MORNING
This morning, the state [of Maine, state motto "No Cajones"] allowed Ebola Hickox the right to remain out of quarantine. She is quickly on the way to becoming the most hated woman in recent history. The law says she is not a health risk, but refuse to say how in God’s name they, as non-doctors, were able to know that for sure. Boo, Maine. Why don't you grow a pair? Meanwhile, here is something else to think about. Meet Kasta, the newest Russian radar truck.
Top customers? Iran and Iraq. The Israelis will now pay dearly for any future attacks on Bumfukistan nuclear facilities. Hard data is difficult to come by, but rumor is the entry level model shown here sells for $4,950,000. A bargain, considering the price tag of the aircraft it is designed to defeat. So you’ll know, Russia has long known reliance on airplanes is America’s Achilles’ Heel. Predictably, Russia is by far the biggest seller of anti-aircraft systems.
NOON
What’s this? Spaceship Two crashes? Now brace yourselves for the Justin Beiber jokes. Space flight is dangerous and nobody is doing much about it. We prefer less radical transportation and here is a progress photo of the superEbike. Not clearly shown is the biggest change, the fat tires front and back. Most of the wiring is now enclosed inside the tubing, which is aluminum reinforced with welded steel rods. MIG welded.
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Get this, though. Although I am a perfect credit risk, the banks don’t like small loans. But they certainly know the name of “a lady you can contact” who handles short-term financing. At an interest rate of 30%. Isn’t that a fine howdie-doo?
I’m back in this time zone and a 2013 article caught my eye. Who remembers Mad Trapper Johnson? That’s the yahoo in Aklavik who led the Mounties on a chase across the tundra back in 1931. They dug up his grave, the intention being to identify him using DNA. By the first twenty minutes, the story became another tragic example of “Canada-think”.
Don’t get me wrong, I am all for the police investigating crimes, but only when the police themselves obey the law. I feel that way because of the huge imbalance in the courtroom to favor the word of the police over the accused. One’s only hope is to ensure the police obtained all evidence in a lawful manner. In fact, many successful defenses of otherwise guilty parties are due to this principle. The lawyers get expensive over it.
But at some point, Canada-think takes over, and the trapper was certainly guilty of the worst crime known in that country: he wanted to be left alone. They are going to get something on this guy even if they have to manufacture it themselves. Within minutes of arriving the Mounties shake him down, stopping him and demanding he openly state whether or not he “knew what he was doing”. That BS has never been normal or routine police behavior—except in Canada-think.
What do we know? He specifically told the police nothing. The trapper must have been American, or he would have known that once a Canadian finds out by any means about your existence, everything you say or do or don’t say or don’t do becomes the Canadian’s business. Even the police account stinks, it does not record the trapper’s name as Albert Johnson, only that he “claims his name is Albert Johnson”.
And that represents Canada-think, that the end justifies the means, and it is clear the police are going to investigate Johnson whether or not there is any evidence of a crime. You get this in Canada all the time, huge back-logs of unsolved murders, but the police are busy making sure everyone is on file. I’ve said it before, in Canada, everyone, whether you are a criminal or not, has a police file. Not a criminal record per se, but a police file.
Yes, I know that police the world over do the same thing. But the difference is those police generally know that, at least morally, what they are doing is wrong. It is not ingrained into their psyche that your privacy is meaningless. That the end justifies their means to go over your background and personal life in detail, passing their simple-minded conclusions at each stage. And nothing infuriates them more than finding nothing. I speak with experience.
Here is the single sentence that sums up Canada-think. Imagine a person yelling in your face, “What do you MEAN I take everything you say the wrong way!”.
Once again, the RCMP got their man—and I’ve pointed out it is never a woman, always a man. Nothing obsesses a Canadian more than not knowing enough to use against you, so they dug him up to find out his identity. That morbid activity says a lot about the way those people think. After watching the show, I don’t believe the cops. I don’t believe Johnson opened fire with no provocation. They are lying through their teeth. If all they wanted to do was arrest him, why did they show up with a case of dynamite?
The one fact that was confirmed by the autopsy the RCMP would rather have kept their own little secret: They shot Mad Trapper Johnson up the ass.
[Author's note: in later years, the tale of the “Mad Trapper” has been the topic of several books and movies. The Canadians tack on a suffix, calling him the “Mad Trapper of Rat River”, and object to the portrayal of Johnson as a peaceful man who let animals out of the cruel leg-hold traps of the era. The police version says “vandalize”. Aklavik residents deny ever reporting any such thing. The RCMP insist otherwise, but they would.
As for the Mountie who first fingered Johnson as a suspect, well, any account showing the cop as a broken-down middle-aged alcoholic are, the police avidly contend, “fictionalized”. The bottom line is all the so-called official versions are only telling one side of the story, and that is enough to call them into question.]
EVENING
Surprise, a really great evening for tips. And a decent crowd. Why a surprise? On a number of counts. It was cold. It was the night after a big party. It was the weekend of rent day. The staff who know them by name were out of town. Just overall, I was happy to see such a turnout.
ADDENDUM
I thought I’d watch a documentary on Death Valley. I’ve never seen the place. My closest approach was my motorcycle jaunt a year ago through the Mojave. What a lousy documentary, they kept relapsing to these photos of some dumb jocks running a marathon—you stupid jocks, who even comes up with these idiotic ideas? More jocks? I want to see the terrain, get out of the way. Only other jocks care how many gallons you have to guzzle. Nothing worse than a jock who thinks he’s a hero.
I was able, through the nonsense, able to conclude I should probably drive through Death Valley in the winter time. Therein lies a problem. To get there, I’d have to drive I-10 or I-40. I caught “The Edge of Winter” last year and while it is adventure, I’ll pass. It’s a tough ride and I’m more toward maximizing the pleasure of sailing down lonely roads in the sunshine. To see the America I never saw. Two things I’d like to do first, replace the Goldwing with a newer model and rebuilt the cPod to half its current size. Then I’ll reconsider a winter trip above the thermocline.
Meanwhile, travel plans are not in short supply. The Amtrak has great allure for me, but just because I don’t like motels does not mean I shun them. I was really disappointed not getting out of town at least overnight in October.
But it proved immensely popular by our standards, so it stays.
Um, clouds don't usually move in two different directions.
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