On Rifles & Women

One may ask how it has come about that men’s rifles, both sporting and combat, have been given feminine names. To me, to give them anything but a woman’s name would be absurd. Why is this? Because rifles embody women in every aspect. They come in all shapes and sizes, in differing worth, and in varying degrees of utility. But all of this doesn’t really mean anything. The real reason is that a man can fall in love with a rifle, just as he would a woman. This process (for either rifle or woman) very rarely makes any sense at all. I would contend that there exists not only a perfect female companion for each man, but a perfect arm for him as well. Obviously, tastes vary. Some men don’t mind the rough-edges of a woman who barks loudly, drinks too much, but is always there when the nightfall comes. These men buy Mosin-Nagants, or Kalashnikovs. Then again, there are men that don’t mind if a woman does anything but look stunning; even if she takes all that he has, won’t do anything he would like and stays at home more often than not—just as long as she is the hottest thing in the neighborhood. These are the men that purchase Blasers.

Women and rifles both evoke the most fundamental desires of men. To be free, to share experiences, to behold beauty, to connect. Who has more tales? The wife that lived through the Dust Bowl years and wears the sands of time like haggard jewelry or the Winchester 1894 that rode lovingly in the scabbard of some gaunt Texas Ranger? To be frank, it really doesn’t even matter about appearance, function or value. It is in the minutiae that we find rapture: a crooked smile, a shy glance, a wood-grain, the deep blue of polished steel (or her eyes). When a man ignites a rifle, the rifle ignites the man. The same goes for women. Even a painful retaliation (recoil or revenge) is received with open arms. Rifles, like women, are not always joyful though. Some are cold, distant, and impossible to relate to. These rifles (women) serve their own purpose, not to act at the behest of men. Far too often we love them anyways.

It is also true that most men do not know what they want or need in a companion. Perhaps it would be easier to decide on a rifle? Maybe that is the way to find your soul-mate in the first place. Decide on a rifle; then apply it to life! I sound pretty absurd, I admit. But, in this gun-nut/everything-is-interconnected mind of mine it actually makes sense. I personally have been trying to decide on a rifle for quite some time unsuccessfully. What does that say about me? I am getting better though. Let’s break my choice down to the fundamentals. Form over function, but not taken too far; I would like a rifle with good aesthetic appeal that still gets the job done, but it doesn’t have to be a tack-driver. Classic lines; I want something that bespeaks the days of yore, with taste, panache and a good degree of refinement. I can live without the modern contrivances that make everyone else’s head turn. Walnut and blued steel; again tradition reigns supreme (there is a reason why it is classic). Who needs stainless steel and synthetics when you can take care of a classic and it will look twice as good? High caliber; I want a rifle in a caliber that is powerful enough to do anything, whether it be taking down a Cape buffalo or grizzly, but not so powerful that it trounces me every time I set it off.

Much to the chagrin of my fellow gun-nut buddies I have pretty much decided on the Ruger No.1 Medium Sporter in 9.3 x 74R. This drives my buddy Andy crazy. Why? Because wearing a pink tutu to a job interview would be more practical. The rifle is a single-shot, which means you have to be absolutely certain of your first shot. It is also composed of walnut and blued steel; beautiful, but not necessarily resistant to adverse climes. But is so perfect! It is unbelievably handy and is light enough to go with you all day without it weighing you down. 9.3 x74R is an ancient caliber created by the Germans around 1910 to give their settlers something sufficient to deal with the fauna of the newly colonized African scene. The final world here is nostalgia. I am sucker for the whisperings of colonial Africa; of pith helmets, campfires, thorn-bush fences, and khaki. The Farquharson styling of the Ruger No. 1 and the Alexander Henry fore-end are simply too much for me to take!

I am reminded of the young British soldier sludging through the trenches of WWII, the American boy sweltering in heat of Vietnam, and the mujahideen hiding from a Hind behind a boulder. They all had girls, and they all had rifles. The Lee-Enfield named Mary. The AR-15 named Susan. The AK-47 named Badria. What shall I name my rifle and what adventures will we undertake? If I decide on your name I will let you shoot her!

Life in Creek County Oklahoma

Wishing I Were on the Hillside

The prairie grass dances and tickles my side. I sit on the hilltop and look out over the ranch. The increasingly crisp autumn breeze caresses my face as if to say that I am truly home. I pluck a stalk of Indian-grass and place it in my teeth—the flavor of grain and loam completes my sensory euphoria. I am relaxed in my natural haven, yet contemplative. Should there really be more to life than this? I turn and look towards my home. Smoke from the first fire of the year rises lazily from the chimney. Post-oak. I guess Mom is cold already. I’m not. I am perfect. In this moment my very spirit is satisfied. I see the garden, turned, and brimming with stubble. The fresh corn is gone now, but I can still taste it. An ear of corn, and a diminutive quail roasted over coals. Has anyone ever dined so fairly? My eyes shift; my contemplation broken by movement on the horizon. A nervous coyote steals down the hill and towards the timberline. Are he and I so different? He is better at the game of life than I am. No doubt. Coyotes don’t have to make excuses or meet deadlines; coyotes don’t worry about taxes or getting into grad school. Coyotes just exist. They eat, sleep, love, and live. He melds into the brush before we can connect too strongly and I miss him instantly. I have lost a brother. I want to call for him, but I don’t have the words. Do we ever? I howl anyways. I howl about who I am, how I feel, and what I lack. Whitman and I both sound our barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the world. Two doves afflicted by my wail cross hastily over the surface of our pond and alight on the dam. As they flee the sound of their wings makes my heart beat faster; I swing an imaginary shotgun to intersect them and then smile. From the brush I am taught in the linguistics of the wild; a howl emanates from behind a pecan tree. My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I am humbled by his consideration. I dust off my hat and amble towards the oil lamp in the distant window. Life goes on.

Drudgery: An Ailment of the Gravest Severity

"Only boring people get bored!"

How many times have you been told that? If you are like me, you've probably heard it on several occasions. Is it true? I hardly think so. Genuinely interesting people get bored due to circumstance---and that is exactly what is happening to me right now. Don't get me wrong, I like where I am right now in my life. Being a senior at Oklahoma State University has its perks; not to mention the fact that I have two great jobs and a passel of wonderful friends (it goes without saying that my family is amazing, though I don't say that openly enough). But, the reality is, I'm bored. I haven't been "home" in probably a month. That means no hunting, no hounds, no shooting, no archery and no home cooking. Yaarrrrrrggghh. [That was my Chewbacca sound] Because of my isolation, I have developed a short attention span, melancholy attitude and increasing apathetic demeanor. I know that what I am doing right now paves the way for my future, which because of a ever-loving and merciful God, I know will be bright. But, I get so bogged down in the everyday routine. I get up and clean my room, go to class, work and then get home and finish my studies. Then, when I want to socialize it is 12 p.m. That stinks. What's worse is the fact that I realize that once I venture into the "real" world (really, is this world any less real?) that things aren't going to change.

What to do about it? The obvious answer is to increase my social interaction. That's a sound idea. However, I am an unorthodox person. I don't drink and don't like to be around those that are drunk. That excludes from 85% of the social interaction within my environs. Another 10% of that interaction is prohibitively expensive. Another 2% of that interaction involves unreasonable commitments that I am in no position to make. The question is, what is the remaining 3%? I think 1% of that involves researching miscellanea online (Stumbleupon, thou art the devil). But there has to be 2%, a measly 2% somewhere/somehow that is not only available to me, but interesting, rewarding, and productive.

Do people today have deep, meaningful conversations?

That is what I really want. Conversations about the nature of good. About the natural rights of man. About beauty. Where have all the conversations of flavor and depth gone? Are they done only by philosophers in some cold, academic fashion? Is television, sports, celebrities, and decadence all we really have to talk about anymore? Can't we sing without synthesizers? Can't we write poetry to each other? Have we as society really become this shallow? How real are the people we interact with, and how meaningful are those interactions?

Those are tough questions. I don't think most of us are ready to answer them. They aren't comfortable topics---because they reveal something about who we truly are. What is the stuff of our character? Just for once, I want to see people inside-out. I want to know them when I speak to them, not just some silly facade that has resulted from the pressures of society. I would venture to say that we experience, perhaps 1/10th of the richness that is in the character of the people that we interact with every day. What lies beyond the depths? How do we get there?

I always thought that each and every person has a song to sing. They reveal it to very, very few people. But, I know that it is there because I have one in my heart too. Every person sings in a different language, in a different genre, in a different style all their own, but too rarely do we get to hear their words. I think that I have found the solution to my drudgery. I am going to try to get at the very marrow of the people I interact with; and if they don't want to talk about something of consequence, I'll probably just move on.

A Realist Analysis of TOMS Shoes: Retail Hypocrisy & Charitable Giving

First off, I’d like to say that I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I’m a student of political science and reality. Recently, I have been hearing a lot (and I mean a lot!) about TOMS shoes. I am sure you have too. If you haven’t, then more than likely you have been living under a rock somewhere. That’s okay! I’ll give you the breakdown. TOMS is a shoe company whose motto is “One for One”. What that means is that for every pair of shoes you purchase, another pair is given to a child in need somewhere across the globe. That is a virtuous business ideal. Isn’t it? When I logged on to TOMS website today I watched a promotional video that mentioned that the company’s CEO, Blake Mycoskie (sp?) was about “placing others before himself”. Now, that sounds like one heck of person.

After this, I thought that I myself might invest into a pair of these shoes. I suppose that I am not anymore fad-proof than anyone else. Several of my friends have these shoes and claim to enjoy them. However, upon examination there really isn’t much to them. The general shoe is practically monastic. They consist of canvas and a rubber sole. That’s it. Okay, so they are not Lucchese cowboy boots made out of Nile crocodile (which are beautiful, by the way). I expect the price for these shoes to be something like $19.95. I was rather surprised to find that the price for the most basic pair starts at $44. More desirable TOMS go for $69 on their website. What really made me laugh was the fact that there was a burlap (I kid you not) pair of men’s TOMS that they were marketing for $54. Burlap! That’s what they make potato sacks out of and then throw away! Perhaps, my Scottish frugality is coming through here, but my inner penny-pincher thinks that something is awry.

I would like to preface this with a note that I do understand that the company is in existence to make money. I’m a good capitalist like (most) everybody else. However, from an economic perspective the notion that the company is about placing others before oneself doesn’t hold the least bit of water. Upon close examination of these shoes I would suggest that the cost of production is about $5. That’s really how basic the materials and construction are. So, if you buy the minimalist TOMS shoe you are paying $44 and the company has a $34 profit margin (remember they are giving another $5 to a child in need). Oh but wait! I know what you are going to say, “What about shipping costs?”. I went to the United States Post Office’s website and did a little research. If I personally was going to ship a small flat rate box to South Africa it would cost me $13.45. This box has a maximum cargo capacity of about 4 lbs, so I am going to assume that you could at least fit three pair of children’s shoes into it. This would mean that the shipping cost would be $4.48 per pair. Now remember, this is the shipping cost for a single small box by an individual. Undoubtedly, the TOMS Corporation gets a much better rate than I would. If we include shipping, the adjusted profit margin is $29.52 per pair of shoes. That’s a lot of money. It is also important to note that this is their most basic shoe. More expensive models, such as the burlap would have an increased profit margin. The profit margin for the potato sack shoe, err, burlap shoe, would be $39.52. Now, according to TOMS website they donated over 400,000 shoes through their “One for One” system. That amounts to a minimum of $11, 808,000 in revenue at a profit margin of $29.52 per pair. Pardon me if I don’t necessarily believe that the company’s intention is to place others before themselves anymore.

For kicks and giggles I did a little comparative shopping online and found that the retailer Boscor’s had a shoe that was practically the brother to those marketed on the TOMS website. The cost of this particular shoe was $9.99. They even came in denim for the same price, which would cost you $54 if it had a TOMS tag on it. I am certain at this point many of you are pretty heated at me right now and are yelling “SO WHAT!?” at your computer screen. Certainly, giving something charitably is better than giving nothing. TOMS makes that easy for you. However, from a realistic perspective, if you are truly interested in doing good, and not just fitting in with the crowd, it would make tons more sense for you to pay $9.99 for the non-designer “gathered closed back canvas” shoe at Boscor’s and then give the $44.01 that you would have saved (assuming you went for the trendy denim shoe) to the charity of your choice. Let me emphasize the fact that charitable giving is one of the most rewarding things a person can do, and I am glad that TOMS is giving away shoes to children in need. That is stupendous! HOWEVER, marketing yourself as some selfless entity that only seeks altruistic perfection and then reaping a $39.52 profit margin is utter hypocrisy. So, do yourself (and the world) a favor and do a bit of research before you invest in that next pair of TOMS, okay?

Ye Jacobites by name! Give an ear!

One of my favorite pleasures is Scottish culture; its tales, history, Scots dialect, and in particular its music. One of the most popular themes within Scottish music is that of Jacobitism and "Bonnie" Prince Charlie. The Jacobite Uprisings provided fertile ground for the green shoots of musical outpouring to spring forth. For that I am grateful. However, while the nostalgia and romanticism of of the Young Pretender and the massacre on Culloden Moor are undeniable, the historical facts of the conflict are less obvious.

On the surface, the conflict is often portrayed as one of England vs. Scotland. This is historical hogwash and has absolutely no credibility. The Treaty of Union was already in place, and Great Britain was here to stay, despite any opposition. Truthfully, the conflict was between the houses of Hanover and Stuart. Ah, the Stuarts! What a noble name! What a distinguished tartan! What a MISERABLE heir! I know what you are thinking, "How could he!?", but stick with me here. The historical truth (See How the Scots Created the Modern World, a wonderful book) is that Charles Edward Stuart was a pathetic leader. His insistence on the military action of his followers against impossible odds, after exhaustive marches, lead to their ultimate massacre. What did he do? He went to France, and essentially drank himself to death (he was an alcoholic even during the revolution). But really, the Jacobite Revolutions, even deeper down, were about Protestants versus Catholics. This brings to mind an interesting connection. Long has society though of Ireland as the home turf 0f the Protestant/Catholic blood-feud, but in fact, such conflict had a long and storied history in Scotland.

From Kate Beaton's "Hark, A Vagrant!", copyrighted, with my censor for suitability:
http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=12



Why then, are we constantly immersed in verse relating to the Jacobites? Certainly, the tale of Flora MacDonald, who disguised Charlie as her handmaiden and traveled to the Isle of Skye makes for an interesting story. But, beyond that, what have we? An unrealistic drunkard who led hapless followers to their death? No, I think that would be doing a great discredit. I believe the reason that we have wonderful tunes like "Skye Boat Song" and "Will Ye No' Come Back Again" is the fact that since then the Scots have been desperate for a real leader who provides both symbolic and descriptive representation. This, coupled with the sheer fact that Charlie's men gave their last full measure of devotion for the cause is more than enough to spur any songwriter to romanticize.

Regardless, the sheer power and pride of the lamentations of such tunes will forever be a part of me, and I'll always be a Jacobite at heart.

From "Skye Boat Song":

Many's the lad, fought on that day,
Well the claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet e'er the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

A Sportsman's Outrage: Canned Hunting and its Effects

On January 1 I had the opportunity to start the new year off a wild boar "hunt" through a stroke of good fortune (or so I thought). This hunt was something that I had delighted in thinking about since I had first learned about it. I particular enjoy hunting boar as they afford the hunter not only a wealth of meat, but also an element of excitement when hunted on the ground. Their affectionate nickname in the United States is "the poor man's rhino" and for good reason! Wild boar are particularly tenacious in certain conditions and can stand their own against both man and dog. Because of this, I was particularly excited for this hunt. My hunt was to be conducted on a ranch in Oklahoma and was for a management pig under 150 lbs. I intended to harvest the pig with my Mission Eliminator bow and practiced continually to ready myself for the hunt. In fact, I even practiced out to 50 yards with broadheads so that I might be competent if such a shot provided itself. That, my friends, was not the problem.

I have struggled with whether or not I should write about this experience as it has the potential to harm someone's livelihood and well-being. That is not something that I take lightly. However, my conscious as a hunter compels me to write the truth and to be as ethical as possible. I hesitate to divulge the name of this "ranch", but will relate you my experience out of necessity. I struck out on this "hunt" with family friends and greatly enjoyed the drive to the location with them. Upon arrival at the "ranch" I was greeted by the owner in an odd, but comical fashion and brought to his residence to go over rules for the hunt and to sign a waiver. Notably, within the rules was the prohibition of alcohol while hunting. This was something that I was totally in agreement with. Weapons and alcohol at no point should mix. What did strike me as odd was that there was a limitation of two arrows per hunter (or likewise two bullets). This, according to the owner, was done so that the hunter would be forced to pick his shots and would not wantonly slay game. Fair enough, I'll bite, I thought. After the briefing we accompanied the owner to the hunting location where another hunter had downed a pig and was in the process of recovery. At this point I experienced my first concerns about the hunt. Before taking the wheel of a Blazer and driving us to the location the owner proceeded to fetch a beer from his fridge and offer the same to myself and the other hunters. I don't drink and didn't appreciate the fact that he was doing so while driving and while in possession of a loaded revolver on his hip. After we got to the location we happened upon two hunters who led us to their downed quarry. We came upon two pigs. One was stone dead, while the other, perfectly healthy, would not leave the scene. If this pig had been aggressive I might have understood, but it was not. Soon, my peers (I shudder to call them companions) began pelting the pig with large rocks. The pig would not leave! It simply laid down and wouldn't move. Finally, after a severe thrashing, the pig moved off about 20 yards. Then, the owner of the operation offered some insight. The pigs, he said, were litter-mates and he had released then together into the pen at the same time. WHAT? Released?

After the pig was recovered we decided to scout the area for our upcoming hunt. According to our host we were never to leave the marked trails while on his property. I thought this was a hunt? The "hunting" area, in totality was less than 80 acres, high-fenced, with a central trail and six feeders. It was also overflowing with pigs. Was this really hunting? I could corner and kick a pig to death on 80 acres----where was the challenge? Upon returning to the lodge we were brought to quarantine pens where new stock was vaccinated and wormed before being released into the hunting area. Two other "hunters" who frequented this location accompanied us and offer suggestions for "hunting" in this area between spewing indecent vulgarities to one another and the owner. One showed us with pride a large pig in a pen (over 700 lbs) that he was going to shoot next week once it was released. My head exploded! I lacked for words! I told him straight out that the pig was a Hampshire, a domestic breed of pig that I had shown as a youth within the FFA organization. This had little effect. I was utterly sick at this point. What were these irreverent buffoons doing to my beloved sport?!

That evening the people within camp gathered at the locations cleaning facility where the owner and several other hunters proceeded to attempt to find the meaning of life by guzzling beer and searching in the bottom of a bottle of moonshine. I was without hope for this endeavor. What had happened to the rules? This is a solid lesson for life as well. Rules, as important as they are, are worth less than nothing if they are not beholden by the creator and enforced with due measure. I retired to the cabin and watched Alton Brown's "Good Eats"---the only relatively enjoyable point of the whole miserable experience. When morning came we were once again escorted to the "hunting" area and once inside had pigs within 30 yards that were completely at ease with our presence. One of the other hunters yelled at them. The herd, close to fifteen pigs, never even batted an eye. I told him frankly, "These pigs are tame!". He would have none of it.

Even by the broadest definition of the word, this could not be called hunting.

1) The pigs were farm bred, or captured, and then released.
2) The enclosure was ridiculously small.
3) The "hunters" were only to remain on the single beaten trail and were not allowed to stalk on still-hunter anywhere else.
4) The pigs were in no way wild and would not shun man. In fact, I was told that the pigs would come to the sound of an approaching ATV.
5) The proprietor did not obey his own rules and drank to the point that his speech was slurred and incoherent.

I will never allow someone to impugn the most noble sport known to man by calling this contemptible act hunting. Fair chase hunting of wild animals in large-sized natural environs is the only ethical pursuit that a man can partake in. Anything other than this is simply killing. There is no challenge. There is no fair chase. There is no difficulty. There is no sport! Not only does this destroy the character of the hunter, but it also demolishes our public image. Do you want to see morons slaying domestic pigs in small pens and declaring themselves hunters? I didn't think so. Nor do I! Nor does anyone else! For our sport's sake, please keep it fair chase! If you are considering booking a hunt on any private ranch, go there and check it out before you sign up for anything! If you don't, you may regret it! Whatever you do, keep it ethical!