“Seeing as the Credit Union neither asked, nor posted a no weapons policy, I don’t see the problem. Is that what this is about? Four cars and eight cops to harass me over a legal carry?”
“Sir we received a call of an armed man entering the credit union.”
“So.”
“We thought perhaps there was an armed robbery in progress.”
Now, this was a full fifteen minutes after I had left the credit union. So let’s crunch some numbers here; 20 minutes in the bank, fifteen minutes at the Toxic Hell, that’s (less see 2 and 3, carry the 7…) THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES between the 911 call and boots on the ground. Anchorage is less than half that wide, and the central five-0 station is located less than 10 miles from the Credit Union.
“What?!?” I ejaculated, somewhat alarmed.
“We called and they said nothing was wrong, but we thought there might have been a hostage situation.”
“Have you talked to the credit union people since?”
“Were doing that now.”
“OK, so assuming that I didn’t rob the bank, can I go then?”
“We’re not sure about the legality of carrying a weapon in a financial institution.”
“Wut?” I asked, stunned.
“We’ve called the DA’s office and they declined to prosecute, so we’ve called the State Prosecutor’s office, we're waiting for them to get back to us.”
“Wut?” I asked, still stunned.
One of the cops gets in his car and rolls off. A few minutes later he rolls back into the lot, gets out and says “Nope it’s [the no weapons notice] not posted at the bank.”
One of the cops approaches me and tells me that they’re letting me go. My gear will be placed in the passenger seat of the truck and I am not to get in it or re-arm until they’re gone. If the State Prosecutor decides to press charges, they’ll contact me.
The tallest cop (in full alpha mode) steps up and asks “So do you think it’s a good Idea to carry a weapon in the bank anymore?”
At first I was a bit taken aback, and my ingrained respect for public servants mumbled something about “no, probably not” and then the anger kicked in. “Officer, until someone changes the law, I will carry any damn weapon I want, any damn place I feel like.”
He looked like I’d just announced that I was fucking his sister. He turned around an got in his squad car without another word.
They rolled, I re-armed and went about my day. At the end of the day, getting my stuff out of the truck I realized that I’d forgotten the TT33 in the glove box, and the City Stick in the back seat.
Oops.
Now, I told you that story, to tell you this one.
So I’m at the IHOP on a Saturday (Miniontaters and Minionberry pancakes, neither worth the price, but the Minionberry lemonade was lovely), again armed. As I’m checking out, the manager tells me that one of the other customers called the cops and reported an armed man in the restaurant. When the cops called to confirm with the restaurant, he told them it was just a patron eating his breakfast, and he’d be gone by the time they got there anyways so don’t bother.
We shared a laugh and spent a few minutes chatting about our preferred carry pieces. He carries a 1911 everywhere except work, just like me (the where, not the what). I left and went about my day.
I have learned four things from this pair of incidents.
1) Outsiders can get the fuck out of my state. Go back to Cali and New York ya pansies.
2) You never can tell who’s a real Alaskan until he’s faced with a beard and a gun. Or perhaps an angry moose.
3) When seconds count, the police are THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES away.
4) The cops neither know, nor give a rodent's rump about the law.
So I’m in the credit union meyhap twenty minutes (fifteen minutes in line, five with the teller), my Five-seveN and The Blade in plain view and nobody says boo. I do my thing, finish up and didi-bop out the door, and (feeling a bit peckish) drive across the way to the Toxic Hell for a nosh. I roll through the drive-thru, get my junk and park the truck to enjoy the sun and my tunes and some "authentic faux-Mexican" cuisine. Just as I bite into my burrito, I hear a voice in my head.
Now I have heard voices off and on all my life. Usually they say things like; “Don’t do that, you’ll look stupid.” or “Try it with no hands, that’ll impress her.”, this was the first time the voices in my head said “Keep your hands where I can see them. Sir, do you have a weapon in the vehicle?”. Glancing into the side mirrors I saw not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR police cruisers blocking me into the parking space, and no less than eight police officers approaching my truck with weapons drawn.
No wanting to audition for the roll of John Dillinger, I kept my hands on the wheel and answered in the affirmative. I was then asked to list my weapons, which I did; one pistol (Five-seveN), Three knives, one large (The Blade), two small. I was then asked to exit the vehicle backwards so that the officer could secure my weapons, which I did, and the silly fucker couldn’t figure out the SERPA holster and I wound up doing it anyways. My weapons secured and unloaded I was asked for ID and then told to wait, which I did, for two minutes, before asking if it was OK to eat my (so called) food. Which after a moment’s conference it was decided that eating would not pose a serious hazard to the safety of the officers present.
While eating I casually asked one of the officers, “Not that I’m confused officer but, what’s going on?”
The officer in question looked perplexed and conferred with her colleagues for a minute and apparently reached a decision that yes, I was allowed to know what I was accused of. “Sir, were you recently in the Credit Union across the way?”
“Ayup.” I replied.
“And you were armed?” They asked.
“Ayup.” I replied.
“Were your weapons concealed?” they asked. There was a distinct feeling of “Gotcha Sucker” in the tone used.
“Nope. Not that it’d matter, law says I can carry anything not federally prohibited, concealed or openly, anywhere that is not:
a) A State or Federal reservation that prohibits the carrying of a weapon (i.e. Courthouses).
b) An establishment whose primary business is the sale or distribution of alcohol (i.e. bars & liquor stores).
c) A building or residence in which I have been asked not to carry, either through verbal or written notice (i.e. The Village Inn (posted) or my friend The Librarian’s place (verbal).
“Seeing as the Credit Union neither asked, nor posted a no weapons policy, I don’t see the problem. Is that what this is about? Four cars and eight cops to harass me over a legal carry?”
“Sir we received a call of an armed man entering the credit union.”
“So.”
“We thought perhaps there was an armed robbery in progress.”
Now, this was a full fifteen minutes after I had left the credit union. So let’s crunch some numbers here; 20 minutes in the bank, fifteen minutes at the Toxic Hell, that’s (less see 2 and 3, carry the 7…) THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES between the 911 call and boots on the ground. Anchorage is less than half that wide, and the central five-0 station is located less than 10 miles from the Credit Union.
“What?!?” I ejaculated, somewhat alarmed.
“We called and they said nothing was wrong, but we thought there might have been a hostage situation.”
“Have you talked to the credit union people since?”
“Were doing that now.”
“OK, so assuming that I didn’t rob the bank, can I go then?”
“We’re not sure about the legality of carrying a weapon in a financial institution.”
“Wut?” I asked, stunned.
“We’ve called the DA’s office and they declined to prosecute, so we’ve called the State Prosecutor’s office, we're waiting for them to get back to us.”
“Wut?” I asked, still stunned.
One of the cops gets in his car and rolls off. A few minutes later he rolls back into the lot, gets out and says “Nope it’s [the no weapons notice] not posted at the bank.”
One of the cops approaches me and tells me that they’re letting me go. My gear will be placed in the passenger seat of the truck and I am not to get in it or re-arm until they’re gone. If the State Prosecutor decides to press charges, they’ll contact me.
The tallest cop (in full alpha mode) steps up and asks “So do you think it’s a good Idea to carry a weapon in the bank anymore?”
At first I was a bit taken aback, and my ingrained respect for public servants mumbled something about “no, probably not” and then the anger kicked in. “Officer, until someone changes the law, I will carry any damn weapon I want, any damn place I feel like.”
He looked like I’d just announced that I was fucking his sister. He turned around an got in his squad car without another word.
They rolled, I re-armed and went about my day. At the end of the day, getting my stuff out of the truck I realized that I’d forgotten the TT33 in the glove box, and the City Stick in the back seat.
Oops.
Now, I told you that story, to tell you this one.
So I’m at the IHOP on a Saturday (Miniontaters and Minionberry pancakes, neither worth the price, but the Minionberry lemonade was lovely), again armed. As I’m checking out, the manager tells me that one of the other customers called the cops and reported an armed man in the restaurant. When the cops called to confirm with the restaurant, he told them it was just a patron eating his breakfast, and he’d be gone by the time they got there anyways so don’t bother.
We shared a laugh and spent a few minutes chatting about our preferred carry pieces. He carries a 1911 everywhere except work, just like me (the where, not the what). I left and went about my day.
I have learned four things from this pair of incidents.
1) Outsiders can get the fuck out of my state. Go back to Cali and New York ya pansies.
2) You never can tell who’s a real Alaskan until he’s faced with a beard and a gun. Or perhaps an angry moose.
3) When seconds count, the police are THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES away.
4) The cops neither know, nor give a rodent's rump about the law.
8.02.2010
The Difference Between an Adult and a Grown-Up.
I've been thinking a lot lately about my relationships, and why I get along so well with some people, and why others make my teeth itch. I finally came up with an answer. Those people I get along with best are Adults, Grown-ups make my teeth itch.
Now, I know what many of you are thinking, "Rauðbjørn, those words mean the same thing! Don't they?"
My response to you is "No." In a word, the difference between an Adult and a Grown-up is responsibility.
Now then, any schmuck can take responsibility for himself. Those who don't are easy to spot, just sit in on a day's worth of arraignments down at your local courthouse. Of course there are sometimes a few Adults and even a Grown-up or two mixed in, but by and large, the docket is a hit parade of 30 year old adolescents. Those too impressed by their own fart-smell or the size of their Johnson to have a care in the world, or if they care, are too broken to be able to follow the rules without a post-hypnotic suggestion and a Quaalude.
A Grown-up is someone that pays his bills, meets his rent, saves for the future, keeps his nose clean and to the grindstone. They have a dog and a white picket fence 2.3 kids and barbeques on Sunday. He is John Q. Public.
An Adult is more than this.
An Adult does not only meet their quota of responsibility, he actively picks up slack. An Adult is the guy that shows up in a flood zone, looking to help, but doesn’t live in the area. An adult is the person who, at the park, watches his neighbor’s kids along with their own. Firemen and Soldiers are excellent examples of Adults.
But it is not enough to simply help out others, to watch over them.
An Adult must constantly review what she does and why she does it. Because there is a fine line between the guarding that a soldier does, to stand vigil against the tides of oppression: and the guarding that a jailor does, standing vigil against those in need of oppression. An adult does not seek to oppress his charges, or control them. An Adult does not seek aggrandizement, nor power from his position. While they may be granted authority, it is authority born of service. As one long dead corporal once said:
I'm asking You God,
to give me what You have left.
Give me those things which others never ask of You.
I don't ask You for rest, or tranquility.
Not that of the spirit, the body, or the mind.
I don't ask You for wealth, or success, or even health.
All those things are asked of You so much Lord,
that you can't have any left to give.
Give me instead Lord what You have left.
Give me what others don't want.
I want uncertainty and doubt.
I want torment and battle.
And I ask that You give them to me now and forever Lord,
so I can be sure to always have them,
because I won't always have the strength to ask again.
But give me also the courage, the energy,
and the spirit to face them.
I ask You these things Lord,
because I can't ask them of myself.
And that is what an Adult is. One that values the safety of others more than his own, fears that he may not be up to the challenge, but does it anyway. Because he cannot ask another to do it for him.
We should all be adults, each and every one of us.
Now, I know what many of you are thinking, "Rauðbjørn, those words mean the same thing! Don't they?"
My response to you is "No." In a word, the difference between an Adult and a Grown-up is responsibility.
Now then, any schmuck can take responsibility for himself. Those who don't are easy to spot, just sit in on a day's worth of arraignments down at your local courthouse. Of course there are sometimes a few Adults and even a Grown-up or two mixed in, but by and large, the docket is a hit parade of 30 year old adolescents. Those too impressed by their own fart-smell or the size of their Johnson to have a care in the world, or if they care, are too broken to be able to follow the rules without a post-hypnotic suggestion and a Quaalude.
A Grown-up is someone that pays his bills, meets his rent, saves for the future, keeps his nose clean and to the grindstone. They have a dog and a white picket fence 2.3 kids and barbeques on Sunday. He is John Q. Public.
An Adult is more than this.
An Adult does not only meet their quota of responsibility, he actively picks up slack. An Adult is the guy that shows up in a flood zone, looking to help, but doesn’t live in the area. An adult is the person who, at the park, watches his neighbor’s kids along with their own. Firemen and Soldiers are excellent examples of Adults.
But it is not enough to simply help out others, to watch over them.
An Adult must constantly review what she does and why she does it. Because there is a fine line between the guarding that a soldier does, to stand vigil against the tides of oppression: and the guarding that a jailor does, standing vigil against those in need of oppression. An adult does not seek to oppress his charges, or control them. An Adult does not seek aggrandizement, nor power from his position. While they may be granted authority, it is authority born of service. As one long dead corporal once said:
I'm asking You God,
to give me what You have left.
Give me those things which others never ask of You.
I don't ask You for rest, or tranquility.
Not that of the spirit, the body, or the mind.
I don't ask You for wealth, or success, or even health.
All those things are asked of You so much Lord,
that you can't have any left to give.
Give me instead Lord what You have left.
Give me what others don't want.
I want uncertainty and doubt.
I want torment and battle.
And I ask that You give them to me now and forever Lord,
so I can be sure to always have them,
because I won't always have the strength to ask again.
But give me also the courage, the energy,
and the spirit to face them.
I ask You these things Lord,
because I can't ask them of myself.
And that is what an Adult is. One that values the safety of others more than his own, fears that he may not be up to the challenge, but does it anyway. Because he cannot ask another to do it for him.
We should all be adults, each and every one of us.
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