It seems that two geniuses were spotlighting deer one night back in January. They managed to get the pick-up they were shooting from stuck in a farmer’s field as they tried to retrieve one of the downed deer. They then asked the landowner to pull their truck out. He refused and instead called the Game Warden.
Investigation revealed that the duo had two deer carcasses in the pick-up and five more back at the shooter’s residence. While being interviewed by officers, Cody Patton, 20, of Hillsboro, Ohio admitted that he had shot the deer with a rifle while his side-kick, Matt Leisure, 20 of Sabina, Ohio shined a spotlight on them.
Patton (the shooter) was ordered to pay a total of $5480 in restitution and court costs. His sentence also included a one-year hunting license revocation and forfeiture of the rifle used to kill the deer.
Leisure (the spotlighter) was ordered to pay fines and court costs totaling $858 and had his hunting license revoked for two years.
The fines levied against the shooter seem fair and reasonable, though it seems to me that the person holding the spotlight should be just as culpable as the shooter and should face the same punishment.
The problem I have is the paltry one and two year license revocation. Finding deer resting in a field, blinding them with a spotlight, then shooting them while they’re immobilized isn’t hunting, it’s just killing. I think that anyone who engages in such wanton killing should be banned from hunting permanently, or at the very least for a period of say, ten years.
Full newspaper article here, from the Wilmington News Journal.
Over the years that I’ve had her, I’ve bought a variety of beds for my cat, Caldonia. Without exception these have been ignored in favor of piles of laundry, cardboard boxes, magazines on the floor, pretty much anything not specifically designed as a cat bed.
For Christmas, my mother gave her a “Wooly Buddy Bed”, a very cozy-looking bed constructed from a woolly sweater. 5% of the proceeds from which are donated to The Home For Friendless Animals in Waynetown, IN., she tells me. This sounds wonderful and the bed looks like just the sort of thing a cat should want to lay on, but, given my past experience, I had my doubts.
I got the bed home and Caldonia loves it. She now spends the majority of her sleeping time in her new bed. My mother and my Aunt each have 2 cats all of whom are just as enamored of their ‘Wooly Buddy Beds’ as my cat is. 5 cats, all with very different personalities, but they agree on one thing, they love their “Wooly Buddy Beds”.
So, if you, or someone you know, has a hard to please feline (or dog, she makes them for our canine friends as well) I strongly urge you to get in touch with Susie at Wooly Buddy Beds. (No affiliation, just the “roommate” of a very satisfied user.)
Finally saw the horn-as-doorbell idiot in the flesh. While I was out working on my car (@ 8:15AM) there was a familiar blast of steam-boat sounding car horn. Stepping from behind the raised hood I’m face to face with a Cadillac full of (I’m assuming) carpoolers. Lady in the passenger seat says “we weren’t blowing at you, we were blowing for our friend”. I don’t know if they heard me say “Have you never heard of a fucking doorbell?” as I climbed into my car (whose windows, like theirs, were down), but I don’t really care.
What the hell is wrong with people? Surely at least one of those people, too lazy to walk to the front door, has a cell phone and could call their friend to announce their arrival, rather than entertaining the entire neighborhood with their charming novelty horn every Goddamned morning, at 8AM!
As I do almost all of my banking online or via debit card, I use, at the very most, 3 or 4 checks per month. This means that an order of checks lasts me a very long time. After writing the check for my rent (the only check I write every month, I discovered/remembered that I’m almost out of checks. I had noticed this some weeks ago, but since I was still using the freebies from when I opened the account (literally 3+ years ago!) I couldn’t just re-order online and would have to talk to a “customer service represenative”.
So, I call the 800 number and navigate through the menus until I get “Troy” on the line. Troy was quite personable, making chit-chat as he gathers the necessary information (evidently, the weather in Manila, Philippines is quite nice now). Troy asks me if I want the same checks as before, “sure, that’s fine” says I. Then Troy dropped a bombshell; 250 of the rather ordinary-looking checks I’ve been using will cost $77!! First of all, I do not need 250 checks, it’s taken me 3 1/2 years to use 150. Secondly, $77 for checks? That’s fucking crazy!
So, I politely explain to Troy that there is absolutely no way I’m paying that much for checks. With little fanfare he hooks me up with plain-old, regular-ass checks, yellow, I believe, for a much less angina-inducing $21.50 per 150. Assuming I don’t move (or die) I should still be using these checks 5 years from now.
In the wee hours of Friday morning, I found myself in need of a stamp. Sadly, the Post Office half a mile from my house mysteriously removed their stamp machines some time ago, so I’ll have to turn elsewhere.
No problem, I think, the US Bank (an account I’ve kept open for no reason other than occasional fee-free ATM usage) is just as close and the ATM sells stamps. And so, off I go. After I go through the dozen or so steps necessary to purchase stamps the ATM informs me that my card has expired and asks if I want another transaction. Another transaction? WTF? No, thank you, just give me back my useless card.
So, I return home to search for the ATM card which I assume came, unnoticed, in the mail. No luck. If the card came, it apparently made its way, unnoticed, into the trash. OK, plan B. I can use the debit card for my primary account, pay a fee to everyone involved, and get my stamps. I return to the ATM, only to discover that neither of the possible PIN’s which come to mind will work so I’m thwarted once more.
Dejected, I turn for home and when I’m almost there I realize Fulmer’s (the very conveniently-located grocery store which I hate and never shop at) is open 24 hours and sells stamps. I turn around, zip over to Fulmer’s (which looks suspiciously dark) and head for the door. As I approach the doors a man inside meets me and indicates that they’re closed, they don’t open until 6. Huh, apparently they are no longer open 24 hours.
So after all of this, I head to the Kroger across town where I normally do my grocery shopping, which I know for certain was still open 24 hours as recently as last week. It is open. Victory is mine! Naturally the only cashier working is taking her break, and naturally, the guy filling in for her is unfamiliar with the stamp selling protocol, but after a few false-starts I finally have my stamps.
I place a stamp on my envelope, drive back across town to the Post Office right by my house (you know, the one where they took out the fucking stamp machines) and drop it in the mail. A mere 2 hours after I started this little adventure, I was safely back at home.
And that, friends, is how hard it is to buy stamps.
The basement of my building is, as basements tend to be, damp and musty. My new neighbor downstairs has complained about this, so the landlady decided the best solution to this problem was to leave the outside door to the basement open during sunny weather (as opposed to my solution, which I’ve been pushing for for years. Fix the raingutters so they’re not dumping right against the foundation).
Last night when I went to retrieve my laundry, I was greeted by a bat zooming back and forth across the basement until taking refuge from the light up inside the wall.
After puzzling over the situation for a bit, I decided that the best course of action was to open the door for a while, turn out the lights and hope that my bat left rather than inviting over some of his bat buddies. A couple of hours later I snuck back down, flashlight in hand… no bats. Well, none that I saw anyway. I’m hoping that once the lights went out he fluttered right out the open door and into the night, but who’s to say? Maybe he liked his hiding spot and just stayed there. The crazy thing is, this is now the second time I’ve had to contend with a bat inside this building since I’ve lived here. Also, the second time I’ve had to contend with a bat, period.
“They” tell you not to make eye-contact with people in New York and for heaven’s sake, don’t speak to people in the city or on mass transit. I say ‘bullshit!’ Don’t talk to the visibly deranged or those who obviously don’t want to be bothered. Otherwise, go for it. Who knows what interesting conversations and experiences you might be missing, sitting in your insular fear-cloud.
Here’s a picture which perfectly illustrates my point:
Click to embiggen.
If I hadn’t engaged him in conversation I could have said “I saw an interesting bike messenger on the train.”
Since I did, I had the pleasure of chatting with him for a bit and when I asked if I could take his picture, he struck this great pose. Just as you’d suspect from the photo, he was a very colorful and interesting character; one I never would have met if I’d listened to “them” and their “conventional wisdom”.
It’s me! As of 9 o’clock this morning. I don’t have to be back at work until 9 PM, Friday the 22nd. And yes, I have plans. Great big, scary plans. Stay tuned.
Posted by Greg Evans in general, travel Comments: Comments Off
Why is it that my hobbies punish me for neglecting them? Too much time off the bike means a sore ass as I start to ride more. Playing my mandolin too infrequently means seriously painful, bordering on blistered fingertips upon picking it back up. I really need to get busy building up (and maintaining) some calluses.
My happy little Shamrock is starting to look like its old self. It finally put out its first couple of sets of flowers this past weekend. It should be covered with blooms in no time.
Click to embiggen.
Posted by Greg Evans in general, plants Comments: Comments Off
Why is it that when you’re running late and in a hurry, everything possible seems to conspire to slow you down? Last night I was running a bit late, getting ready for work. I grabbed my hair brush and it immediately self-destructed. The rubber part which holds the metal bristles divorced itself from the handle and flew off. It only just avoided splashing down in the toilet (wouldn’t that have been a nice touch?).
It’s surprisingly difficult to brush your hair with a floppy piece of rubber studded with metal bristles, particularly given the wild and desperately in need of cutting condition my hair finds itself in. So of course this added more time which I didn’t have to spare to my preparations. I finally made it out the door only to be thwarted and delayed by every red-light I came to, random cops rolling with radar, and an abundance of cars driving 5 mph below the limit.
Really though, if this is all I can find to bitch about, things aren’t going too bad. You know?
