Merry Christmas!

Well, I'm off to Seattle in just a couple of hours. I'll be away until the new year, so postings between then and now are unlikely.

During the interim, let's get some feedback on books in general. What are your favorite novels and why?

For me, any such list would include

Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand
The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand
1984, by George Orwell
Animal Farm, by George Orwell
Brave New World, by Alduous Huxley
Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

These books demonstrate the greatness and the depravity of humankind. They offer us hope while reminding us all of the most basic human frailties that so often prevent us from achieving our ideals. After reading each one, I felt enlightened. Atlas Shrugged, in particular, changed the way that I looked at the world.

So I bid you adieu. Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

My Kingdom for an Ounce of Talent

I've finally mastered picking arpeggios in various forms on my guitar. My current choice songs to practice include Johnny Cash's version of Bruce Springsteen's "Highway Patrolman," and a version of Bob Dylan's "He Was a Friend of Mine" combined with Willie Nelson's cover from the film Brokeback Mountain. Say what you want about the film (it was well written, well acted, and well made--to the point that only a low-class bigot can object), but none can deny the perfectly melancholy sorrow of Nelson's vocals:

He was a friend of mine.
He was a friend of mine.
Everytime I think of him,
I just can't keep from cryin'.
'Cause he was a friend of mine.

He died on the road.
He died on the road.
A thousand miles from home,
He never reaped what he could sow,
And he was a friend of mine.
(Dylan's version differs in this verse. In lieu of the third and fourth lines, he says, "He never had too much money / To pay his room and board")

I stole away and cried.
I stole away and cried.
'Cause I never had too much money,
And I never was quite satisified,
But he was a friend of mine.

He never done no wrong.
He never done no wrong.
A thousand miles from home,
And he never done no harm.
And he was a friend of mine.

He was a friend of mine.
He was a friend of mine.
Whenever I hear his name, Lord,
I just can't keep from cryin

Were it not for my only mediocre talent at the guitar, my slightly bad--but not stlyistic Bob Dylan bad--vocals, and my lack of stage presence, I probably could have pursued a career in music.

"Zoinks, like Scoob!"

I have been discussing scary books and movies with some people. I mentioned the novel The Shining as a very creepy novel (though I noted that 1984, with its realistic relevance is perhaps even scarier), and I talked about several creepy movies. Over the past few days we have examined the art of creating suspense and fear in literature and film.

For a coveted spot in the What I Hate (Usually) hall of fame, right above the name Science Guy (winner of the "I used to comment but am now too lazy and/or unable to challenge Aristos" award), post a comment about your scariest read or view. Don't just name it, but tell how it got to you. I'm not concerned if it "grossed you out," but if it really disturbed you on a higher level (e.g. the orginal version of "The Omen.").

Yadda, Yadda, Yadda

A recent article pointed to the fact that this is the time of year in which the smuggling of children across the U.S.-Mexican Border reaches its apex. Much was mentioned about children who suffered at the hands of their smugglers.

Is the fact that desperate parents wish to see their beloveds the real problem, or is the tyrannical immigration policy that makes "illegal immigration" a necessity the culprit? Think about it. Immigration policy essentially requires children to be chaperoned by less than respectable citizens.

Indeed, it's not the smugglers or the parents who are to blame. It is the United States Congress. How ironic that a nation dominated by the decendents of immigrants takes such a position against immigration. Or is it just that these immigrants happen to be Mexicans (Dios mio!)?

Been Busy ("Sorta")

In case you're wondering--and I flatter myself to think that you do--I have not posted much lately because I am a gaming neophyte.

That's right. I have become an XBox convert, having purchased an XBox 360 and Call of Duty 2.

As an XBox man, I am a converted Playstationist: a reprobate to some, I suppose, but perfectly happy as I now am.

Sony's Playstation3 had two things working against it. First, it was cost prohibitive when compared to the Xbox360. Compared to Nintendo's Wii--which I also considered--the PS3 is even worse. Second, it took too long. I waited and waited for the PS3, but there comes a moment when enough is enough, and that moment came on Thanksgiving.

So, the next time I go nearly two weeks without posting, you might wonder which new XBox 360 game I've picked up.

A Christmas Album

I usually dislike when musicians try their hands at original Christmas songs. Even some of my favorite singer/songwriters just seem to get it wrong.

Yes, I love the classics. On iTunes, I have over 50 versions of "The Christmas Song" (Chestnutt's roasting on an open fire..."), 25 versions of "Let it Snow," 80 versions of "Silent Night," 38 versions of "Winter Wonderland," 50 versions of "White Christmas" (nothing like a Christmas song written by a Jew), 20 versions of "What Child is This?" and lots of the other standards ("Jingle Bells," "Silver Bells," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," etc.

In all, I have over 2,500 Christmas songs, most of which are traditional songs like those above.

And yet, perhaps my favorite Christmas album is The Statler Brothers' Christmas Card. Yes, it has several old-fashioned Christmas songs, but the ones that I enjoy most are their original ones. Consider the lyrics on a few, and then go out and pick up a copy of this remarkable Christmas album.

To the following song there's a sincerity and a longing that is either grateful or melancholy, depending upon your mood.

"I'll Never Spend a Christmas"
The year you were snow queen
At the high school Christmas ball.
The night we got snowed in
And prayed it wouldn't thaw.

The year I bought your bracelet,
And you bought me one too.
I'll never spend a Christmas
That I don't think of you.

The year I helped your daddy trim
The outdoor tree with lights.
You worked part time at Penny's
And I took you home at night.

The year the senior class sold
Christmas trees and mistletoe
And we never thought that someday
This would seem so long ago.

The Christmas Eve you told me
You loved me, and I knew
I'd never spend a Christmas
I wouldn't think of you.

The night we planned the party
To decorate the tree.
It snowed so hard, no one could come.
No one, that is, but me.

The Christmas Eve I told you
I loved you, well I do.
And I'll never spend a Christmas
I won't be loving you.

The following song begins with a drawn out cello and 4/4 beat. It's mood is similar to the one above.

Christmas to Me
Christmas to me
Is wherever she might be.
Singing carols With the choir
Haning stockings by the fire.
Making Christmas bows.
Hanging mistletoe.
'Cause where she is, I want to be
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to me
Is as far as I can see.
Pasture fields covered with snow,
White Christmas on the radio.
Children and sleds
And momma's gingerbread.
At home with just the family,
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to me
Is a tall cedar tree.
Decorated and adorned.
With Christmas balls and strings of popcorn.
Tinsel wrapped with care
With webs of angel hair,
A final star atop the tree
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to me
Is the new born baby.
Lying quietly in the hay
When the angels came to say,
"Peace on Earth to men."
And I pray for peace again.
Scenes of the nativity
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to you,
May it never be blue.
And may all your dreams come true:
Merry Christmas to you.


While the next songs is a bit hokey in some ways, it sounds very good at this time of year.
Something You Can't Buy

The greatest Christmas present
Is something you can't buy.

When World War II was over,
We trimmed the tree alone
But we saved the star for daddy,
'Cause daddy was coming home.
We bought mamma a new dress.
We bought daddy a tie.
But he brought us each something
That money couldn't buy.

The greatest Christmas present
Is something you can't buy.

I talked to pa this evening
For an hour on the phone
He said, "Don't spend your money on presents
We just want you here at home."
But we'll buy momma a new dress
And daddy another tie.
And we'll spend lots of time together
And that's something you can't buy.

The greatest Christmas present
Is something you can't buy.

Someday, and I know it's coming
When all of us won't be together every Christmas,
You know daddy's seventy-three.
And to pay back all he gave me,
I can't, but I will try.
I'll pass along to my kids
That something you can't buy.


Who Do You Think?
There are people who are whispering,
And the rumors are running wild.
There's a woman who's not married,
But she's gonna have a child.

Her name is Mary. She's a virgin
From down in Nazereth, now listen close.
She's gonna marry a man named Joseph,
But the baby's father is the Holy Ghost.

And who do you think could believe such a thing?
Could believe that this story is true?
And who do you think could believe such a thing?
Well, here's hoping to heaven you do.

Now they're saying she had the baby
In a barn in Bethlehem.
And a star moved round the heavens
'Till it stopped right over there.
Then some shepherds said an angel
Came and told them about the birth.
They always knew men went to heaven
But now God had come to Earth.

And who do you think could believe such a thing?
Could believe that this story is true.
Who do you think could believe such a thing,
Well here's hoping to heaven you do.

To Dear Old Aunt Mardi

I have been called an imbicile because I wrote in my own name on the ballot this past November. Alas, I may be. However, I must submit that I am far less the idiot than those who were listed as official candidates.

Until this greater issue is resolved, I will continue to vote for the man most qualified--even if it is a "wasted," and/or "absurd," and/or "inappropriate" vote.

It's Christmas Time (Call the Lawyers)

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15912456/

What does this guy think? That Christmas is a time of peace and love? What a freaking hippie.

Humble Pie

It's time to be a man and admit that I blew it. I cost my good friend his first buck because I was either selfish, foolish, or both.

So let this moment mark a moment in time.

I apologize, "BA." I shouldn't have shot at (and missed) what was rightfully your buck.

Still, I bought you coffee that morning, so I guess we're even?

The Hunt

I am a hunter. Many acquaintances act surprised when they learn this for the first time, as if a man so well educated and highly intelligent cannot possibly enjoy firing arrows and bullets into the hearts of defenseless animals--as if hunting can only be enjoyed by the ignorant and stupid. Nonetheless, I am a hunter, and it appeals to both my education and my intellect.

I really only hunt deer and rabbits, but given the opportunity, I would probably hunt just about anything.

In the formerly great state of Michigan, this is now "gun hunting" season for white tailed deer.

I went today, along with my sidekick, the boy wonder, whose secret identity must be kept. He can only be named by his super initials, "BA" He is called "BA" because a client of our place of employment once called him an arrogant bastard. Even though that should make him "AB," not "BA," we'll let that one slide--especially since we're letting slide that I am the most arrogant bastard at our place of employment. Instead, I am left with the nom de plume "Hannibal" because I apparently come up with the good ideas. So tell me, then, why do my ideas matter for crap when it comes to Election Day?

That's right, I'm confessing to being an arrogant bastard. What's more, since the "AB" is changed conveniently to "BA" in order to fit within the nomenclature necessary for an A-Team allusion, I am doubly more qualified to be "BA." Yes, my sidekick is an "AB", but he is not a "BA." I, on the other hand, am an "AB" and a "BA." However, I will bow gracefully, with just this trifle of an objection because at least "Hannibal" gets to smoke the good cigars.

But back to hunting.

"BA" and I went deer hunting today. "Murdock" wasn't there, because he is a wussy. "Face" wasn't there because the three of us are unable to forge friendships with enough people who don't mind being pigeonholed as members of the A-Team.

We went hunting on a farm in southeast Michigan, about 1.5 hours north of Detroit.

"BA" picked me up at about 5:25 AM. We stopped for coffee and reached our destination by about 6:25 AM. He looked decent in his mossy oak bibs and coat, and I looked stellar in my blaze orange camo jumpsuit. He carried an excellent 12 gauge rifled-barrel shotgun, and had decent skills to back it up. I carried an adequate 12-gauge smoothbore "slug" barrel shotgun, but I had peerless skills to back it up. Before you dismiss this description as merely the product of a "BA," note that I have killed three deer--two with a bow and one with a rifle--and he has killed none.

We had a short walk from the farmhouse to our tree stands, and we were both ready to hunt before dawn.

By the way, if you don't know what deer hunting means, it means being able to sit for long hours in semi-to-unbearable cold.

That's what we did.

He was on an "island" of small trees, centered around a giant oak, all of which were right in the middle of a large field of recently plowed soybeans.

I was on a medium-sized birch tree before a carefully groomed oasis of clover surrounded by brush and woods.

Not much happened as the sun rose around 6:50 AM. I heard many squirrels and bird, but I saw no deer. However, sometime between nine and ten in the morning, I heard a commotion in the brush. Shortly thereafter, I saw a very large doe bounding into "BA's" soybean field. She moved pretty fast, so he never got off a shot, even though we had a doe tag between the two of us.

I noticed something about that doe, other than the fact that she was very big. She seemed to be running away from something. In fact, when she reached the opposite end of the soybean field, she looked across from whence she came.

That's when I figured that there was a buck on her tail.

For those of you whose entire knowledge of deer hinges upon having seen Walt Disney's Bambi, I hate to break this to you, but male deer do not court female deer. Deer are not like people. When a doe is in heat, she gives off a scent. That scent triggers a primeval instinct in the buck--men, you've felt this before whenever you've been around an attractive woman or climbed the rope in gym class. When a buck finds a doe-in-heat, he simply takes her. She usually tries to run, but he catches her. I've seen it, and it's less than romantic.

As it turns out, there was a buck on her tail. He was a bit more cautious about running across the field, but he cannot be blamed. After a few days of gun season, he had almost certainly learned that there were dangers lurking everywhere.

This particular buck was huge. "BA" tells me that he had at least eight points to his rack. I was too far away to count his tines, but I could still tell that he would make a fine trophy and dinner for several meals.

The buck bounded toward the doe, and he stopped about twenty yards away from "BA." I could see it all, and yet "BA" did not shoot.

I wondered if perhaps "BA" had fallen asleep, for this tends to happen to hunters who wake up two hours before dawn.

I checked the buck out through my scope. He was a big one, that's for sure. Moreover, he was standing broadside to me. This means that I had a clear shot at his side--where both lungs and the heart are vulnerable.

"BA" still didn't shoot. I was about 100-120 yards away, so any shot of mine would be tough--given my gun. Still, I thought that a deer like this does not come around every day. And if "BA" wasn't going to shoot him, then, damn it, I was. So I zeroed in on the kill spot--right behind his right shoulder blade.

The shot was there, and I took it. Little did I know that my brother-in-law--to whom the gun belonged--had sighted the thing in at fifty yards. I was firing at at least one hundred yards, which meant at least a four-inch drop.

Three things happened when I fired. First, my right ear began to ring. Second, that deer jumped up and started to run. Third, "BA" opened fire.

I thought for sure that the buck was wounded mortally as it ran into the woods opposite the soybean field.

"Did I get it?" I shouted to "BA."

"Which one?" he yelled back.

"The one by you," I replied.

"The one about ten feet from me?" he countered.

"Yes!" I sang.

"I don't know," he answered.

I took my time climbing down from my ladder stand, for a good hunter knows not to chase wounded game before it dies. I crossed my clover field, through the brush and into "BA's" soybean field, and saw that he too had climbed down from his stand.

We spoke briefly about how big the son-of-a-gun was, and I apologized for shooting before him--since the buck was obviously in his hunting-zone. However, I maintained that my broadside shot was good.

We quickly found the tracks. They weren't hard to spot. However, as we followed them toward the opposing woods, I noticed that there was no blood trail. "BA" countered that it sometimes takes a while for a blood trail to show up, so we followed the tracks into the woods.

However, no matter how far we followed the tracks, we could find no blood. That's when I had to admit that I had missed. Since I was shooting at between 100 and 120 yards, I figured that the drop would be no more than an inch or two. That was why I had aimed between the heart and the spine. However, since my brother-in-law had sighted the gun in at 50 yards--which I only just learned--my shot passed just below the deer's torso.

To make matters worse, "BA" was ready to shoot but was only waiting for the dear to turn broadside to him--a straight-on sternum shot runs the risk of perforating the stomach and intestines, something that you want to avoid if you plan on gutting a deer (the last thing you want is to find a bunch of crap--literally--strewn throughout the otherwise delicious meat).

In an instant, after my shot missed, the buck ran. That made "BA's" shot miss. So even though the both of us shot at the same deer, we both missed. I confessed my part, and we both admitted that the buck had escaped unscathed.

While "BA" saw more deer afterwards, all that I managed to do was grow colder. I moved to a couple of other spots, but for the most part, I stayed in the same spot until dark.

We were skunked, and it was my fault. I am very sorry, "BA." Next time, I'll lay off for a second--just so long as you take the damn shot!

Willie Nelson

Willie Nelson has released a new Album called "Songbird." It is brilliant, and I suggest checking it out.Nelson has become a cross-genre legend, in the same way that Johnny Cash managed in his final decade. However, while Cash's "American Recordings" (his last five albums from 1994-2005) betray the artist's frailty--such that I was not surprised when I heard that Cash had died--"Songbird" betrays nothing but Nelson's genius.

By all means, the man should probably be dead, but he sounds great.While Cash's final albums sounded tired and weary, Nelson's sounds more poignant and reflective. He is tired, but not exhausted. He is old, but not ready to die. (Contrast this with the message and tone of Cash's final song--the last one he wrote--"Like the 309," in which he begins, "It should be a while before I meet Doctor Death..." but anyone listening knows that "a while" is measured in days, not years).

Since Elvis's passing, no one else comes close to Nelson's vibrato. And while Elvis sang vibrato like no one else, there is more lingering emotion in Nelson's. He sings his lyrics with a sighing "alas," but not necessarily a depressing one. His are the vocals of an aged man with, as Frank Sinatra sang so brilliantly in "My Way," "Regrets...a few, but then again too few to mention." For all of you youngsters out there, I recommend that you dip into Willie Nelson's discography.

Democracy, Shmemocracy

Today is election day, that day of the season upon which we all fool ourselves into believing in popular sovereignty--not unlike how those chaps fool themselves into thinking that they get a whole bunch of virgins if only they blow themselves and a bunch of Jews or Christians with them.

I went to vote for Proposal 4--to place restrictions upon the state's ability to seize one man's home in order to sell it to another (it's all under the guise of "eminent domain"). I ended up voting for Proposal 3 also (if you don't like dove hunting, then don't hunt doves), for Proposal 2 (I have a dream that one day my children will be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character), and for Proposal 1. I did not vote for any people, unless you count my having written myself in for governor and the state board of education. I also did not vote for Proposal 5 because I saw it as a conflict of interest at best. If I don't believe in forcibly redistributing my wealth to others, then I cannot ask for others to be forced to distribute their wealth to me. Furthermore, trapping the funding of education at the level of inflation is short-sighted and a bad idea. Again, I must reiterate that I did not vote for any people. I do not respect anyone who presumes to govern me.

But something happened at the polls that turned my stomach, and forced me out of my not-posting-sloth.

I was in line waiting for my ballot, explaining why I wasn't going to vote for Dick DeVos, even though mommy was going to do so. As Natalie and I stood in line, a slack-jawed 300 pound-er with a two sizes too small jacket and hair to make the rattiest of mops attractive approached and said to one of the equally pathetic (but "official") folks behind the desk (i.e. ugly folding table), "I'm in adolt edjicashon, an' I git credit if'n I kin prove that I voted. Kin you give me some kinda reseat?"

That's when my heart sank. It was bad enough being surrounded by obviously very blue (think navy blue x10) collar types who couldn't even define the word constitution, let alone identify provisions of the constitution. Now there's some adult ed. teacher who's encouraging his obviously "challenged" (i.e. stupid) students (let's be honest: there's a reason why they're in adult ed.) to vote.

If you want to say that everyone has the right to vote, then fine. However, that doesn't mean that it's right for everyone to vote. There's a reason why the founding fathers feared democracy, and I saw (and smelled it) at point-blank range.

My education no longer mattered. My careful reasoning and recognition of Natural Law was out the door. My disinterested approach--I didn't vote for or against Proposal 5--became a footnote at best. Because of universal adulthood suffrage, someone who in a scientific study could probably disprove Darwin’s theory of evolution canceled out my votes.

More and more, I agree with the original idea of restricting the right to vote to those who hold property. This would avert what Bastiat calls "legal plunder."

More and more, I believe wholeheartedly that anyone who receives federal or state monies should be disenfranchised, lest such people use their "right" to vote as a tool for theft.

Bravo, democracy. Ave Granholm. Veni, vici, deplori.

Ubi sunt?

La-di-dah

All is vanity.

I've been reading (and I'll read some more of) the King's wisdom.

Tomorrow I'll be more apt to write something worth reading.

Ahem!

My historical rant was not directed toward any particular individual. It was meant to combat an idea, not a man. Please keep that in mind, commentators.

A Blind Target

An organization for the blind is suing Target because its (Target's) web site is not user friendly for the visually impaired. http://msnbc.msn.com/id/15419164/wid/11915829?GT1=8618

Then don't buy crap from Target. No company should have to cater to the blind. If the blind don't like it, then they can shop elsewhere online or in any other fashion.

Whatever happened to a person's right to property?

Not a Tax Revolt

So some assert that the average colonist was just fine with the British, and that the war and move for independence were engineered merely by wealthy men who did not wish to pay taxes.

Bah.

It was not a crowd of wealthy men who threw stones and snowballs at redcoats in downtown Boston on March 5, 1770 (The Boston Massacre). There was no conscription (draft), so why did so many poor and modest Americans enlist to fight the British if they were essentially happy with British policy?

Americans of every class fought fiercely for independence. It was not to avoid paying taxes that wealthy men risked their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor; and it was not because they were hoodwinked that the middle and lower classes chose to suffer eight long years of war.

Had Hancock, Washington, Franklin, et alia been captured, they would, in Franklin's words, "hang separately." Wealthy men do not risk their lives for a few pence.

Remember that the Battles of Lexington and Concord happened because the General Gage was determined to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock. Hancock especially was extremely wealthy and would have stayed extremely wealthy without a war for independence. Actually, since Hancock was a well-known smuggler, he actually benefited financially by British mercantilist policies. Without all the duties on imports, Hancock would not have had any business in smuggling.

Many of the wealthy leaders during the war saw their fortunes suffer. John Rutledge, of South Carolina never recovered financially from his war losses. Are we to believe that he sacrificed the bulk of his estate because he disliked paying duties on tea?

Redcoats pillaged Francis Lewis’s home on Long Island, and his wife was taken prisoner for several months. John Hart suffered similar losses. Carter Braxton, whose massive wealth was heavily invested in commercial enterprises, lost a fortune over the course of the war as many of his ships were either captured or destroyed. During the war, the British occupied the homes of Samuel Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and John Hancock. Much of Philip Livingston's property was occupied and looted by the British.

Such fortunes are not risked by an aversion to relatively small taxes.

As far as sacred honor ("sacred Honour" in the Declaration of Independence) goes, let's not forget that had the Americans failed, they would have gone down in history as criminals and traitors. Had these men simply sat on their hands during the 1770's, they would have enjoyed status and privilege in the colonies. They valued honor far more than we do. They probably valued it more than their lives and their fortunes. The historical degradation that they would have suffered had they lost does not even approach equality with the tax burden they felt under the Townshend Acts et alia.

But perhaps a wealthy person might risk his life and fortune. However, what kind of father sacrifices his children to avoid paying taxes? Abraham Clark's son was captured by the British and imprisoned in miserable conditions on the HMS Jersey, and John Witherspoon's son was killed at the Battle of Germantown in 1777.

On top of this, let's not forget that once independence was secured and the Constitution ratified less than a decade later, these men who supposedly risked so much to avoid paying taxes to the British established a government that could tax them just as easily. If they really fought to avoid taxes, wouldn't they have made a government that couldn't tax them?

There's a well-known tribute that includes many of these names and similar details, but it is not a specimen of accurate research. Nonetheless, the point is that these men risked their fortunes.

Those who argue that this war was a mere tax revolt led by wealthy white men are stricken with Marxism: a disease of the mind that spreads to the soul. Marxism is often not fatal to those most stricken with it. However, it causes its victims to organize governments and economies that lead to famine and death. Millions of Russians, Chinese, North Koreans, Cubans and others have died due to Marxism. Some people need to realize that Howard Zinn is not a great historian, and that his "research" is biased toward socialist ends. Since socialism leads to poverty and death, and Howard Zinn promotes socialism, then it follows that Howard Zinn promotes poverty and death. Those who follow Zinn are either fools or villains. There is no in between.

Alan Jackson's New CD Sucks

I've got to tell you. If you're an Country/Western fan in general and an Alan Jackson fan in particular, you will utterly despise Jackson's latest CD: Like Red on a Rose.

Perhaps it has some artistic merit. Jackson certainly does step out of his pigeonhole for this one. However, I liked his little genre peg, and this one not so much.

A Historical Rant

In 1775, a group of farmers from the areas of Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts, armed themselves with their own firearms and faced a well-equipped and well-trained professional army of redcoats.

These farmers wanted three things. Two were immediate and practical. Governor/General Thomas Gage had deployed the redcoats with two objectives: arrest John Hancock and Samuel Adams (both "Sons of Liberty" who, in today's language, would be called either "terrorists" or "insurgents;" and to seize the local militia's arsenal in Concord, which would render that region's colonists unable to resist the continued revokation of their rights.

The third reason was more idealistic. However, contrary to popular "textbook" opinion, it was not revolutionary. Englishmen had valued the concept of limited government and a social contract for over 500 years, going back all the way to Magna Carta (1215 AD).

The Proclamation of 1763 deprived colonists of their liberty and property rights (in the Ohio Valley, for which they fought the French and Indian War). To enforce the proclamation line, thousands of redcoats were garrisoned in forts scattered along the Appalachian frontier. This standing army during a time of peace was meant only to intimidate colonists--and government should fear the citizens, not the other way around. On top of this tyranny, taxes were necessary to fund these very same soldiers' quarters.

A year later, Parliament passed the Stamp Act. A basically direct tax with no purpose other than to raise revenues for the British government. The problem with this was that it taxed Englishmen (colonists) who had no representation in parliament. Magna Carta prohibits this, as did hundreds of years of English/British tradition. Colonists resisted this tyranny via organized protests/petitions (e.g. the Stamp Act Congress), boycotts on British goods, and "extra-legal" forms of Civil Disobedience, including the physical destruction of stamps as well as the tarring and feathering of royal officials.

Parliament repealed the Stamp Act in 1765, but replaced it with the Declaratory Act, which served as an effective "Blank Check" for Parliament. According to this act, they could tax and govern colonists regardless of representation in Parliament.

The Declaratory Act was followed by the Townshend Acts, a series of tariffs that would probably have been accepted by Americans as necessary to regulate trade. However, in the wake of the Stamp Act et al, Colonists were quite angry with the Townshend Acts. That the Townshend Acts allowed for writs of assistence--basically these were search warrants which required no probable cause and virtually no limits--only hastened the conflict. These were enacted in order for royal officials to better police colonial commerce--to catch and punish smugglers. While this seems perfectly correct in terms of government's power to maintain "law and order," colonists saw it as a tyrannical jab at their property rights. Remember, these taxes should never have been put in place to begin with. Boycotts and protests led to the repeal of most of the Townshend Acts, except for the one on tea.

The British East India Company enjoyed a state-established monopoly on the colonial tea industry. However, like all government subsidized industries, it ran its finances inefficiently and was in trouble. The tax on tea was meant to support The BEIC, and even though the tea was to be sold at bargain prices, agitators in Boston knew the real deal. Thus the Boston Tea Party was born. While many saw the attack against private property as a crime that was actually detrimental to the principles by which colonists were resisting British policy (I'm sorry for the complicated verbage), most colonists saw it for what it was. A bold act of civil disobedience. It's not like the BEIC was acting alone. It was acting as an arm of the British government, a tryannical body that no longer respected colonists' rights.

The Boston Tea Party was followed by the Coercive Acts, a series of punitive measures laid mostly against Boston (e.g. The Port Act closed the Port of Boston until the Tea from the Tea Party was paid for). It also called for further quartering of soldiers in colonists' (mostly Bostonians' homes), and a Quebec Act, which threatened to rob New England's local communities of their relative autonomy by placing them under the French laws of now British Quebec.

As things got worse in Boston, this led to the hunt for Hancock and Adams and the militia's arsenal (what I mentioned in the beginning).

A month before the battles of Lexington and Concord, Patrick Henry asked the House of Burgesses in Virginia what the British Ministry had done in the past ten years that had not been tyrannical and aimed at depriving colonists of their rights. He also called for war. He wasn't a prophet. He was a student of history.

Oh for the times when men stood up for their rights and did not content themselves to essentially meaningless rants....

The More They Stay The Same

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

A recent article in the New York Times complains that immigrants are sending billions of dollars to support their families in other countries. The neo-mercantilists (i.e. typical pseudo-economists and politicians) condemn this.

At least real, old school mercantilists were concerned about real gold. These neo-mercantilists are concerned about worthless script.

Lull

I apologize for not having much in regards to recent posts. I have been busy. I will continue to be so until the weekend.

Alas.