I Hate Owning a Pick-Up Truck

It was love at first sight when I first put eyes on my truck.  My wife and I were still only just dating, it was the summer of 2008... she, the truck, was all black, step-side, shortbed F150, tucked away along the back wall like a shy girl at a 50's sockhop.

I knew I wanted this truck, she had to be mine.

I've owned three different primary modes of transportation (not counting motorcycles) since I've had my license to drive.  My first car was a 1989 Ford Thunderbird that was too long in the tooth to be handled by some idiot 17 year old and his friends with a love of action movie car chase scenes.  When that car died a fiery death in a police station parking lot (no lie, seriously... the car caught fire in a police station parking lot as I was going inside to get an application to be a summer meter maid....) I moved on to a 1998 Chevy S10, bright red, my first pick-up.

The S10 was a "starter pick-up," one no one would dare take seriously.  It was a stick shift 5 speed, did whatever you asked of it and nothing more.  But, after four years, I was ready for a more "adult" truck.

And that's when I saw her.

But the pain with owning a pick-up is that everyone else doesn't own a pick-up, meaning, as a truck owner, you're automatically obligated to help people move the most ridiculously heavy shit across town, or even out of state, for as little compensation as possible.

For me, it's always completely circumstantial as how I'll feel when, at least twice a season, I'm asked to haul shit from point A to point B because I'm the only person that person knows who has the equipment, so to say, to perform such a task.

These people are always really grateful and polite.  It's not ok when they're assuming and expectant.

I had former co-workers spring up on me just as work would be letting out on a Friday with "oh heeyy...." and then go on to be like "can you help me move on Saturday?  I gotta be out by the first and.... we haven't really started anything yet.... and you have a pick-up and all we have is this shitty hatchback...."

Or what's even worse, the guilt-riddled text you'll get all day from someone who asked if you'd be available to help them move, when you said you either "weren't sure" or "were not available" on that day.

I had a co-worker send me like, 60 texts in an afternoon, saying some shit like "oh, we'd be done by now if you had your truck..." sorry, but spending one of only two days I have off a week, helping you move heavy shit or packing boxes (the wrong way, apparently) is not on my agenda, ever.

So this past week, a friend of me and my wife's asked if I'd help him move a small couch off-Cape to his new apartment in Newton.  I like this guy, Matt, he's a solid bloke; the type of guy you could feel rest assured would have your back in a barroom brawl or Memorial Day Sale at Macy's. 

Initially I was a little miffed that I was "volun-told" to help out Matt, but I hadn't had much "man time" recently, so I looked at it as a chance to catch up and be "men."

We met up at the coffee house we go to and got something to eat and drink.  We then went to his uncle's house nearby to pick up the couch.  Here's where I got the inevitable bad news:

"So, yeah, it's a sleeper, actually.... so it'll be a little heavy... and ... uh, there's stairs."  Of course.

But the rest of the trip went well, and Matt bought me lunch at a wing place before we headed back to Cape.

I had a real fun time, but I think my next car will be some shitty hatchback.

Reviewed: Crysis 2

New York City gets the shit beaten out of it roughly every 18 months of average.  If it's not a catastrophic environmental event (tsunami, asteroid, earthquake) it's something else entirely (population-killing virus, Godzilla, that thing from Cloverfield, the 8th season of "24.").  You'd think by now, people would ease up on the old gray bitch, but no, EA and Crytek dusted the old punching bag off for another round with "Crysis 2."

There are a lot of great aspects of "Crysis 2 (C2 from here on in... one thing that's NOT great about the game is it's name... which never really gets explained.... maybe they say something in "Crysis 1" but I dunno... never played it.)" one of which, as just parenthetically mentioned, is you don't need to really know what happened in the first game to enjoy the full aspects of the sequel.  The game starts off with a long cut scene, a submarine, US Marines getting blown to hell, and a "super soldier" wearing a biologically-enhanced "nano-suit."  There's something about an alien invasion in the middle of Manhattan that looks like it borrowed heavily from the "Halo" franchise, and you soon take control over the nano-suit and go on a merry gun-blasting time throughout NYC.

Or do you?  The suit comes in three interchangeable flavors to "suit" your needs at any given time.  You can go "stealth mode" which is akin to what the Predator does before he swoops in a kills a former Governor, an "armor" mode which essentially allows you to "tank" around a level, taking and dolling out tons of damage, and a "power" mode which is more or less sentient, as you use it's "powers" at all times, whether you're jumping extra high to grab a ledge, sliding for cover, heaving heavy objects or doors open, etc.

But these powers come at a price.  You have an energy meter that will deplete based around your usage of a given commodity, ie, you can only stay "cloaked" or armored for so long (not very long at all, actually) and you can only sprint, run, slide for so long as well.  This feature is a nice "budgeting" aspect that goes beyond ammunition and explosives consumption you don't seen in many First Person Shooters.

Plot-wise, the game is long but too spread out.  The campaign mission runs a deep ten or so hours (unheard of in the modern FPS, with most shooters clocking in around the 6-8 hour mark).  Half-way thru the single-player I was shocked to learn that the game wasn't in it's closing stages, that I still had four or five more levels to play.

However, I cared little about the characters, as they all seemed one-dimensional and interchangeable.  A scientist, corporate billionaire, military contractor, military members and a secret agent round out the cast you interact with the most.  Again, nothing too crazy here, as I played the game mostly with the sound down.  I couldn't hear the dialog, and I didn't really care.

Given that the use of the suit's "powers" are what drive the game play, the developers silently urged players not to just run and gun thru the levels (quick side note: the levels do seem a bit linearly-designed; any jaunt down a side street will bring you face to face with rubble and debris making it impossible for exploration.  Kind of a let down for the game being set in such a fantastic locale), but instead to observe and plan out a tactical approach.  Usually, from a high ledge overlooking a plaza, you'll be prompted to switch to a "tactical" view and mark objectives and enemies before engaging.  By doing so, your marksmanship is greatly improved, as are your chances of survival.  As I found out more than once, dropping in without first assessing the given situation is typically folly.

Visually, the game is stunning, fast out-pacing anything that's currently available for FPSs.  The animation, set design and frame rates are all top notch.  The use of rich colors and graphics really stand out, and I only experienced a few glitches during the campaign pertaining to environments not displaying in time for my character or enemy NPCs walking thru walls.  Given the length of the campaign and the sheer beauty of the game itself, I can let these small instances slide.

However, there are more, detrimental glitches that should be noted: the enemy NPCs are suffering in the AI department.  Crytek made big promises regarding how advanced the enemy AI would be when the game rolled out.  I was disappointed to find that the enemy NPCs were essentially mindless zombies that would roll out in waves.  Yes, they'd take cover, retreat, advance and flank, but so do the enemy NPC in just about any FPS game made since 2007.  Often times I would simply cloak, move to the left or right, wait a few moments, and then slide in behind for a "stealth kill."

Also, I found that in later levels, enemy NPCs would be stuck in a "wall walk" that is, walking forever into a piece of scenery at the edge of a map, unable to navigate around it.

So-called "boss battles" were challenging however, as you experience your first major boss, a multi-legged, spider-looking tank turret called a "pinger" roughly a third the way thru the campaign.  The objective is to out-flank the pinger and attack it's rear, however, the bluddy thing can see you even when your under your cloak, making flanking nearly impossible.  You'll fight three of these monsters throughout the campaign, but strangely enough, not at the end.

No, the final "boss battle" involves your character systematically taking out four cloaked "cephs (the derogatory name of the enemy alien.  It made me think of the "Prawns" from "District 9")" of more elite training.  I found that if I simply stayed back far enough with a sniper rifle and explosives, these were of little threat to me.  As I stated above, the lack of intelligence shown by the NPCs, made picking them apart very little of a challenge.

As for the multiplayer, I was glad to notice how there seemed to be more emphasis on the single-player experience from the developers, especially in a day-and-age when the focus for developers and gamers is the online play.  Game types in C2's multiplayer are akin to any you'd find in any modern FPS, including Team Deathmatch, Free-for-All, Capture the Flag (called something different here) and a Domination-type game. 

What makes Crytek's take on FPS multiplayer is the level of customization one can play with.  For beyond just outfitting your customized character with a loadout of various weapons and equipment, the game will skew towards your style of play.  If you like to stay cloaked, you'll earn more "stealth" points than "power" or "armor" and vice versa.  These points can be spent on upgrades that are class specific (meaning, you can't use points you earned via stealth on armor upgrades, etc).  While there's an assortment of weapons and equipment that can be unlocked as you progress in level, the real treat is fine-tuning your character by how you play the game.

Altho, with the cloaking ability, I'm finding the Team Deathmatch and Free-for-All matches to be camper-friendly, as more players are inclined to hide in corners of the maps and snipe or wait for players to run by before shotgunning them to death from underneath their cloaks.

The maps come in two sizes, I'm finding: big and small, or what might be more accurate, too big and just right.  Maps like Pier 17, Skyline and Statue are really too big, with too much shit in the way to be fun playing a TDM or FFA match.  As you sprint out to battle, you'll likely be cut down by a well placed sniper across the map.  This rings familiar with my experience playing EA's other shooter from last year "Medal of Honor."

The smaller maps are just the right size, and both types offer multiple levels of engagements, from underwater to roof tops, the set design is very true to the campaign aspect of the game but not cookie-cutter, unlike other shooters where multiplayer maps are essentially just crudely cut chunks of actual levels you just played in (looking at you, COD.).

All in all, C2 is a breath of fresh air after spending 6 months grinding away at COD: Black Ops.  While there's an occasional sour note, "Crysis 2" is certainly an opus that makes up for EA's recent under-performing FPS offers.

Dispatch: Portland: City by The Sea

Portland, Maine is like a roommate I had in college.  When I was in college, we were both unsophisticated, dirty, sometimes scary people.  But we've both grown a little in the last few years and became more worldly, more open to ideas, more accepting of individuals.

I'm really glad to see Portland's grown up.

Or maybe it's just me?  Maybe Portland's always been this Mecca of Style in the Northeast; a not-so-well-kept secret just north of Boston, with a fantastic culinary community, culture and people.  Portland is all of the good things of Boston, with little of the bad.  Sure, there's crime, but there's crime everywhere.  What you won't see, at least in the places the tourists go, is dirt, grime and bad times.

In typical fashion, I was only going to be in Maine for roughly 24 hours.  Just enough time to get some work done, maybe see a friend or two, and be gone again like vapor.  Since I had just seen my mom on the Cape for Mother's Day, I figured she'd be cool with me going out on the one night I'd have in Portland.  I made some phone calls and set something up.

At 6:30, I was on the Northwest corner of Congress and Free streets, by the restaurant Nosh.  Earlier, my childhood friend Mandy had suggested the place for dinner.

"They serve like, really good burgers and .... like, tempura-fried bacon... are you into that stuff?  I know you've gone all health nut on us in the last few years..."  I explain to her that I may run marathons and triathlons, but I'm not dead.  A fried pork belly sandwich and bacon-dusted fries with a Guinness sounded like just the medicine I needed.

Mandy arrives shortly after I do, as I'm playing with my phone on the corner.  She's with her husband David, a guy about my height, glasses, easy smile.  They're newlyweds, coming up on their first year anniversary, and I'm happy to see they're still in that place where they're still ironing out the wrinkles.

A little passive-aggressive back and forth between the two would be the battle rhythm for the evening.

Nosh is a gastro-pub like any other I've been too.  There's nothing here that sets it apart other than the Ms. Pac-Man game at the front door.  The place is also crowded and it's a "seat yourself" sort of deal.  We wait by the door, waiting for a table to clear.  The place is a hipster joint; skinny jeans and cardigans are the uniform of the day.  A tall, lanky kid who looks like he just wrapped a photo shoot for American Apparel walks by us.

Luckily Mandy and David are the types who have connections in the restaurant biz here in Portland.  David makes eye-contact with a server who he works part-time with at the Armory Lounge and soon we're seated.

The menu is glorified pub fare, with strange Asian twists and turns.  David goes with the Falafal, Mandy with the Tuna Tartar and I get the pork belly sandwich.  We each decide to split an order of the bacon-dusted fries, and tempura-fried bacon with Nutella drizzled all over the top.

The conversation inevitably turns towards marriage.  I ask how they're doing in their first year and I'm greeted by a wall of unified bliss.

"It's great!" Mandy says.

"Never been better," David says.

"We hardly ever fight, it's awesome!"

But being that only a few short years ago, I was in there shoes, I can readily see thru this lie.  There's an unspoken tension between the two that's written all over their body language.  I deduce that David doesn't want to be here, as he's too quick to engage in conversation, and even quicker to disengage and stare elsewhere around the restaurant.  Our food is brought out and he nearly pounds half of his vodka and water.

After dinner and many pleasantries, I head home for the night.  I have an early day the next morning and I have to be up at 4 am for some goddamn reason.  We all hug and shake hands and the look of relief on everyone's face is hard to miss.

But Portland has another side to it, that's vastly different from the posh gastro pubs and sushi bars that make up the water front and East End.

But that's always been the case with Portland; it's a city with competing personalities, a literal economic strata to almost an extreme.  While Portland is a city comprised of young up and comers, there's also it's fair share of thugs, homeless, junkies, and burnouts.  Driving home, I watch as two men walk with a menacing purpose down Commercial St from one bar to another. 

Take a wrong turn on the outer fringes of Portland and you could very well end up in the news.  Out of the popular television show "The Wire" street gangs flourish in tenement housing projects.  Routinely, you hear of police-involved shootings with quasi-legal residences. 

It's roughly 5 am and I'm traveling in-bound off the 295 up Congress St again, but the Portland from the night before is still asleep.  Instead, like out of a bad B-Zombie-Film, homeless men shuffle down from the hill towards the Greyhound Bus Station, half out of their minds.  As I'm the only traffic on the roads at this hour, they each stop in their tracks and slowly turn towards the sound of my car.

I drive a while longer and pull off on the side of the street and wait til my appointment at 6 am.  The sun is starting to come up and there's a grayness about everything.  Off in the distance, I see this lurching, painful-looking figure running towards me.  As I finger my locks, what comes to pass is a middle-aged woman out for a morning run.

Her gait is a cross between a seizure and someone trying to fight off invisible bats.  Her elbows careen wildly from her sides, she's bent over at the waist, towards her right as if she's being kicked, her left knee fires off to the left every third footfall. 

But it looks like she's keeping a 7:30 pace, so ... good for her?

I'm parked at a parking meter, one of the many in downtown Portland, but I don't have any change to feed it, and no store is yet open.  My appointment is about to get underway, so I just leave the car, locked, hoping that Portland still has that fabled "get one free" parking ticket policy.

I'm in meetings with various people for a few hours, and by 1030, I'm walking back out to where I parked, fully expecting a sliver of paper to be waving at me in the breeze from the windshield wiper. 

But nothing, no paper, no fine, no reproachful looks from the onlookers now filling the sidewalks. 

I gotta say, I love this city.

Five Reasons Why Joe Buck is The Worst Human Being, Alive

My deep, deep hatred for FOX Sportscaster Joe Buck is like an abyss in my soul.  It's just this bottomless, cold pit.  Ever since I became exposed to his lackluster, often incorrect play-by-play analysis in the early 2000's my sense of hatred for the man has been in lockstep with his growing career. 

Here now, are some reasons why I hate him.

1. He's the poster boy for nepotism:  Joe Buck's dad, Jack Buck, was/is(?) a sportscaster for the St. Louis Cardinals since the 1960s.  In 1991, son Joe started doing minor league play-by-play, which I guess, is fine.  But in just four short years, the younger Buck was thrust on to the national stage, becoming ESPN's and probably the world's youngest sportscaster to call a nationally televised, pro-sport game.  There are guys with twice the experience, and twice the talent who've been fighting in the network trenches for YEARS who would slit their father's throats for a chance to call a nationally televised game, and Joe Buck just calls it in.

2.  I'm convinced Joe Buck is an alien or a robot:  For being someone who's been in the "biz" for the last twenty years, Joe Buck is woefully ignorant of some pretty basic sports facts.  To me, Buck seems like the type of guy who, while everyone else was playing touch football after school, was busy hanging out with girls.  And not in the cool way, like "I'll show you mine, you show me yours," but in the "let's sit around and gossip like chicks do."  Fact:  During this year's Superbowl, at the half, he said something along the lines of "and now the players will return to their dressing rooms...."  Really?  Dressing rooms?  Dude, my dad HATES team sports and knows players go to "locker rooms."  How long have you been doing this job?

His voice sounds like an idle copy machine; this endless buzzing drone of electronics.  Yes, good call FOX, pair him with a semi-comatose Troy Aikman and let's all watch America reach for either the mute button on their remotes, their iPods, of a bottle of mash liquor.


3.  Joe Buck looks funny:  He has big teeth, a huge forehead and wisps of thin blond hair that make him look like the end result of a used car salesman mating with a pencil.  He literally looks like an eraser, or the product of generations of inbreeding, which, given his father did play-by-play for the Cardinals, doesn't surprise anyone.

4.  He's not a good journalist:  Granted, he does play-by-play which doesn't really constitute as "journalism" in the common sense, but since he's doing a national telecast of pro sports, it's important to remember one of the cardinal rules of journalism, objectivity, which is hilarious when you find out he actually graduated from a Journalism School (Univ. of Indiana-Bloomington, School of Journalism).  Joe Buck is hardly an objective sportscaster.  He's extremely pro-NY-anything, Yankees, Giants, Jets.... you name it, if he's calling a NY game, he basically slobbers all over A-Rod's knob anytime he's shown on screen.  What makes matters worse, aside from being ultra-pro-NY, he's pretty much anti-everyone else.  Whoever a NY team will be playing, he'll find ways to tear down the opposing team in a thinly-veiled fashion.

After being introduced to Barry Bonds, and Bonds not being terribly impressed with Buck (saying "So?" when told that Buck does the play-by-play), Buck, like the prima donna he is, stated that he would go out of his way to slight Bonds when he made his first plate appearance in that game.

Back in the mid-2000s, while calling a Green Bay-Minnesota game, he called Randy Moss "disgusting" for simulating mooning the home team Wisconsin crowd.  Buck failed to mention that often times, the Green Bay fans will moon the visiting team on their way to the locker rooms.  The owner of the Vikings was right to ask FOX to suspend Buck for his blatant prejudice.


5.  Joe Buck thinks he's better than everyone else, just ask him:  In an interview he gave back in 2008, Joe Buck likened himself to other play-by-play greats, including Howard Cosell.  When the reporter asked him, why then was his schedule cut down from the year before, Buck responded with: "I'm deathly afraid to be away from my family" or some other non-sense.  More likely, he was cut down, because FOX has a hard time selling advertising space during it's games, if viewers are blowing their brains out before the half.

By far, the best thing to ever happen to Joe Buck was getting his own HBO late-night style tv show called "Joe Buck Live!" which was mercifully killed two episodes in.

But it survived just long enough to prove how out of touch Buck is with the rest of America, when he had Artie Lange as his first guest.  Lange spent the eight or so minutes of his slot simply eviscerating Buck in what I can only imagine was a vodka-scented breath-mist.

Four Reasons Why You Shouldn't Join a Gym

Yesterday I found out that the membership to my local gym is just about a month away from expiring.  This is great for two reasons:  A) I'll be leaving the Cape in a matter of weeks indefinitely, and B)...

I can't stand my gym, as it's been noted more than once.

So here's four reasons why you shouldn't bother joining a gym.  Now, mind you, I'm still advocating for physical fitness and well being, but joining a gym isn't for everyone (or anyone, really).  There's plenty of things you can do OUTSIDE of four walls for physical activity.

1. You'll save money.

Gym memberships are ridiculously overpriced, and that's just walking in the door.  My membership was a locked-in rate of $55/month for 15 months, or something ridiculous like that.  And I really wasn't getting much out of it.  Sure, I had access to TWO facilities, but what's the point when both are terrible?  And again, aside from a few cursory classes, everything you'd want to do at our gym cost money.  Rock wall, massages, training, tanning, etc.  What was our monthly dues going towards?  The NEW RESTAURANT the gym management wanted to put in?!  The parking lot was a fucking mess (I, for reals, watched a pot hole swallow a Jeep Wrangler whole the other day...), how about instead of dumping a bunch of membership cash into what will inevitably be a failed venture (who the hell is going to say to their spouse "hunny, let's try out that new place... you know, at the GYM....), how about investing in a parking lot that won't require me to seek out a new tire and spinal alignment?

My $55 bucks/month will be better served either being squirreled away or .... paying for more ridiculous shit I don't need.  But either way, it's better than going to the mismanagement of someone else's property and business.

2.  You'll save time.

You really have to add it up, but think about it:  How much time are you technically "wasting" at the gym?  I'm not talking about your actual workout, but think of the amount of time it takes you to get over to and back from the gym?  For us, we're fortunate enough to live just a short drive from the main facility.  On nice days, I can run the three miles, work out, and run back, so it's not so much of a waste.  But having to get ready (about ten minutes), get out of our silly-ass neighborhood (five minutes), drive thru traffic (ten minutes, longer in the summer), get inside and into the locker room (five minutes) and on to the gym floor only to have to then warm up (another ten minutes) that's ... let's see... nearly 45 minutes of bullshit JUST TO START WORKING OUT!

Then you have to quantify leaving, which isn't nearly as long, but still, thru summer traffic, on Cape?  Yeah, you won't be home for another twenty minutes.  That's nearly an hour a day, saved, that you could be doing something else.

I realized a long time ago that the bulk of my workouts can be done at home, in my living room.  My current base workout is this:

4x25 push-ups
4x25 sit-ups w/25lb
2/20 pull-ups
planks
and some free weights.  I usually also either cycle or run for a warm up.

So, side from the free weights, I can be doing all of this stuff at home.  I'm only missing a declining bench to do my sit-ups on, which I can supplement by doing other abdominal exercises (bicycle kicks, crunches, etc)  Running is virtually free, and I already own a pretty boss bicycle.  We have a pull-up bar in the bedroom over the closet.  Total time to do all those exercises: 25 minutes, plus another half hour run?  That's 60-sum-odd minutes, roughly the amount of time it would take to go and come back from the gym.

3.  You won't have to deal with dickheads.

My gym is crawling with sweaty goonish guidos, semi-catatonic elderly people, and fat housewives glued to Rachael Ray on Tv.  On the weekends, it's even worse.

There are unsupervised children, and separately, the place is usually unusually dirty at all times.  Working out from home, and not paying money to use this facility will cut your stress levels in half, nearly instantly. 

I went to a yoga class last month and couldn't concentrate because I could hear the assholes thru the divider laughing like jackasses, they were so loud.  Now I'll be able to slap a yoga DVD into the machine in my living room and just sit on my yoga mat in full tranquility.

No longer will I have to wait to use a piece of equipment that some barely literate idiot is hogging up as he sends text messages between sets.  No longer will I have to wipe up someone else's disgusting sweat puddles when they're done with something I want to use.

And the Tvs.... jesus, the Tvs.... Touch one and the whole peanut gallery on the ellipticals flip the F out, that is, when the Tvs are working....

4.  You won't have to deal with broken equipment.

If your gym is anything like mine, you're familiar with the constant disappointment of going to use a favorite piece of equipment only to find out it's broken.  Whether it's a certain treadmill (face it, using a different one feels "weird.") or bench, or weight, or medicine ball, not having that exact piece of gym equipment can make or break a workout.  At our gym, at least 35% of shit is constantly out of order, missing or broken.

My wife really liked doing push-ups with those hand-grip things.  She used them twice before they went "missing."  She found them a few days later, broken, kicked to the side of the room.  Same goes with medicine balls she likes to use to do squats.

For me, I don't like running on treadmills, but I'll put up with it for a few miles before the rest of my workout.  Half of the treadmills, and there's at least ten treadmills at our gym, are either broken, or too fucked up to use correctly: the belts slip, the speed is all messed up giving you an inaccurate reading, etc.  I did three miles the other day when I had the speed set to 7 minute miles, and the read-out told me I ran the mileage in 28 minutes.  THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE!  Great, the treadmills are so fucked up at my gym, they can't even do simple math right.

When you work out in your own home, that's your equipment you using, so that means you'll take care of it, one (it was presumably your money, right?), and two, no one else will come in one time and completely fuck it up while you're away (usually.).  The only downside is space: if you live in a small two-bedroom apartment like we do, there's not a whole lot of room to store equipment. 

For instance, we have some plate weights, some yoga mats, some hand-push-up-grip things, a jump rope, pull-up bar.... and that's about it.  And even I think we have too much shit here, especially without a dedicated room for it.  The one advantage to going to a gym, in this case, it's someone else holding on to all of this shit for you.

So essentially, you're paying for storage.

The Annoying Co-Worker

"Dude. It's ketchup. Not catsup. #weirdpetpeeves" via @rachaelnicole

The above quote sums it up nicely, doesn't it?  It's like, why have two vastly different spellings for one thing that doesn't need to have two spellings?  That's one of those great things about the English language: we have many different facets to annoy people.

I haven't worked in about a year (August) and I'm pretty certain none of my old co-workers read my blog, mostly because I've been under their radar ever since I left, so I think I'm in the clear to tell you about Joshua.

Despite his appearance, Joshua was like, 22 years old (looked 32).  He was from So-Cal (Southern California, for those of you who aren't cool).  How did I know he was from So-Cal?  He drove a giagantic 1990 Ford F250 with a huge graphic over the back window that said SOCAL in like, that Mexican gangster font.

Are you starting to get an idea about what kind of dick this guy is?

So he's from So-Cal, and he's a surfer.  That makes sense, honestly.  That's like saying you're from Beverly Hills and drive a Porsche.  What doesn't make sense about this guy, at least to my knowledge of Southern California, is he dressed like a fucking cowboy.

To compound things, he completed his look with prescription Wayfarer sunglasses, that he'd wear 24/7.  Yes, even at night, outdoors, in all sorts of weather.  They were complimented by a bushy mustache.  Not an ironic mustache, but like, a serious one.

So, outwardly, you can tell this dude is awkward, right?  Well, he was awkward AND a dick.  A total dick, at that.  This guy could be a straight dick even on his birthday.  What made matters worse was that he was also my supervisor.

It was a weird turn of events at my last job: I transitioned from whatever I was doing before, to this new gig, and I while I was older, more experienced, I had to take orders from Joshua.  And he loved that shit, probably because he himself was bullied by chicanos while growing up in So-Cal.  This would also explain the need to overcompensate with a gigantic, out-dated truck even when gas was hovering around $3/gal (2010).

I think Joshua was from the "carrot or the stick" school of learning, because that was his approach to supervision.  Largely I kept to myself and did what was asked of me, but he liked to needle; he'd find a way to go out of HIS way to fuck with me.  Even if it was these little jabs to get under my skin.

This is where the "catsup" and "ketchup" thing comes in.

I was eating lunch in our little break room and he comes in, his boots clunking across the linoleum. 

"What's for lunch?" he asks, addressing me by my last name only, which I fucking hate.  I glance up at him, and in an effort to be polite (because I was raised in a loving household, and not by wolves) I answer the question.  I don't remember what exactly I was eating, probably a sandwich, but it doesn't matter.  It wasn't anything that required ketchup.

"Well, how about some catsup?" He asks, like, completely randomly.  He sits down across from me, staring at me thru those black sunglasses, indoors mind you.

"'Catsup?'  Do you mean, 'ketchup?'" I ask him between bites.

"Ketchup!" he starts in, "huh, you MUST be a yankee, it's called 'catsup,'" and my skin starts to crawl.  Like, how he was saying the word "catsup" felt like he was molesting my ears.

And NO SHIT I'm a yankee.  He knew I was born and raised in Maine.  And since when do people from the west coast call US YANKEES?!

I think at that point I blew him off with a "whatever" and went back to my lunch and phone, but it didn't stop there.  For the rest of the day he'd find some way to amuse himself by uttering the word "catsup" in my presence, like working it into conversation where it didn't really fit.  Total over-extension, in my opinion.

"Yeah, you could say my truck is CATSUP red...." I'd overhear him say to someone else while I was a solid 20 feet away.

I typed into google "the one black guy" and got Lando. #win

Granted, for the two and a half years I worked at this place the dude seemed to go way out of his way to fuck with people, not just me.  That is, unless you were standing around with the one black guy that worked with us.  Rog was like Joshua's kryptonite.

What was great about Rog was he did not give a fuck about anything.  I don't know if that's a "black" thing or not, but he would always call it like he saw it, especially to Joshua.

Example:  Joshua was talking some bullshit before our semi-weekly morning meeting, and Rog walked in the room.  Rog is from Miami, short, but built like a pittbull.  Nice guy tho, unless you fucked with him.

Upon entering the room and hearing the flow of bullshit coming from Joshua, Rog stops by the door, leans in, and barks.  Not the DMX bark, but his voice has this jarring, sharp pattern to it.

"YO JOSHUA, SHUT THE FUCK UP." He doesn't shout it, but his voice just carries.  Everyone around the Horseshoe Table (that's what we called it, because it was horseshoe shaped) goes dead-quiet, the tension filling the room like helium fills a balloon.  After a long ten seconds of Rog staring into Joshua's black sunglasses (indoors on a rainy Monday morning no less) Joshua stands up and walks out of the opposite door.

He didn't make it back for the meeting.

Dispactch: The Biddeford Gun Show, Two Years Later

It had been about two years since I had been to the annual Biddeford Gun Show, and by the looks of things, I hadn't missed much.

Like two years ago, the show was smaller than I remembered, but unlike two years ago, the crowds that had shown up, packed-in in fear and panic, were absent too.  A quick survey by the front door told me everything I needed to know.

Where there was usually a line to get in, was gone.  I was able to walk up to the check-in desk with my Enfield Mark 3 rifle unobstructed.  A fat, old Vietnam vet with bad arthritis cleared my weapon and barely managed to slide a paper tag around the trigger guard to prove that it was a weapon I had come in with.  I wasn't necessarily looking to sell the gun, but if someone made me the right offer, who knows.

My father and I began our usual pattern of walking around the outside tables first before making our way into the interior.  The show is held in a converted ice arena where the local high school hockey team plays and practices.  With this much room, you'd expect there to be more vendors, more people, more to see, but you'd be wrong.

It's unclear if the economy is playing a role in any of this; I check the prices of a few guns I'm familiar with and am shocked to learn that the same .45 I bought about four years ago is now about $150 dollars more expensive.  The average cost at the show of a middle-of-the-road AR15s (the civilian-marketed version of the military's M4 carbine) is running between $750 and $1200, depending on what you want and who made it.

My expectations are always high, I tell my dad, but seldom are they ever met at the gun show.

We're surrounded by RealTree camo, LL Bean boots, beer guts, and the occasional cabal of amateurish gangster wannabes gawking over a nickle-plated junk pistol worth less than the Chinese-manufactured accessories it comes with.  In my black NorthFace spring jacket and J. Crew wardrobe I stand out like a narc.

I notice there's a few women milling about with their boyfriends or husbands.  They look bored; with every group of five or six guys standing over a table, two feet behind them are a group of women, talking amongst themselves, or absently pushing a baby stroller back and forth in a four-foot area. 

We reach what's considered the centerpiece table, the vendor with the show's most prestige and I'm not surprised when I see the wide-smiling coked-out jackass with his bluetooth earpiece stuck to the side of his face, placating the group of XXXL t-shirt wearing hooligans all finger-fucking cheap Tech-9 assault pistols.

This guy, the vendor, somehow manages to hold a Level-3 gun permit, the hardest and most sought-after gun license in the country.  With the Level-3 license, one can own just about any killing devices ever constructed, if he or she has the right amount of money.  Why I'm so surprised by this guy, is the fact he's a known cocaine addict.

A few years back, my father and I paid him a visit in his home/shop to look at suppressors for one of my pistols.  When I found out nothing he had fit the threading on my barrel, we made to leave.  But then, this guy asked my dad if he wanted to see something of his in the back room.  Reluctantly my dad said "sure."

A few seconds after disappearing, my dad comes out and says we're out of here.  Apparently, the guy had offered my dad some cocaine.

So, flash forward to now: this grinning idiot is holding court amongst slack-jawed locals, laughing and smiling at them.  He knows he's about to feed his habit ten fold today.

I look down at his collection and I'm not terribly impressed.  His table looks like a collection of a FARC weapons cache; machine pistols with extended magazines and suppressors, AK47s with folding stocks, machetes, knives, M16s with under-barrel attachments, like M203s (grenade launchers) and miniature shotguns. 

He has three show-quality pieces stacked in the middle of his table, surrounded by the rest of the junk.  He has a pile of magazines and bullets, knives and tac-lights, even t-shirts for sale.  I take this all in, with the thought that, the more "advanced" our modern military weaponry gets, the more medieval it looks: picatinny rails poke out from the sides and tops of gun barrels like spikes on a mace, elongated magazines and folding stocks look like crude black hilts of swords.

The jackass must see me eying the top-shelf hardware because he's left the gang of comedians to one of his sons.  The group is collectively growing louder, crasser, slapping and snapping the dry actions on the junk hardware while pointing them in just about any other direction than safe.

"Yeah, that's a real beaut," he starts in right over me.  I don't think he recognizes me (its been years) but I ask if it's ok to shoulder his Styer Aug.  He says sure, in a very friendly way and I pick up the bullpup rifle.

I point it towards the ceiling and sight down the barrel.  Front Post sights; my cheek presses into the rest molded over the mag housing.  I adjust my grip a little on the forward under-barrel vertical "sweeper" grip and squeeze the weapon into my shoulder a little tighter.  I've never fired one of these before.

"How's the recoil?"  I ask.  He gets a little excited.  The price tag flashes into my view from the trigger guard and it reads $3500.  I nearly laugh.

"Smooth, the rotary bolt action sits back here at the shoulder," and he points to where the action would be, and goes on to talk about what I already know about the gun.  I set it down.

"Shame I'm a lefty...." I lie.  The gun can only be fired from the right-hand side due to it's ejection port being at the shoulder stock.  His face drains as I set the rifle back down.  He turns his attention back to Biddeford's Finest, his tone not as jovial as before.

The rest of the show goes like this: dad's more into the older, wooden stuff, and the "purse pistols"; the small caliber, easily concealable guns that you'd find in a woman's purse.  I'm more into the quality military hardware, the black polymers, etc.

There's really not much for us to look at.

Sure, there's tables with the occasional exotic piece, and there's enough plastic guns to go around, but nothing of real quality.  As we pass by a table, I notice a lone AR15 on a rack.  I ask to pick it up and shoulder it and the guy has no problem letting me do exactly that.

It's a good fit and the price is right.  I tell him it's the most honestly-priced weapon at the show and he takes it as a compliment.  He says that it looks like I know how to handle one, and I tell him I do.

I give the rifle the once over as my dad holds my Enfield.  I ask if the weapon's been recently cleaned and the vendor says "of course, yes."  I ask if it's ok to check the insides of the gun?

He hesitates and eventually says it's ok.  With the flat of my palm I pop the assembly pin out of the rear of the receiver and let the upper swing forward exposing the rifle's guts.  I'm surprised when a cobweb-covered bat doesn't flap out of the chamber.

I pull back a little and blow down the barrel, causing a plume of black dust to come out.  I look back at the vendor and say something snide and he takes it in stride.  Still, it's an alright "Frankenstein" gun (it was built of different parts, non-factory) for what he's asking.  I tell him I'll think about it.  He tells me I should help "stimulate" the economy.

We take in only a few more tables.  A few older men take a mild interest in my Enfield but no one makes an offer.  There's a sort of unspoken rule about private sales at gun shows.  You only make an offer if you're serious, and no one wants to make an offer unless they know what you're asking.  A few people ask me what I want for it, and I tell them to make me an offer.  They balk.

It's a stupid dance.

We leave empty-handed (save, of course, my Enfield) and get lunch at the Wendy's across the street.  I realize then how flavorless the food is. 

Later, on our way back to Rochester, we pass the Outlaw Motorcycle Club's burnt-down clubhouse.  Apparently the clubhouse had mysteriously burned down after a massive nation-wide raid had snatched up a bunch of members (and killed at least one.). 

We flip off the gutted building.

(From 2009) Dispatch: Southern Maine's Great Ammo Crunch

Not my bike at the time, but similar

I think it would be easier to find a red headed virgin in Rosalita, Mexico who wasn’t suffering from Swine Flu before I’ll ever find 9mm bullets in Southern Maine.

At least, this is what I was lead to believe last Sunday morning while traveling over fifty miles on a motorcycle when temperatures hit 83 degrees before I even left the house.

I made the tactical error of putting on a shit-ton of personal protective equipment – more than necessary, which included UnderArmor, thick gloves, Kevlar jacket liner, etc – before ever walking out the door of my mother’s house.  By the time I got to my bike, one street over at my father’s house, I was pretty much covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

My objective was simple, though pulling it off would be a beast of a completely different temperament:  I had to find bullets for the new Glock pistol I bought the day before at the local Biddeford Gun Show, a gun show that was once the flagship gun collector’s exhibition in Southern Maine, but since the winding down of the Bush Administration, has somewhat become a shell of it’s former glory.  Gone now are the giant booths with tactical webbing-based vests and shoulder harnesses.  Displays of military-grade firepower that only Level Three Licensees can legal own, gone as well.  Even the old guy with the snow-white beard to his belt buckle, pushing a hand truck with an old Browning air-cooled .30 cal mounted machine gun was absent from the proceedings.  No, all that seemed to remain were a few logie-looking booths and venders with various instruments of death and destruction, marked up by at least 15% to as high as 50% depending on whom you were dealing with, and how exotic the piece was.

But what had returned were the crowds.  In recent years the Biddeford Gun Show’s attendance has somewhat fallen off, which in turn, diminished the level of prestige of the participating venders.  The surge in populace this year seems to stem from the current Democratic Presidential Administration, and the fears that a black Democratic President will “any day now” pass legislation abolishing the Second Amendment and send federal law enforcement officers into the homes of every Red Blooded American who owns firearms to forcibly strip the weapons from their owners, and possibly march them to a cattle car to be shipped into the wilderness in the dead of night.

This and other mythoi were being exchanged amongst the crowd of surly late-middle-aged panic-mongers in attendance at the gun show.  As I weaved through the crowd examining table after table of weaponry I overheard a number of what some could consider outlandish accusations, rumors and innuendo from those who paid seven dollars to get their hand stamped at the door.

“Any day now, Obama’s going to raid our homes and take our guns away,” grumbled one gun owner in farm-chic clothing.  Another:  “We’re only as safe as we make ourselves, no one’s going to take that away from me!”

The crowd of about one thousand constantly seemed to be teetering on the edge of full blown riot, with tensions flowing with every disgruntled half-truth that was being uttered as (mostly) men fingered cheap Spanish-imports of cloned 1911-A1 .45 ACPs and grease-packed AK47s.  Overall the mood was dark, and if you tried to inject another point of view, shed of optimism if you will, you were seen at best as a simpleton, and at worst, a spy.

I found this out when I stupidly tried to bring to the attention of one show goer who I was 90% convinced was a member of either the Klu Klux Klan or the Hell’s Angels that Mr. Obama has a little too much on his plate to deal with the issue of Second Amendment Rights at the moment, especially concerning the economy, filling out the rest of his cabinet, partisan politics, and that whole “Middle East Thing.”  I tried to assure the barbarian that if the issue was ever going to be approached, that number one, it wouldn’t be at least until the far side of two years from now, and number two, there’s far too much support against anti-firearms legislation in the country to make a significant impact on the individual gun owner.  Similar to anti-abortion, -gay rights, and -marijuana legislation, the laws enacted would be far too controversial, and no elected official would dare disenfranchise at least half of his electoral base.

“What are you?  One of those statistic-spewing faggots?”  Said the Klansman-Biker, who then worked up enough phlegm in his throat to convince me he was going to hock it into my face if I didn’t get enough room between me and him very quickly.

For the rest of the gun show I kept a very low profile. 

Purchasing a firearm is still incredibly easy, despite what gun-owners in attendance would like the layperson to think.  Aside from the fact I was standing in the middle of a 100,000 square-foot converted ice arena, surrounded by tables and tables of guns with only one police officer standing duty by the front door, procuring a pistol, rifle, shotgun, authentic Nazi memorabilia from World War 2, or whatever you fancy is a matter of spending a few moments filling out a simple page of generic government paperwork (“no, I’m not a convicted felon,” and “no, I’m not addicted to any controlled substance, including marijuana” are actual questions with YES/NO boxes next to them.), submitting to a Federal Background Check through the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and handing over a credit card to the federally licensed gun dealer to whom you’re giving your business to.

After haggling over the price of my Sig Sauer P230 .380 that I wanted to trade up to a Glock 19 9mm, as well as buying a new Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun (my father is moving to a trailer park in Florida later this summer, and asked if he could have my old Mossberg 500 for home defense), I tried to get the dealer to give me a “sweetheart deal” on an DPMS/Panther AR15 that he had listed for 1100 dollars.  I explained to him that being that the DPMS was a “flat top” receiver with no sights, I would have to go out and buy a sighting system at a cost of about 200-300 dollars.  I also brought up the point that I was already buying two guns off of him and if he wanted to move the products, he should cut me a deal.

He gave it some thought and came back with an offer of 950, a considerable mark down, but I figured he could do better.  On average, an AR15, which three years ago would have retailed for about 600 bucks, were going for between 975-1300 dollars at this gun show.  Getting him even below those numbers was a good deal, but I figured I had this guy on the ropes and he could go lower.

And I was right because he came down as low as 850 after a few more minutes of my complaining.  I then told him I didn’t want it and that I’d take just the pistol and shotgun, which seemed to piss him off a little (there were probably a dozen other customers standing right next to me who heard his generous offer of 850, who no doubt would sweep in on that deal after I walked away).  I realized that I had no real practical use for a high powered rifle in a dilapidated apartment complex, and that the likelihood of me shooting through our walls and into the apartment of one of the neighbors, although enticing, could cause greater legal ramifications for me down the line.

So I sat down in a metal folding chair and filled out the proper paper work.  And even though I accidentally omitted my social security number on the federal gun buyers form (I honestly usually put it down, as I’m inclined to believe that by not, if gives the BATF an excuse to deny my background request, even though it’s marked in bold letters that providing that information is completely OPTIONAL), less than five minutes after I put ass to chair, I was handing my credit card over to the dealer, and walking away with two highly lethal weapons that I could virtually do anything I wanted.

I just had to load them first.

I walked around the floor of the gun show a little longer and came to a booth that was selling re-loaded-at-home rounds and hefted a box of 9mms.  When the booth’s vendor told me that the box of 50-count bullets was going to cost me 25 dollars (usually a box – or “square” as it’s called in certain gun-circles – of 9mms goes for about 15-20 bucks, reloads less, obviously) I dropped the box along with my jaw and walked away.  The vender called after me, telling me that he had already sold two cases (roughly twenty boxes per case, and the case I plucked that one box out of was about down to three squares left) and would probably be sold out by tomorrow.

What he didn’t tell me was that there’s virtually no ammunition in Southern Maine at all.

Due to the fear and panic in Southern Maine, which is more “red state” than the rest of the traditionally “blue Maine” people have been buying and stockpiling ammunition in bulk at alarming and albeit, unsettling rates.  I had no clue that the case was so severe until later that afternoon, after leaving the gun show with two firearms and no ammo (making them two of the most expensive paper weights I’ve ever purchased) I headed over to the local Wal Mart, where previously I’ve bought ammo on the cheap, which is exactly what I told the ammo vender at the gun show.

Blinded by ignorance, I walked into the Wal Mart and headed back towards the Sporting Goods section.  The inside of the Wal Mart looked third-world: gutted, stripped of any semblance of that cheery yellow-smiley face conglomerate that once dominated Biddeford Crossing for the last fifteen or so years.  No, the monolith with her ever expanding parking lot seemed frail and decayed, shelving bare, what I imagine a Wal Mart in some remote part of Serbia would look like on a good day.

When I got to the Sporting Goods section I ran into another red-stater, dressed in a typical aggressively patriotic t shirt featuring wording about “colors” and “running” and a picture of a soaring eagle or something to that effect, buying a hunting license of some sort.

I don’t hunt, so I have no idea what game season is in vogue right now, but being that summer’s coming up, and Maine tends to get overpopulated with tourists during this time, something about a bald, big-eared, mouth breathing caveman buying a hunting license didn’t sit well with me. 

As the clerk behind the counter diddled the register to print out the hunting license I wandered around the section looking for the display of bullets.  When I found the display, a large locked glass case, I stopped suddenly with confusion.  I turned to see if anyone was watching me, any employee that could help me, but I was alone.  So I went back to the clerk at the register and inquired with him as he finished up the total on the red-stater’s order.

“Excuse me, but are you guys like,” and I trailed off for a second.  The Budweiser-swilling tradesman was barking at his collection of children, aged 6-11, about five or six of them, and his gutturally sharp chunks of words took me off balance for a second.

“That’s strike one!” he snapped at one of his brood, who were horsing around by the register.  “One more strike and you’re not getting ice cream!” 

I wanted to clear my throat and correct him, in front of his children, that you technically get three strikes, (based off of baseball or Family Feud rules) but I kept my mouth shut and went back to the clerk.

“Are you guys, like, renovating or something?  Because your ammo case back there is empty and I…” and the clerk cut me off.

“We can’t keep that shit in stock for more than a day.  We put out orders for handgun ammo, rifle ammo, you name it, at least once a week, and by the time it comes in, we have so much of the stuff on back order, that it’s all sold by the time the truck pulls up.”  Jesus, I thought, they’re hording all the goddamn bullets!

The red-stater decided to inject his opinion on the matter as well:

“It’s a real pain in the balls,” he started, his voice phlegmy and choked, as if he was speaking from underneath a boot across his windpipe.  “I’ve been buying online, you can’t get bullets anywhere, not the Wal Mart in Scarborough, the Cabelas, LL Beans, Dicks,” he went on. 

I was shell shocked, in utter disbelief.  There had to be someplace I could readily buy bullets today, right now.  What if there was an emergency, and I needed to shoot someone TONIGHT!  Nothing is worse than an unloaded gun sitting by itself at home when you go out to a family restaurant with your wife and mother and spend the entire night alternating your field of view between the Red Sox/Yankees game on the tv over your head and the front door of the establishment, waiting for some barbarian to come barreling in to kill everyone on Margarita Two-fer Night.

The next morning I got up early-ish and took off on my motorcycle, with messenger bag slung around my shoulders, to try every conceivable store that would be selling ammunition. 

The thought had occurred to me that I could just go back to the gun show and try my luck there.  I just didn’t want to pay out the nose for cheaply “remanufactured” bullets, given the price of admission is seven dollars, and the mark up on the ammo is about 100%. 

So all morning I rode up and down US Rt 1, looking for a place that sold bullets.  I first pulled into the local Cabela’s monstrosity and found that they wouldn’t open until 10 am, which by then would be too late for me, as my mother committed me to helping my tacky aunt and uncle move “unwanted” furniture from my father’s place to their place.  So up the road I traveled still, finding myself at the Scarborough Wal Mart.

Mind you, I’m on a motorcycle, dressed in a black Kevlar jacket, black “murder” bandana around my neck, black messenger bag, black boots, black Oakley Flak Jacket HJXs, and my throat is all weird from the ride.  I stride into the Wal Mart and try to find the Sporting Goods section, but if you’ve ever been into a different Wal Mart than what you’re used to, you know that their store is SLIGHTLY laid out differently.

So after walking around a bit, I find the section and come across similar results.  I’m pretty dejected, but on my way out I find a stock girl- young, petite, blonde – with a clipboard, doing some sort of inventory.  I walk up to her and get her attention.  Immediately she’s intimidated by me; it’s all but written on her face in magic marker, so I lift my shades to my forehead so she can see I’m no threat.

“Hey, you got any ammunition out back?”  I ask.  Unbeknownst to me ahead of time, my voice comes out as if I’m Dirty Harry and I just found out my dog has rabies.  Her eyes develop a sheen of wetness and her lip trembles.  Her voice small, tinny:

“No, we’re all out,” I figured for this based on the evidence and snarl a little to myself.

“Mm, what about the Dick’s up the road?  Know anything about them?”  I unintentionally growl.

“No…” it’s like a stalking lion talking to a church mouse. 

“Don’t worry,” I try to ease her obvious fear of this big biker looming over her, asking about affordable munitions.  “I’m not mad, I’m not going to kill anyone,” she lets a nervous smile slip out.  “…because I don’t have any bullets.”  Her smile fades quickly and I leave the store, watching my back on the road for the next few miles for police cars looking for a homicide-crazed lunatic on a motorbike.

I have similar results at the next few places I try, either they’re sold out or not open this early on a Sunday, and after running out of time, I head back to my mother’s house to help move furniture, which is like eating a big plate of glass shards for breakfast.

Later in the day I called what was going to be my “last resort” before being forced to pay for rounds at the gun show.  I used to work for the Kittery Trading Post, an Outdoor Outfitter in Southern Maine that I’m somewhat persona-non-grata with due to an incident in their parking lot that involved myself, a stalker, and the Kittery Police Department over two years ago.  They have a huge firearms selection, dedicating their entire second floor to just guns.  If they didn’t have ammunition I could buy, no one in Southern Maine would.

I called and after being batted around from associate to associate for ten minutes, I finally got a hold of someone on the gun floor.

“Hey, I’m trying to find 9mms, you guys got any in stock?”

“No, all we got on hand right now are .41 magnums and .22s, we can’t keep anything in stock for more than a day,” the associate said into the phone.  “Once word gets out, we get nailed.  We had a shipment of ammo on Friday and we were just about sold out last night.  You’re best bet is online,”

In the end, I went back to the gun show and bought an overpriced box of 9mms, but only because I didn’t want to travel without a loaded gun.  And to add another element of horror to my story, I thought the ammo-epidemic was contained in Maine and other-like minded ignorant locales.  No.  It’s not. 

When I we finally got back to The Hook, I logged on to a few different sites that specialize in “hunting accessories” to see if I could purchase ammunition in bulk, only falling into my fellow statesmen’s hysteria half way, more concerned that the ammo crunch will continue to make getting rounds in the future difficult.  Three of the four sites I visited had handgun ammo on backorder, and another had some available, but it wasn’t anything special, just Full Metal Jacketed bullets at 115 grain.

So in the end, what does this mean?  It means I’m going to call Charles Schwab later today and buy stock in Winchester, American Federal, and UCM.