It Is Finished! 9mm AR-15 Carbine

Dear Barry,

I am clinging onto a 9mm carbine, possess several charged high-capacity ammunition feeding devices, love God, and can't say I'm bitter about it.

Now, you might be bitter. Check your shorts. Maybe Mrs. Obama starched them too much to the point of serious irritation. I read a couple of days ago that you've never fired a gun. Have the Secret Service take you to the range. You need a hobby. Shooting is good exercise, relieves stress, and is fun. Also, you might gain an edge in negotiations with manly heads of state such as Hugo Chavez and Vladimir Putin. Let's face it, Barry. You're a bit of a girly man. Even Joe, your gun-banning VP choice, has a shotgun for election-year photo ops.

Barry, I have to hang up now. Enjoy those last few days in Hyde Park. No, I won't accept that ambassadorship in Angola. Send the Rev. Jesse. Goodbye. ...

Yes, the UPS guy delivered the Rock River Arms 9mm top end plus a 9mm hammer. I had already installed the dedicated Hahn Precision magazine block in a Bushmaster lower receiver equipped with a Magpul CTR stock, 9mm carbine buffer and spring. The Hahn fit into the Bushmaster lower perfectly.

I cleaned rust preservative out of the top end and applied a bit of Tetra Gun oil and grease, put a spring on the 9mm hammer, installed it in the lower, mounted the top on the lower, and ventured out into a sunny, but extremely muddy, day.

I sighted in the carbine with some 115-grain JHPS at 50 yards. I didn't need to adjust elevation. The ARMS #40 rear required two clicks to the right. Then I tried a few 147-grain Hornady XTPs on top of 4.2 grains of Unique. Six rounds went into 1 1/8". The 115-grain Winchester USA ball ammo grouped between 3 to 4 inches as well as some reloads using 115-grain Remington JHPs and Winchester 231.

I ran 163 rounds through the carbine. There were four malfunctions during the first three magazines. The first round chambered would not eject once fired. Two of these malfunctions happened with some reloads using 88-grain JHPS I had left over after trading off a Walther PPK in .380. They haven't worked well in any 9mm pistol I've tried them in except for a Browning Hi-Power.

The remaining 88-grain stubbies fed through the carbine flawlessly. I blew up a couple of dozen hedge apples with them and some 115-grain JHPs in honor of Barry. All of the 20 and 32-round CProducts magazines locked the bolt and dropped free without fail.

Fair and Balanced, Left vs. Right

I can't deny it. There is no such thing as objective journalism.

If you're one of the growing numbers of people who turn their noses up at the graying, corporate-bound and moribund "mainstream" media, I present to you opportunities for insight from two e-sources, the leftist viewpoint from People's Weekly World and the right's Sweetness & Light. When used together, the pair will no doubt serve readers more than a baker's dozen of traditional news outlets.

You'll find both links to the right of the blog in my links section.

Neither e-publication makes false claims about being objective, balanced, fair or accurate. The PWW clearly lays out its bias, "We take sides... Yours! Working class news and opinion since 1924" It is the press organ for the Communist Party USA.

Now, Sweetness & Light is a bit more murky. It is a "Weblog featuring US and international news and analysis from a conservative perspective." There's no contact information. The domain name is registered to Domains by Proxy, Inc., of Scottsdale, Ariz.

I know what you're thinking. S&L and PWW aren't legitimate news sources. Well, neither are SNL, The View, Oprah, The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, The Comedy Channel, The Dave Letterman Show, Vanity Fair, Air America or Rush Limbaugh's EIB network. However, all those media outlets have shaped political discourse and opinion this year and in the past.

Journalists can't agree on exactly what a journalist is. The members of the Society of Professional Journalists studied and debated a proposed code of ethics for months before one was approved at its national convention in 1996. It calls for accountability, fairness, not paying for news, disclosure of sources whenever feasible and much more.

However, the Society will not enforce the code against any of its members and lacks control over other journalists outside its ranks. The code is totally voluntary, which means it is a pipe dream. The code is passed around in news rooms and journalism schools. Sometimes one can find it in a nice frame on a wall. I have a nice, framable copy that was presented to me in journalism school.

When you watch coverage of election-night festivities in downtown Chicago Nov. 4, know FOX, NBC, CBS, ABC and a whole slew of print-media giants paid the Obama-Biden campaign for prime access to major players. The media also paid extra for assigned places on risers offering a better view. The campaign is charging a $900 parking fee per satelite truck payable in advance. I have no idea if the McCain-Palin campaign plans anything similar.

It is not ethical to pay for access to news sources no matter how any campaign justifies it. It instantly delegitimizes and undermines any newsgathering operation willing to pay and play.

There's still journalists out there who haven't sold out to either side--or anyone. They must feel outnumbered and impotent right now.

Support the Arts: Go native

Tam's post, The natives are reluctant..., ties in with an idea I've been struggling to get into type.

There's always something to explore. Any day when I'm compelled to sit around being bored . . . well, I don't have such days. People are blessed with free will. They can choose to not be bored. It simply takes a little effort, usually less than what one expends bitching about boredom.

Robert Capa, well-known photojournalist, said ""If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough." It reminds me of the same problem when we lack appreciation of our surroundings. We're not getting close enough. So keeping Capa in mind, I've learned how to get closer. A field of soybeans ready for harvest seems bland until one gets close enough to see the intricate bristles of a single pod. Trees are something to convert into fence posts and firewood until I pause, look closer, and discover the art evident in a particular one.

Lichen on tree bark doesn't seem like much. Surely it can't entertain or teach us. Unless we go native, look closer and cast off the comtempt we hold for familiarity. Kunstformen der Natur, or Art Forms of Nature, a 1904 collection of prints by German biologist Ernst Haeckel, yields this illustration of lichen. It's proof that one doesn't have to travel thousands of miles, say to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, to see stunning art.

Go native, troll round home, or look deep into the eyes of someone you've taken for granted too long. You'll find magic. Share it with others, too, like Capa and Haeckel.

The most quiet room in the house.

We're blessed with several privvy visits of lore. Elvis leaving the world from a Graceland water closet, Old Mother Hubbard fetching beer from the outhouse for her dog, and Thomas Crapper improving upon the work of Italian plumbers in service to the Queen. Then there are outhouse legends such as the lantern-waving lady ghost of Plimoth Plantation. We also have the history of Andy Gump, originator of those blue, plastic, rental outhouses parked at county fairs, construction zones, and the National Mall during protests and rallies.

Private toilets are quiet and are usually equipped with locks. Some thoughtful people keep a stock of magazines and books in theirs. Others run phone and Cat5e cables into their johns, which is something I'll never do. The throne room should remain an elemental place. Advances in wireless technology have made that pointless at any rate. However, the bathroom is a place where one can think tangentially. Unless someone starts pounding on the door . . .

Well, anyhow, I went into the lavatory at midday to clean up before a rare trip to town. While trimming my beard, the guage popped off the clippers. I drew the clippers back too late, which reminded me how terrified my two-year-old daughter was the last time I butched up my beard and had to shave it off. She cried and wouldn't come near me for weeks. That was 12 years ago, and since I was going to town to pick up very-same daughter for a doctor's appointment, I attempted to blend in the damage with a little more clipper work.

It worked somewhat like expecting body putty and chicken wire to renew a rusted-out '67 Mustang. The plastic guage again popped off. It went into the trash where it was soon met by a lot of gray whiskers.

After disposable razor work, the mirror face was the same one that petrified my daughter. The faint scars from accidents and fights each brought back a memory. The personnel-manual habits came back as I leveled out the sideburns and trimmed the moustache. Not many wrinkles were hiding under there, which was surprising. The face shows age, but it is all above eye level.

The toddler-turned-teenager didn't notice I had shaved for at least 15 minutes. Then she rolled her eyes. No tears in sight. Just sheer orneriness.

"The kids these days!"