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Thoughts from the ammo line


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Scott Johnson

Dec. 28 2018

Ammo Grrrll has no desire to be THROWN OFF THE GRID. She writes:

If you have ever had the highly unpleasant experience of having your car towed — when 300 yards down the block there was a tiny paper sign in 6 pt. type informing people that cars would be towed after 4:00 p.m. — you know that for just a minute your upset brain thinks, “Ah, that is inconvenient. Now I must drive my car to get the car…oh, wait…” And it sinks in that the VERY THING you need to solve the problem of having no car, IS your car! Which is gone.

Likewise, I woke up a couple of weeks ago on a Thursday morning, got myself fully caffeinated, made the bed, and went whistling to my home office to fire up the computer and check to see if I had email from my beloved in Israel.

When I hit the little Email icon, an annoying box covered some of the screen and told me that I needed to confirm my User Name and Password. No worries. By a Christmas miracle, I remembered both and typed them in. Confidently, I hit “Send, Receive” again. And the box reappeared with the same snotty demand. Oh, boy. Not at all good. Swearing at it was shockingly ineffective.


So Thursday was a dead loss for solving my problem. Calling Customer Service was likewise frustrating, as the disembodied voice kept telling me that they had never heard of me, my zip code or any of my phone numbers. I tried it in Spanish just for a change of pace. Nada. Plus, they were hanging up on me as you would on an annoying teenage prank caller. Being a mature adult, I did some meditation to calm down. Then I ate an Edwards Key Lime Pie and finished off half a bottle of coconut rum with a quart of Eggnog. Then I napped til Friday.

Friday dawned cold and clear and the problem remained, of course, but I saw that “Max Cossack,” who, by the way, has a great novel available on Amazon, had commented on my column! Wahoo! Thank God I at least had Internet. Now, I had a way to communicate with him. I told him and all the world that I had no Email and received such helpful suggestions as “I am sorry I can’t come help you” from an IT whiz in Boston and “Have you tried the Paranoid Texan?” from the PT’s best friend’s wife near Fort Worth.


Periodically, people entertain fantasies about living “off the grid.” Back in the day, it was popular for hippies to claim they were going to “live off the land.” They quickly learned that farming and ranching were way too hard for the likes of spoiled, lazy, blissfully-ignorant Utopians who would have starved within weeks. The Paranoid Texan tapes and enjoys many shows about living off the grid for real in Alaska. It may have its charms, but it is a perilous and difficult life, not for sissies.

Other than shooting, I have not a single survival skill, unless you count whining, which is just as likely to get you killed as helped, and not without reason. Even before shoulder trouble and encroaching decrepitude, killing, skinning and butchering an 1800 lb. moose into steaks, chops, and roasts would not have been in my wheelhouse. I understand from these programs that one has to work really fast to keep other lazy-ass predators from just taking your prized late moose away from you, like a “Fundamental Transformation Democrat.” I would probably give up a moose to a grizzly pretty fast. But if Amazon snowmobiled on by with Harry and David Truffles, or Rosati’s delivered a 4-Cheese Thin Crust Pizza, Gentle Ben the Redistribution Bear would have quite the fight on his hands. Best advice, Ben: play dead and you may live to filch a moose another day.

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