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Monthly Archives: December 2016

Hobson’s Choice

By lex, May 8, 2004

As set forth in U. S. Navy Regulations, the Commanding Officer is charged with the absolute responsibility for the safety, well-being, and efficiency of his command, except when and to the extent he may be relieved therefrom by competent authority.

The duties and responsibilities of the Commanding Officer are established by U. S. Navy Regulations, general orders, customs, and tradition. The authority of the Commanding Officer is commensurate with his responsibility, subject to the limitations prescribed by constitutional, statutory, international, and regulatory law including U. S. Navy Regulations.

– US Navy Regulations

Any officer in command of a ship, submarine or squadron is by courtesy called “the Captain,” regardless of rank (although in the less formal aviation Navy, the commanding officer is more often called “the Skipper”).

There is a distinction between a naval rank, and a position – you can reach the rank of commander, without ever receiving the position of command. Successful commander command is a prerequisite for promotion to the rank (as opposed to the position) of captain. Since so very few officers will ever achieve the rank of admiral, making the rank of captain defines a successful career. There are places in the country (San Diego is not one of them) where a captain with 30 years of service will receive retirement pay sufficient to ensure that he never has to work again. But retirement pay is not the objective – it is merely the least reward, for the opportunity to lead. For the chance to be responsible. For command.

Command at sea is the pinnacle of achievement in the career of a line officer. It is the culmination of years of service, professional growth, demonstrated leadership and technical expertise in his or her war fighting specialty. Having climbed through the ranks by selection for promotion by statutory boards, and careful screening by administrative boards, an officer will finally put the US Navy Command Pin on his uniform. It is for many of us the height of our ambition, and a treasured symbol of success.

Recently it seems as though those pins are being attached with explosive bolts . As prestigious as it is to achieve command at sea, to be “relieved for cause” is more than equally disgraceful. The March issue of the Navy Times reports that 22 commanding officers had been relieved for cause in the preceding 13 months. Another three have been relieved this calendar year, bringing the total for 2004 up to nine. These numbers are unprecedented, and disturbing.

The commander’s responsibility is absolute – his authority is commensurate with his responsibility. We are taught those words from the earliest days of our apprenticeship as officers of the line, that is to say, officers qualified to command at sea.

Hyman Rickover, the father of our nuclear Navy, had this to say about responsibility:

“Responsibility is a unique concept.  It can only reside and inhere in a single individual.  You may share it with others, but your portion is not diminished.  You may delegate it, but it is still with you.  You may disclaim it, but you cannot divest yourself of it.  Even if you do not recognize it or admit its presence, you cannot escape it.  If responsibility is rightfully yours, no evasion or ignorance or passing the blame can pass the burden to someone else.  Unless you can point your finger at the man responsible when something goes wrong, then you have never had anyone really responsible.”

An early case study that midshipmen still read was entitled “Hobson’s Choice.” The etymology of this expression escaped me until today: According to the Word Origins website,

Tobias Hobson (c. 1544-1631) was a Cambridge stable manager who let horses. He insisted customers take the horse in the stall closest to the door (the next one up) or take none at all. Hence, a Hobson’s choice is no choice at all. He was made famous by Milton. The phrase dates to 1660.

I had always presumed it to come from the name of a destroyer named the Hobson, which collided with the aircraft carrier Wasp in 1952, based on an eponymously named Wall Street Journal editorial.

The CO of the Hobson had been asleep when his watch team on the bridge allowed his vessel to approach, and eventually collide with Wasp, turning into the wind to launch and recover aircraft on a dark, foul night. He was awoken, assumed the conn, issued some dubious orders and died in the collision, one of 176 to die that night.

The lesson we were to take from this was one of accountability – A CO who allowed his ship to become hazarded, even if he was asleep in his stateroom, was still accountable to the Navy, and to his crew. As brand-new mids, some among us at first thought this somewhat unfair – I mean, the CO could not be in all places at all times. But we were instructed again about authority, responsibility, and accountability. The CO qualifies the watch standers – he had delegates to them his authority for the safety of the ship and crew. But the responsibility is always his, and he is always accountable.

The dreaded words on official correspondence relieving a CO will often read of the superior commander’s “loss of confidence” in the CO’s ability to command. This loss of confidence can stem from several reasons, although there is usually a straw that breaks’ the camel’s (commander’s) back. Some wryly attribute such actions to a violation of the “three kisses” rule.

– You may not kiss another ship (collision at sea – navigational buoys count too)

– You may not kiss the beach (run her aground)

– You may not kiss a shipmate (a relatively new phenomenon)

There seems to be no common thread linking all these CO’s getting the ax – and I think that’s what most disturbs naval leadership. The Navy gets pretty small at the top, and I know a number of these folks – almost all of them exceptional individuals, carefully screened for their responsibilities. But now their careers are ruined, and that’s just the way it goes. Because while I truly believe we are not a “zero defect” organization, I also know, as do my peers, that you absolutely must get the big things right. You must safeguard your ship and crew – that’s Hobson’s choice. In other words, no choice at all.

I’ve been in the Navy man and boy for 26 years, and I’ve seen a lot of changes. This at least, has not changed.

From that WSJ editorial:

“On the sea there is a tradition older even than the traditions of the country itself and wiser in its age than this new custom. It is the tradition that with responsibility goes authority and with them accountability. …for men will not long trust leaders who feel themselves beyond accountability for what they do. And when men lose confidence and trust in those who lead, order disintegrates into chaos and purposeful ships into uncontrollable derelicts.”

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Horse camp

By lex, on June 27th, 2004

For the last three weekends in a row, I’ve found a way to avoid playing golf with my flag officer at 0730 on Saturday mornings, usually because he hadn’t asked directly. Either his writer or his aide came down, canvassing for players in a general way. Them I could say “no” to. But last week the Man himself asked if I would play, and so of course I said, “Yes! Love to!” Not because I’m trying to be a suck up, but because the traditions of our service do not allow for the direct refusal of a flag officer request on the grounds of personal convenience.

It isn’t that I don’t like and admire the guy, he’s a wonderful person to work for. And it certainly isn’t that I don’t like golf, I do, very much. But it’s a 30 minute drive down the 5 from Carmel Valley to Coronado, the same drive I do five days a week, and one of my chief pleasures on a Saturday morning is not chewing up that same stretch of highway at the early hours on a day off.

(Note: This is yet another boring domestic tale. Read on as you will, forewarned is forearmed.)

So it was with great relief that I learned on Friday morning that the boss wouldn’t be playing on Saturday. It was his last weekend home with his college aged daughter. Not least because I could avoid the workaday commute on my weekend, but also because I was now able to pick the Kat up from her week-long stay at the Rawhide Ranch, a western style horse camp.

I’m so glad I got to see her last day.

I’ve pointed out before that the Kat is horse crazy. The costs of supporting this hobby are non-trivial, but Saturday all that was wiped clear.

She had an equestrian competition at the end of the camp, on parent’s day. The Kat is into English-style riding, hunter/jumper, and there are some significant differences in the different styles. As I watched her ride, I thought she was performing superbly of course, while knowing full well that every other father in the arena was feeling the same way. The final ceremonies dragged on for quite a while, under an increasingly brilliant and hammering sunshine. The last contest was the Kat’s, in the advanced riders class.

When the time came for awarding prizes, I was a little bit nervous. At this camp, everyone gets something (the parents have paid for it), so at least half the kids in the advanced class got “finalist” ribbons. As the names were read off, and the kids came up for their finalist ribbons, I felt as though I was in some crazy game of parental Russian Roulette, and already formulating excuses – how serious were these judges anyway? But excuses would have been small beer for the Kat – she would have been crushed to win a “present” ribbon, and then walk off the arena. So much of her self-image is tied up in all things horses.

The judge read the horse’s name first, followed by the riders. Each time they called a horse that was not hers, I felt my tension relieved a bit, only to tighten up again upon reflecting that the pool of candidates was getting smaller and smaller – when would they eventually come to her?

They started to read off placing ribbons, commencing with 10th place. She would at least get one of those, so now I re-calibrated my hopes – at least let it be one of the top seven or so, I found myself hoping.

Now, I don’t want to make this sound like it’s the Olympic Games, or even about anything lastingly serious. But the moment was important to her, which made it important to me. If you’re a father, you understand. If you’re not, some day, if you’re lucky, you will.

Ultimately we got to the top five, and her name still hadn’t been called. I allowed myself a small smile: The top half would make her happy, I thought. How soon until they called her off? Each name that was read, I looked into her face, seeing her smile a little brighter, being a little more proud.

The kids get a little nervous in the final three or four names. They’ve made it all this way, greatly relieved, but now they dare to hope. Their ranks thinned, they move closer together, exchanging glances. Wondering.

In this competition there was a first place winner, and above that a “Grand Champion.” It was down at last to the Kat one other girl – all of creation trembled in the balance (from my perspective anyway) as they read the name of the horse, and the girl, in first place – all the other times, the kids only knew who had won that particular ribbon. For the last two spots, both will know at the first syllable where they stand. The judge read off the name of the other girl – the Kat, she had won the Grand Championship! I saw her little body move almost as though an electric current had gone through it. She was so very, very happy. Which of course made me, very, very happy.
And very, very pleased that I had not wasted this morning playing golf.

After a suitable denouement, with many exchanges of IM screen names, email addresses and even snail mail addresses and phone numbers (how quaint), it was finally time to bid farewell to Rawhide Ranch for yet another year. Safe in the car, on the highway heading home, I ask the Kat if she’d had a good time. No answer.
But I think she did. Note the trophy peeking up above her leg

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Show Season

By lex, on July 13th, 2008

Saturday morning dawns cool and clear with the Kat tapping at your correspondent’s shoulder whispering, “I’m late.”

It’s not quite six AM. On a Saturday morning.

The only plausible explanation for anyone being late at 5:45 AM in Southern California on a Saturday morning in July is that this is horse show season. Plagues of locusts would not have otherwise sufficed.

It’s a quiet drive to the Del Mar Show Park on Saturday morning at 0600. You’ve got the roads pretty much to yourself and your daughter. Who – bless her soul – has her thoughts elsewhere entirely, at least until we get to the stables. Already seeing it. In the moment.

We arrive on scene and she asks if I would like to come in and see Harold. Harold being the new horse. Recently owned by famous regional jumper, but now relegated to school work and jumping at three feet or less. Because of his superannuation, at age 18, the poor beast.

I know the feeling.

Of course I’d like to meet Harold, I replied. The question being, in all honesty, almost entirely rhetorical. She’ll spend the day aboard or around this brute in one way or another and entrust her precious life to him. A “getting to know you” session between the two of us is entirely appropriate, never mind the importance of showing interest. I have things I want to say. Things he needs to hear. The nature and origin of canned dog food might be a worthy topic of discourse. Such a fate being a not unlikely end for elderly horses who are not attentive to the needs of their riders. Such as their continuing need to remain properly saddled, unhurled and untrampled.

The Kat joins her cohort, the rest of them – like her – tousle haired, pink cheeked and puffy eyed. It’s mid summer, and it’s not like they’ve been greeting the dawn with song since school let out. Mariachi music plays in the background as caballerangos walk around trying (and failing) to look busy. The girls wear flannel pj’s atop their best riding breeches, and club jackets atop t-shirts. The jackets will have the name of their barn on the back, and their own names on the front, and the having of one is an ineffable symbol of belonging. A fighter pilot might look in his closet and see a jacket of his own, with a name tag on the front, and various patches of experience and excellence everywhere else and gain a glimmering insight into all of this. But these are young women, and their magic is deeper, it thrums at a pitch below male hearing. It always has.

In an hour’s time or so they will spend a moment in mentor-assisted chrysalis – hair nets, rat catchers, jackets and helmets – to emerge as fully mature Ice Princesses (First Rank) of the Equitation Imperium. In the meantime, these girls (most of whom would not lift a finger to pick linen off the deck at home) cheerfully muck out stables like any set of stable hands.

You’d think that seeing your youngest child vaulting through the incorporeal air over fences atop a twelve hundred pound animal with small – and, it must be pointed out, unnecessarily sharp feet – might be bad enough. But first you have to earn the right to get there. First you must watch her warm up amongst thronging legions of variously grouped, differently abled competitors, each of them fully focused on their own lines in blissful ignorance, and all of them seeming to run at cross purposes.

Bedlam ain’t in it.

Eventually they head to the competition ring, where – at this age – each of them enter the arena alone to face the stern judgment of equestrian officialdom and fate. They will do their best, and at the end of the day some of them will walk away at the end of the day with yet another gaily colored strip of ribbon to hang against the wall. While others will walk away with little more than their pride, and the experience of having once again been “the woman in the arena.”

Oh, and the jacket with their name in front, and their barn on back. They’ll have that too.

You ask, isn’t it pricey, all of this anachronistic tomfoolery?

No, I reply.

It’s priceless.

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In Hoc Anno Domini

By lex, on December 25th, 2007

The annual Christmas editorial of the Wall Street Journal was written by Vermont Royster in 1949. I have always found it an inspiring example of  writer’s art and human wisdom:

“When Saul of Tarsus set out on his journey to Damascus the whole of the known world lay in bondage. There was one state, and it was Rome. There was one master for it all, and he was Tiberius Caesar.

Everywhere there was civil order, for the arm of the Roman law was long. Everywhere there was stability, in government and in society, for the centurions saw that it was so.

But everywhere there was something else, too. There was oppression–for those who were not the friends of Tiberius Caesar. There was the tax gatherer to take the grain from the fields and the flax from the spindle to feed the legions or to fill the hungry treasury from which divine Caesar gave largess to the people. There was the impressor to find recruits for the circuses. There were executioners to quiet those whom the Emperor proscribed. What was a man for but to serve Caesar?

There was the persecution of men who dared think differently, who heard strange voices or read strange manuscripts. There was enslavement of men whose tribes came not from Rome, disdain for those who did not have the familiar visage. And most of all, there was everywhere a contempt for human life. What, to the strong, was one man more or less in a crowded world?

Then, of a sudden, there was a light in the world, and a man from Galilee saying, Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s.

And the voice from Galilee, which would defy Caesar, offered a new Kingdom in which each man could walk upright and bow to none but his God. Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. And he sent this gospel of the Kingdom of Man into the uttermost ends of the earth.

So the light came into the world and the men who lived in darkness were afraid, and they tried to lower a curtain so that man would still believe salvation lay with the leaders.

But it came to pass for a while in divers places that the truth did set man free, although the men of darkness were offended and they tried to put out the light. The voice said, Haste ye. Walk while you have the light, lest darkness come upon you, for he that walketh in darkness knoweth not whither he goeth.

Along the road to Damascus the light shone brightly. But afterward Paul of Tarsus, too, was sore afraid. He feared that other Caesars, other prophets, might one day persuade men that man was nothing save a servant unto them, that men might yield up their birthright from God for pottage and walk no more in freedom.

Then might it come to pass that darkness would settle again over the lands and there would be a burning of books and men would think only of what they should eat and what they should wear, and would give heed only to new Caesars and to false prophets. Then might it come to pass that men would not look upward to see even a winter’s star in the East, and once more, there would be no light at all in the darkness.

And so Paul, the apostle of the Son of Man, spoke to his brethren, the Galatians, the words he would have us remember afterward in each of the years of his Lord:

‘Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.’”

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Carpool Chronicles

The year was 1986. I remember that distinctly because it started out with the accident of the space shuttle Challenger.  There were 3 of us, myself, Elizabeth and Allen.  We would all carpool to work in Allen’s  80s Nissan small pickup. I have always been a bit of a gearhead; can’t help it.

Elizabeth was from Belgium – a good 10 years younger than me.  I could imagine her in the throng of people over there protesting the NATO decision to deploy Pershing missiles in Germany just a few months earlier. She was of the next generation after  the carnage of WW2. She worked in another department; Allen  and I were computer programmers.

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The Gentleman’s Club

by lex

Wed – January 5, 2005

No, not that kind of club silly.

The real thing.

I had one of those “you have reached the end of the internet, please hit ‘back’ ” experiences today. I’m still on leave (go back to the salt mines tomorrow), but it’s been raining endlessly here in Sandy Eggo, so the golf courses are all pretty much unplayable, just now. The kids are back in school, the Hobbit’s working. So my options were to go out and travel the actual highway, looking for opportunities to boost our consumerist economic recovery (been there, done that, paid the taxes) or to cruise the virtual, information highway, wondering where it might lead me. Naturally, I found myself clicking “next” until my eyeballs fell out of my head.

And it’s amazing what you can find. But first –

The Kat is a girl scout, and there’s some sort of graduation experience planned in San Francisco in May. Before she flew out the door, the Hobbit asked me to look up the least expensive way of getting a dozen girls and their moms up to The City, and once there, suitably ensconced in the downtown shopping district.

Now, those without sin may cast the first stone. And I’ll admit that it was no doubt churlish of me, not to mention mean-spirited, to wonder why a graduation walk across the Golden Gate Bridge by six budding females and their budded escorts must, as a matter of course, be accompanied by a bed down in the shopping district. But as a grizzled veteran of over two decades of marital splendor, much of it harmonious, I was wise enough to keep these wonderings to myself.

But all that is horribly off the point. Anyway.

Turns out that one of the best deals going in the downtown area is the Marine Memorial Club. Although it’s safe to say that the accommodations there are a little, shall we say, ancien regime, nevertheless, for that part of the city, the $160 or so a night for a double room/double occupancy is a true bargain. And it’s close to everything. Except of course, the Golden Gate Bridge. But there I go again. Never mind.

The best way to strike lodgings in the Marine Memorial Club is to have a reciprocal membership at another club somewhere.

When an officer is first commissioned, he has the opportunity to join two clubs in the Washington, D.C. area, and in doing at that early opportunity, avoid both the initiation fee and waiting list. The two clubs were the Army Navy Country Club, and the Army Navy Club. In spite of their similar names, the two clubs are unrelated, the first being a classic golf/tennis/swimming/dining facility in Arlington, Virginia, and the second a “gentleman’s club” in the Capital itself.

My parents had been members of the country club, so I sort of knew what to expect there. The second I joined, persuaded by one of my more cosmopolitan classmates, out of mere curiosity and out of a desire for reciprocal benefits. Traveling as much as we do in the naval service, I thought it would be neat to have a place to put pied à terre anywhere I visited.

My first few visits were singularly unimpressive: There was a dress code, and my generation, famously, has never been particularly keen on dress codes. The food was undistinguished, the service merely adequate and the rooms themselves redundant – we had family in the area with whom to stay, when visiting. Additionally, the membership seemed to consist solely of superannuated and be-suited veterans of the Great War, who spend their days puttering around the library, mumbling sotto voce obscenities at the New York Times editorial pages. (Some things never change.)

But however alluring a quality, this last was not in itself enough reason for me to shell out membership dues for month after month at age 22. Not on an ensign’s salary. An ensign, I might add, living in Pensacola, Florida – a city and region whose enthusiasm for old school, reciprocal membership gentlemen’s clubs has gone hitherto unremarked upon.

I let my membership lapse.

It struck me at the time that such clubs were anachronisms – dinosaurs that hadn’t gotten around to dying, quite yet. The last remnants of the buggy whip manufacturing league, perhaps. Who, I wondered, of my generation, would in 20 or 30 spend their hard earned money to belong to a place where a suit and tie were still considered mandatory in “public rooms,” and which offered little more than a thin veil of petty exclusivity?

Well, quite a number of places, as it turns out. Both here in the US and abroad. *

I’ve had the opportunity when overseas to enjoy some fabulous hospitality by some very kind club memberships. The American Club in Hong Kong , for example, never fails to welcome the officers of each visiting strike group that passes through. There we are customarily wined, dined and otherwise féted, and offered pretty much the run of the place. Which nearly everyone seems to gratefully eschew, in favor of the gin joints and night clubs of Wan Chai and Kowloon. When it comes to pleasures ashore, at least for junior officers, the baser, the better, it sometimes seems.

The American Club in Singapore likewise extends privileges to naval visitors, for which we were all very grateful, and for which they were no doubt sometimes regretful – unlike the senior businessman clientele at the Hong Kong club, many more of the Singapore club members seemed to be families with young children, and the first night ashore for thirsty officers can be a little raucous, at times. Dry navy, and all that – water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

There is always something just a little touching about finding these little pockets of Americana, clustered about in the wide world. One wonders what they do for entertainment when the fleet is not in. Too, there’s something just a little “edge of the empire.”

No doubt it comes from the legacy the British passed down – they do these sort of things far better than anyone else. Bars, and dining rooms and accommodations – rules on lounge suits (whatever they are) and against shred of denim, anywhere.

And I don’t much get to London, but I think it might be keen to pop in at the Naval Club, once there. A trip across the channel might leave you lodging at Le Cercle National des Armées in Paris, if you had the proper letter of introduction. Having been to Hobart, Australia, I’m fairly certain that a stop in at the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania might be well worth the candle.

And yet I couldn’t help finding it mildly curious that people might want to, in their leisure time, bundle up in a coat and tie and head out to the club. It just seems so 20 years ago. Members my age, or not a great deal older, must by now form the main battery of most these clubs – and we all grew up in blue jeans and tie-dyed shirts.

But yeah – sometimes I now regret, letting that Army Navy Club membership lapse.

** 05-27-18 Link gone; was reciprocal index to Army Navy Club – Ed.

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Home Again

by lex

Sun – December 19, 2004

Wow – glad that’s over.

Or almost over – we still have the debrief to go on Monday morning. Jump up in front of the three star with my merry band of principal warfare assistants and subject matter experts, pontificate (but not at length, not as who should say “great length” – he’s a busy man – so are they all, all busy men) and then sit back down, await the momentary frisson of approbation that comes with a exceptionally difficult job, done exceedingly well, and then move on to the next thing. Which right now, happens to be Christmas. So I’ve got that to look forward to. Which is nice.

But no, the Christmas shopping is by no means complete, thanks for asking.

You might have advised that I try to shop at sea, via the internet, but that would only mean that you had never tried to shop at sea, via the internet, before.

You know those itty-bitty straws they use in night clubs to mix the well drinks? Imagine that you have been without water in the desert for six days, while forced to do push ups and sit ups in the burning sun, in between wind sprints. Now imagine being asked to drink your table spoon-sized ration of water through one of those cocktail straws it and you’ll have some idea of what surfing the World Wide Wait can be like at sea. It’s not like we don’t have bandwidth. Bandwidth we’ve got, great huge frothy galumphing amounts of bandwidth – it’s just that none of it is apportioned that way. For Christmas shopping, I mean.

Oh, sure – if you know exactly what you want: Google up “Airborne Laser Volcano Lancing ,” for example – you can probably get that done. That is, unless you were for two times in the preceding three months while at sea the victim of credit card theft, and the credit card that you actually have in your wallet is now cancelled, and now there is no reliably secure way to email or fax your new credit card number to the ship.

In that case you’re pretty much SOL, airborne lasers on your shopping list or no.

Neither am I one of those preternaturally organized, invariably smug and sand-poundingly self-satisfied shoppers that has crossed every item off their Christmas list by the preceding ides of March. No, I greatly prefer the carefully controlled lab experiment in chaos theory which comes from traveling across the country to Virginia, my own, my native land, on the 22nd of December, going pied-à-terre in the world’s most maddening shopping mall on Christmas Eve, and catching the sport at its very best. The pleasures are simply indescribable.

In fact, the only thing more wonderful was last year, when after several hours of hurling myself repeatedly (and it must be admitted, with little success) upon the altar of consumerism, I found myself looking about longingly for a store that sold any of the following items: Firearms and ammo, razor blades/rubber tubing, rat poison, quality braided rope of not too rough a texture and capable of supporting roughly 190 pounds, moving at, say, 32 feet per second, squared. While thus (fruitlessly) engaged I saw the actual Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (who stands in precedence to your humble scribe in roughly the same proportion as he himself stands to single-celled organisms) doing his Christmas shopping in the same circle of hell as was I. Or me. Myself.

And so seeing this, I grasped at the beginnings of wisdom. These I will share with you, constant reader, free of charge: Death may indeed be the great leveler of men, but Christmas shopping is repeatable, and as a form of practice for the real thing, not to be lightly cast aside.

All that being true, then it can’t get any worse, you say?

Come, let me disabuse you: Have I failed to report that the Biscuit (age 13) now considers it nothing less than normal, indeed quite natural, that a portion of each trip to the shopping mall must be spent inside the world’s most humiliating store (for a man to enter, anyway)? I feel like a vampire at the church doors each time I go near the place. I stand there in front stammering “No, fine actually!” to all the several passersby who, alarmed at the sight of my violently blushing complexion, wonder if perhaps it isn’t possible, even likely, that I’m having a stroke or seizure of some sort? Because from my perspective, there simply isn’t a plausible or creditable reason for me to be on the same level as that store, not to mention standing on its threshold. Which is not to say that I’m a prude. It’s just to say that, well… I’m not exactly sure what it’s to say, but it’s deuced uncomfortable, old chap. To all of this, of course, the Biscuit is either sublimely unaware, or acutely unconcerned. And I can not quite decide which.

But this is all to look forward to, and perhaps one of you would prefer to be caught up:

We’ve been busy. Long time readers of this blog (I mean you two, over there) will know that your humble scribe has been at sea more or less continuously since the 12th of September with some all-to-brief intervals of sand crabbing in between to remind myself where I park my car, which office is mine (there’s that sandwich!), and to reacquaint my family with my gross physical characteristics. But as I mentioned above, our own Long March is over, for the now, and the workload should become a little more normal in the discernible future.

Why such much? Glad you asked: For the Iraq War we got every ship to sea that we could, and so all the carriers that went and joined the war in 2003 all came back pretty much at the same time. Which meant that they were all pretty much ready to go to sea again at the same time. Which was the last four months. Which is where me and my merry band come in.

But in between coming home from the war, and going to sea again, the CNO , who by the way is (for a Shoe) an incredibly smart individual, besides being a powerful and handsome man, made some decisions. For one, he decided that it would be keen to institutionalize our capability to surge the force in case of emergency, rather than discerning a crisis on the horizon and then walking the strand and turning over rocks to look for ships, like we’d always done in the past. This strategy is called the FRP, or Fleet Response Plan (variously, the Fleet Readiness Plan, no one seems to be able to authoritatively decide) and it’s an Exceptionally Powerful Idea¹

Which is a precise formulation guaranteed to send staff officers scurrying to shopping malls, looking for stores which sell: Firearms and ammo, razor blades/rubber tubing, rat poison, quality braided rope of not too rough a texture and capable of supporting roughly 190 pounds, moving at, say, 32 feet per second, squared.

Because it’s all very well and good for service secretaries and four stars to have Exceptionally Powerful Ideas, but someone has to figure out how it’s all going to actually work. And that someone is us!

So yeah, we were busy, but now we’re not and that pretty much encapsulates all you need ever know about the naval service.

More later, as it comes to me.

Note 1:

In the beginning was the Plan

And after the Plan came the Assumptions

And the Assumptions were without form

And the Plan was without substance

And darkness moved upon the faces of the action officers.

And they spake unto their Division Heads, saying:

“It is a crock of shit, and it stinketh”

And the division heads went unto their Chiefs of Department,

And Sayeth unto them in turn:

“It is a pail of dung, and none may abide the odor thereof!”

And the Chiefs of Department went unto the First Flag Officer

in their Chain of Command, and Sayeth unto Him:

“It is a container of excrement, and it is very STRONG!”

And that Flag went unto his Fleet Commander, and

Sayeth unto Him:

“It is a Vessel of Fertilizer, and none may abide its Strength”

And the Fleet Commander went unto CNO, and Sayeth:

“It contains that which aids Plant Growth, and it is very strong”

And the CNO went unto the Chairman and Sayeth:

“It Promoteth Growth, and it is very Powerful”

And the Chairman went unto the Secretary,

And Sayeth Unto Him:

“This Powerful New Plan will Actively Promote the Growth

and Efficiency of the Department, and this area in Particular”

And the Secretary looked upon the Plan,

And he saw that it was Good, and so the Plan became

And that is how shit happens.

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Ed Note: Unfortunately a lot of the links lex referenced 12 years ago are gone. I have included the links that are still live and given that he wrote this almost exactly 12 years ago though some of the things he said were still funny. To wit: How sh!t happens in the Navy; the world’s most humiliating store, etc…

Hope you enjoy the post. To me so much of what Lex wrote has a timeless aura to it…

Filed under Best of Neptunus Lex, by lex, Carroll "Lex" LeFon, Carroll LeFon, Funny Stuff, Lex, Neptunus Lex

By lex, on December 6th, 2005

Phase II of the flight physical today. In the room alone with the doctor, the stethoscope and the tube of cold jelly.

Oh, the indignity!

So many things get better in the Navy, as one grows more senior. Your jokes get funnier. You get a nice parking place. Everyone calls you “sir,” and very often they appear to mean it. Which is a tremendous improvement from ensign days, let me tell you. People tend to be nicer in general, even solicitous at times: “Would you care for the VIP room, Captain?”

“Why yes. Yes, I would.”

You could get full of yourself, if you weren’t careful. All puffed up, even. But in a flight physical follow-up on the wrong side of forty, you are not offered the VIP treatment. Oh no, my son, not at all – not if it were ever so. In fact, it begins to appear as though this is how they let the hot air out:

“Elbows on the table, grandad. You know what to do.”

You: Did the fact that your doctor was a fetching lass of some thirty-odd summers do nothing to mitigate the intense position of moral disadvantage you found yourself in, Lex?

Me: It did not, Gentle Reader. To a surprising degree, it did not.

You: Were you at all concerned when the conversation, pre-… well, you know – when the conversation turned to how difficult it could be to be a female flight surgeon in a male dominated world at times?

Me: I will confess to a moment’s Seinfeldian angst at where this might take us, Gentle Reader.

You: Because of the payback potential?

Me: Precisely.

You: Ah.

You: Oh, right – it’s still my go. Was it cold in the room, Lex?

Me: Oh so very.

You: And because of that, did you experience any…

Me: That’s quite enough, I think!

So. 364 days and a wake-up.

At least she had small hands.

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Filed under Best of Neptunus Lex, by lex, Carroll "Lex" LeFon, Carroll LeFon, Humor, Life

Forgive, if you will

By lex, on December 7th, 2005

It was a long time ago, now.

But never forget:

When a West Coast ship enters Pearl Harbor, as it inevitably will either going to, or returning from a forward deployment, the ship will “man rails” on either side of the ship and “render honors” to the USS Arizona as they pass.

Sometimes an old salt will look at the young Sailors coming into the Navy and breathe a soft sigh of despair – many of them are so very different from those of us whom they will replace. But when you see them fight for a spot up on the steaming flight deck inbound to the harbor, when you see them compete with the embarked Marines for sharpness of dress and military bearing, when you see them stand at attention and present-arms with ramrod stiff postures and deadly seriousness in their eyes, you know: It’s going to be OK.

They remember.

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Filed under Best of Neptunus Lex, Carroll "Lex" LeFon, Carroll LeFon, History, Navy, Patriotism

Equestrian Sports

By lex, on January 20th, 2004

The Kat is into equestrian sports. She’s nine years old…

Equestrian sports are in healthy competition with boating for “World’s Most Expensive Hobby.” If a boat is, in fact, a hole in the water you pour money into, as pointed out yesterday, horseback riding (hunter/jumper!) is a mouth you stuff greenbacks in, to get horse fewmets in return.

Actually, there are several mouths to feed: the horse, of course: the trainer; the stabler; the vet; and the farrier (don’t ask me what a farrier is, I don’t know). All of these wonderful folks will tell you that horseback riding for a young girl is cheaper than drug rehab, and I suppose that’s true.

But it’s yet to be proven to my satisfaction that this is an either/or proposition. If your nine year old does not ride horses, must it necessarily follow that she will have a cameo in the next “Traffic” episode?

But my satisfaction is beside the point, obviously. The Kat is version 3.0 of “she who must be obeyed,” and so we are all, all of us, equestrians now.

I have come to the conclusion, having ferried the Kat to and from no small number of riding sessions, that equestrianism is the principal domain of the female of the species. Sure, if you go to a horse show, you may see some full grown men riding quite creditably. But apparently, they get their expertise like Neo got his karate skills in “The Matrix.” They are placed upon some barbaric barber’s chair, strapped down wrist and ankle, and then a probe is placed into their skull, transferring at T2 speeds the entire skill set required to compete at an advanced level. This must be true, because every time I go down to the stable, it is myself and the farrier (doing God alone knows what) who represent the male of the race.

Of women, all shapes, sizes and ages, there is no apparent upper limit.

There is something going on here among the girls that boys (and men) cannot quite understand, and like many things in the world of women, it sometimes makes us feel a little stoopid.

I wonder what it costs, that barber’s chair?

The Kat won several ribbons of various colors during a competition last Summer, and I was very proud of her, if not entirely sure what she had done to earn them. The entire process is a mystery: lovely young ladies with faces set in granite ride horses about a “ring,” instructions are given over the “loudspeaker,” and obeisance is made to a series of hard eyed “judges,” who pull thoughtfully on their chins and scribble on a “clipboard,” each time your daughter comes around. Insofar as I am aware, they only judge my daughter…

Shortly thereafter, a series of ribbons are awarded. Repeat. For several hours.

It turns out that during these competitions, there are other mouths that must be fed: apart from the usual retinue (Sean Combs would be proud) there is the groomer (he grooms the horse, I believe – I do not think the farrier can do his job), the driver, and of course the various merchants who sell paraphernalia for riding (boots, garters, hunting jackets, hair nets) that are utterly unsuitable for any other purpose whatsoever.

And all of this mystifies me utterly. I mean, wouldn’t a motorcycle be more efficient, in the long run?

But please don’t take this as a rant, or even a bleat. Riding makes her happy, so it makes me happy.

It’s just hard to realize that, at age 9, your youngest has already somehow been initiated into that wonderful, rich, magical world of womanhood of which we men can only see the rough outlines. We see the outer margins only, fully aware that the totality escapes us.

And I never saw it coming. She’s only nine.

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Filed under Best of Neptunus Lex, by lex, Carroll "Lex" LeFon, Carroll LeFon, Family, Humor


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facetious map of cats brain

Let’s face it — for all the centuries that cats have been domesticated, they still remain enigmas. We find ourselves still puzzled by the question, “how do cats think?” This post will offer some suggestions and ask some questions, as Lucinda the literate cat and her CCL (Cantankerous Cat Lady) give their views on the … Read more

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5 Doubts About Fire Extinguisher Testing You Should Clarify

5 Doubts About Fire Extinguisher Testing You Should Clarify

Fire extinguishers are relatively simple machines to use; however, there are a lot of differences between their contents and use. Fire extinguisher testing needs to be done on a regular basis. Before purchasing your extinguisher, you need to ensure you are using the correct type.

When dealing with a fire hazard, fire extinguishers are your first point of defence. You can manage or extinguish more than 90% of all fires with a portable fire extinguisher. That’s why it is important to check a fire extinguisher regularly as it helps save lives. The professional extinguisher testing team will make sure that your fire extinguishers are in working order. This helps you to provide a vital safeguard against future fire risks.

There are several different types of fire extinguishers. Each extinguisher has its purpose and contains unique contents designed to smother different fires. The experts of fire extinguisher servicing technicians are familiar with each kind of extinguisher, as well as how often they need to be tested.

Undoubtedly, all companies have a responsibility to protect their employees. Providing your staff with maintained fire protection equipment will ensure they have the best chance of avoiding harm in an emergency. It is important to reduce damage to your property and remain compliant with workplace safety standards. The timely servicing of fire extinguishers must be conducted by an experienced technician.

Fire Extinguisher Testing

Care and Maintenance of Your Extinguisher

You must inspect your extinguisher at least once a month and also ensure that:

  • The extinguisher is not blocked by tools, coats, or other objects that could interfere with access in an emergency
  • The pressure is considered to be at the recommended level. On extinguishers equipped with a gauge that means the needle needs to be in the green zone that is not too high and not too low
  • No obstructions are in the way of the nozzle
  • There are no dents, leaks, rust, chemical deposits and other signs of abuse/wear
  • Some manufacturers recommend that shaking your dry chemical extinguishers once a month helps to prevent the powder from settling/packing

Fire extinguishers should be pressure tested (a process called hydrostatic testing) after five years to make sure that the cylinder is safe to use. It is essential to consult your owner’s manual, extinguisher label or the producer to see when yours may need such testing.

If the extinguisher is broke or requires refilling, we suggest to replace it immediately.

How often do I need fire extinguisher maintenance?

According to the regulatory authorities, fire extinguisher test and refill services need to occur at the following intervals:

  • All portable and wheeled fire extinguishers require testing every 6 months
  • Pressure testing and refills need to be carried out at least once every 5 years

The fire extinguisher tag should only be circulated by a trained individual. The technicians are supported by membership with the Fire Protection Association. They ensure that the safety testing staff have access to the support and ongoing training they require to provide reliable fire protection.

Test fire extinguisher devices in your workplace today

During fire extinguisher inspections, a professional team will check for cracks or imperfections in the cylinder lining. They also look for any corrosion that may indicate the need for a replacement cylinder. Your local fire safety technician will perform a detailed inspection and testing procedures according to the regulatory standards.

The following items cover the checks the professional technicians perform before applying fire extinguisher service tags:

  • Accessibility
  • Anti-tamper device
  • Exterior & instruct
  • Service tag
  • External damage
  • External corrosion
  • Outlet hose assembly
  • Pressure indicator
  • Contents full charge
  • Signage
  • Support bracket
  • Discharge nozzle
  • Weight

Friendly and Effective Service

You’ll also find that experienced technicians will take care of everything in their tests. They’ll substantiate that your extinguishers are compliant in terms of signage, weight, service tags, accessibility and more. This shows that your extinguishers are compliant and ready to use.

Why should You choose Professionals fire extinguisher testing?

The experienced fire extinguisher testing service covers a data management system that takes care of your extinguisher testing records. They offer each of the clients a document that details the status of each device they test. Every item on the report corresponds to the fire extinguisher tagging the technicians carry out on-site.


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Governor Newsom Champions Violence while Silencing the Church

In the latest attack on the Church, democratic California Governor Newsom prosecutes Harvest Rock Church of Pasadena and its leaders for exercising their constitutional right to worship. Founding Pastor Ché Ahn, among every other member of his congregation, is now facing criminal charges.

Harvest Rock Church and Harvest International Ministries, represented by Liberty Counsel, is now initiating a federal civil complaint against the governor. “We are trying to take a prophetic stand for what we believe is right,” says Pastor Ché in a recent service. “We are in a battle for the soul of America,” he declared.

On August 13, the church received a letter issued by the Criminal Division of the Pasadena City Prosecutor’s Office stating “Each day in violation is a separate violation and carries with it a potential punishment of up to one year in jail and a fine for each violation….”

The letter infringes upon the first amendment by interfering with the exercise of religion. Liberty Counsel issued a statement arguing that “Americans have a right to religious freedom, unencumbered by the demands and edicts of government officials.” Liberty Counsel is also representing pastors and churches in five states who are now suing their governors in separate federal lawsuits.

“After preaching in some of the most dangerous countries in the world, Pastor Ché Ahn is being persecuted right here in America for sharing the Gospel,” says Mat Staver, chairman of Liberty Counsel.

Governor Newsom has clearly shown a lack of consistency when it comes to enforcing the rules. With the BLM protests widespread, where thousands of people gathered in close contact on the streets of Pasadena, the city has not enforced any form of social distancing measures nor issued any warning or criminal sanctions against the protestors. This week, members of BLM blocked entrances of St. Francis hospital where two California deputies were rushed to undergo emergency services after being ambushed in their patrol car. BLM members chanted, “Y’all gonna die,” in yet another incident of unaddressed BLM violence and disregard for Covid 19 by Governor Newsom. Staver, therefore, argued that “government entities may not discriminate against one constitutionally protected right while promoting another.”

Governor Newsom has deemed churches as “non-essential,” while allowing liquor stores, marijuana dispensaries, and abortion clinics to operate with minimal restrictions.

To many, the church serves as the foundational aspect of daily life. People go to church to seek God’s guidance and to seek fellowship and spiritual growth. The church also provides a setting for members of the community to connect. It is where children are taught morality and ethics and how to become contributing members of society. Through charity organizations, the church provides financial support for the unfortunate and helps individuals in dire situations get back on their feet without seeking any publicity or attention. Thus, it is the backbone of every society. In a nation birthed with religious freedom, the threat of criminal sanctions against religion evokes memories of tyrannical regimes.

“Please be in prayer for Pastor Ché Ahn and each of the brave pastors facing fines, arrest and imprisonment for worshipping God. These Christian servants go to bed each night not knowing if they will be taken from their families, their children and their flocks,” Mat Staver wrote in a newsletter.

The case, Harvest Rock Church and Harvest International Ministry v. CA Gov. Gavin Newsom, is currently on appeal.

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Highs and Lows and Highs…..

Highs and Lows and Highs…..

Well this horsey business is a roller-coaster isn’t it! One minute you are on top of the world and the next you are (literally) flat on your face in mud.

This month started with Eland BE90. Amber was AWESOME. She slipped 3 times in the dressage and I over-rode for a silly pole SJ but flew the XC with just 2 time pens. She did not hesitate at a thing and could have gone round 3 times. Woohoo. It was just brilliant. And has answered my ‘should I event her barefoot’ question. (No.)

Then 2 weeks later it was time for Bradwall BE90. Storm Hannah hit and the conditions were HORRENDOUS. Relentless heavy rain, strong winds, the odd flurry of hail. I sat in the lorry staring gloomily at horizontal rain pondering my options. A friend updated FB: “I’ve been eliminated in the SJ and am waiting for a tractor to tow me off.” A teenager from my yard finished, was shivering like a whippet and withdrew her 2nd horse. What to do? But in the end I decided that dealing with adverse conditions is part of eventing. I did not want Amber to have a negative experience but how would I know how she would cope unless I tried? I’ve ridden in clinics in worse conditions (possibly), my manta being: if they’ll teach in it, I’ll ride in it. So I needed to just get out there and do my best. And Amber needed to suck it up and listen to me regardless of the weather. And, bless her, she did.

A hail-storm hit as we warmed up for dressage but despite that she rode a calm(ish) obedient(ish) test. She was not straight as she kept bending her head and body away from the wind but I’ll let her off that. It was a 39.8 – so not a good score  – but I was thrilled with her attitude which was kind of resigned and accepting as opposed to having a tantrum or freaking out.

So onto show-jumping which was where my day ended when I tried to play safe at the last fence and held her for an extra stride. Which meant she hit the churned up rubbish in front of the fence, lost her footing and skidded in. She made to jump anyway so I went forward then she sensibly changed her mind and I  toppled down her neck.  The most ridiculously unnecessary fall. So mad with myself. I spent all evening beating myself up about a) taking her in the first place and possibly knocking her confidence and b) stuffing it up and knocking mine!

Then I re-read the ideas around embracing failure: If I ride to my limits then I will sometimes mess it up. And I will learn from that and get  better. The only way not to fail is to never try anything hard. And actually I discovered that Amber is pretty robust in bad weather which is useful to know.  And seemed totally unconcerned by the skid or the unplanned dismount. Plus I learnt that if I try to play it safe, I interrupt the flow, overthink things and make a hash of it. Tentative and hesitant riding is not the way to go. So that’s another mistake I’ll know not to make again.

Straight after Bradwall it was the pairs HT at Eland Lodge over the BE80 course. What a difference a day makes! The sun was shining and we were eating ice creams in t shirts. The twins entered on their matching white ponies and they looked great. Even better, they rode great too! Dolly led Jenny round and both jumped confident clears. Dolly acts way older than her tender years! She is a real old soul. She is just so brave and bold.

So we are back on top of the world again. For now. But one thing for sure is that horsey fortunes are as fickle as the British weather. And to enjoy the sunny uplands we have to do a lot of hard, hard work in the rain. But that is what makes the successes all the sweeter.

Keeping it real

Keeping it real

The law of averages dictate that most of us, most of the time, in most things, are – well – average. In every competition there are a small number of people who place and a far larger number who don’t. And in every competition there is someone listed last and people who don’t  actually score at all due to elimination. Being dead last seems pretty undesirable for most people. But for every first place there is a last place and a whole bunch of in-the-middle-somewhere places and a fair smattering of ‘it really wasn’t my day’ non-placings.

However if you enjoy insta and FB and spend Sunday evening catching up with equine news of friends and friends of friends you might be forgiven for thinking that everyone smashes it all the time. Everyone except you.

Don’t get me wrong – I love it when people share their achievements with their friends on FB. I love seeing the reports and the photos. Other people’s achievements are inspiring and it’s great seeing friends doing well. And I am also not suggesting that people should post about their disappointments if they don’t want to. People use social media however they want to.  But it IS worth bearing in mind that when you read social media that for many people insta and FB are the modern day equivalent of the holiday photo album: we show pictures of smiling kids, spectacular scenery and sunshine. We edit out the tantrums, the projectile car sickness episodes and the sunstroke.

I have twin daughters and it so happens that sometimes one or other of them is having a run of great form and good luck, or  of poor form and bad luck. And every so often one’s purple patch just happens to coincide with the other one’s doldrums. And yet I see the effort they both make day after day, week after week, month after month. So one Sunday when one had had a great day and the other hadn’t I wrote a FB post which seems to have resonated as it was widely shared. So I have reproduced it below.  I choose to post the good, the bad and the ugly but that is only because my blog is my story and I want it to be a complete record of where I came from and where I eventually get to.

But no-one is obliged to post anything if they don’t want to and many understandably choose not to post when things have not gone well. So it is important to remember that you are seeing a small selection of the weekend events and not to compare your own messy, frustrating, up and down equine life with other people’s highlights.

I wrote:

I would like to offer a shout out to all those who did not have a great day. Who have worked just as hard, are just as committed, spent just as long schooling, fittening, training, bathing, plaiting, preparing and psyching themselves up. Who tried just as hard. To jump clear and place, everything has to go right. To fall flat on your face (metaphorically or literally) can happen in any one of a dozen ways. So for those who had run outs, refusals, poles, falls, eliminations, errors of course, time penalties or ponies who stopped to wee in the middle of a round (been there!!) it doesn’t matter. You are all awesome to be out there competing in the sport we all love. You care for your horses and ponies, you train hard, you are brave, focused, tenacious and dedicated. And your time to celebrate will come!

Happy horsing everyone. However it is going right now.


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Guest Post

by Caryl Moll

I have a large collection of used pencil crayons that have been acquired over almost 50 years. Most of them are extremely worn down. The very short ones have only a few centimetres of colour left to offer. Some have eroded labels that have been scraped to allow space for someone’s name to be etched onto the side. They mostly belonged to my children who used them for school projects and tasks, but some go back even further in history. The original owners have moved on now, but the crayons themselves have not lost their nostalgia.

This morning, I was cleaning out my den and I uncovered this old crayon collection. I laid them out lovingly on my desk. Their colours and shapes dazzled me. How many hands had held these pencils over the years, I wondered.  What were they used for? Did they help in achieving the handler’s goal? How many creative ideas have flowed from their tips? I could only smile as I thought back on those times and the people involved. Certainly, I have a very special history contained in this pencil collection – a precious one indeed.

Sometimes it helps to look back on history – to remember the paths that have been carved out by those people who have gone before us; to learn from their decisions too. Their history tells its own story and we can shape our own from the lessons taught.

The bible speaks about this too:

16 This is what the Lord says:

“Stand at the crossroads and look;
    ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
    and you will find rest for your souls.” (Jeremiah 6:16)

Did you know that this particular verse is hanging up on one of our banners in our church’s sanctuary? The banner itself was created at the time of New Harvest’s birth. I remember how our fellowship group took a whole Saturday to lovingly shape this banner. It holds wonderful images of us all sitting on the floor together, working on this project to lead us into the years ahead. The verse itself is from my own childhood prayer book. It speaks of a time of decision making and a need to draw closer to the ancient paths which have already been travelled.

Perhaps take a moment to study this scripture and reflect it into our own life too. The lessons from those who have gone before us and knelt at the altar of God may well bring us peace. What path will you choose?

With love, in Christ

This Post Has 4 Comments

  1. Heike Joubert

    beautiful Caryl … just what I need to pass on to a friend of mine struggling with thoughts of fear and doubt, like so many people today. Thanx for this beautiful message. You really are a story teller, beautiful God given talent. God bless you.

    1. Caryl

      Thanks Heike. You too are amazing in your affirmations. God bless. Xxx

  2. Priscilla Hlabangana

    A beautiful analogy of the impact many people have made in our lives. How they have helped us to choose the right paths in times of doubt and confusion. Thanks Caryl

  3. Wendy Richardson

    I am so thankful for wise and faithful parents, Christain friends, teachers, ministers and many more. What a rich inheritance the Lord has blessed me with. Thank you Caryl.

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Thorough Explanation of the Baccarat Counting Mechanism for Winning

Baccarat counting is best done immediately after the dealer shuffles the cards. It is best used after the counting accuracy has improved towards the end of the game. But, the online casino table game บาคาร่า (Baccarat cannot be effective because the cards are shuffled for each game.

Also, be aware that the cards will be shuffled at the live casino near the end of the game. Mastering counting will help you improve your intuition, and you can use it in combination with other winning methods. So before playing online baccarat games, you should be mastering counting.

Whatever; if you are interested to know the baccarat counting, you are coming to the right place. The article provided a detailed outline of Baccarat counting, so keep reading this guide at the end.

What is Baccarat Counting?

Baccarat counting is a technique that records all the cards dealt by the dealer and keeps track of the cards remaining in the card box called the shoe. In Baccarat, the game is played with 6 to 8 decks of cards, with 52 playing cards as one deck. And since the used cards are discarded without being returned to the shoe, the number of cards in the shoe decreases as the game progresses.

Therefore, which of the bunker players will benefit from the tendency of the cards remaining in the shoe? Because you can judge, you can increase the winning percentage. This counting method is considered an NG act at most authentic land casinos due to its high effectiveness. Still, it can be used at เว็บบาคาร่าออนไลน์ (online baccarat web) site because surveillance cameras are not checked.

How to count baccarat counting:

Counting keeps track of all the cards dealt by the dealer, but you don’t have to memorize them all. Most simply, you can record the numbers on each card with a piece of paper and a pen as a “positive” character, or you can record them with a dedicated counting app or tool.

First, check the number used to deck at the baccarat and count immediately after the dealer shuffled the cards. When the game is nearing the end and the remaining cards in the shoe are low, the battle situation is judged by the following method.

  • Player advantage if there are many cards of “4” or less in the shoe
  • Bunker advantage if there are many cards of “6” or more in the shoe

Baccarat counting mechanism:

The secret lies in the card bias that always occurs in Baccarat. The playing cards used in Baccarat are 6 to 8 decks with 52 cards from “1 to 13” as one deck. The dealer shuffles these cards before the game starts, but no matter how hard you shuffle them, they will not be perfectly even.

Indeed, there will always be a bias in the cards, creating a wave of gambling, with consecutive bunker wins and alternating bunker players winning. Baccarat counting helps you bet on your next bet by understanding the bias of those cards, so you can place more strategic bets than just betting by intuition.

Final Thought:

In online casino baccarat, various strategies have been devised. Among them, “counting” is a powerful baccarat strategy prohibited by the management side of the real casino. Counting keeps track of the numbers of the remaining cards that have not been dealt with in Baccarat.

In the real scene, if you master it, you will be able to improve your intuition and use it to capture Baccarat. By adopting this strategy, the winning potentiality is increased, and you can earn lots of money.

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Movin’ & Groovin’ | The North Shore Moms

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An event every week that begins at 10:00 am on Friday, repeating until June 11, 2021

Fresh air, fine tunes, and a chance for little ones to let loose? Sounds like music to our ears. Join us for junior jam sessions on The Green, hosted by Jammin with You.

To ensure comfort and safety, advanced registration is required, and capacity will be limited to abide by local regulations.

Ready to rock? Check out the deets below before signing up.

  • Secure a spot for the little performer in your life by clicking here or clicking the “Register” button below.
  • Classes are scheduled weekly on Fridays, 10:00 – 10:45 AM, from April 30 – June 11. June 18 & June 25 are reserved in case of rain.
  • All classes will take place on The Green and will require social distancing.
  • Classes cost $10/class/first child, $5/class/each additional sibling.
  • Classes are best suited for children ages 6 months – 6 years.
  • Families must bring their own instruments and props. Please click here for suggestions or to order a kit.

May 21
10:00 am - 10:45 am
Event Category:

MarketStreet Lynnfield
600 Market Street
Lynnfield, MA 01940 United States
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Stay up-to-date with what is happening in-and-around the North Shore of Boston, MA with local events, community highlights, and exclusive deals.


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Summer Picnic Concert Series | The North Shore Moms

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Summer Picnic Concert Series

August 27 @ 5:00 pm - 8:00 pm

|Recurring Event (See all)

An event every week that begins at 5:00 pm on Friday, repeating until August 27, 2021

Summer Picnic Concert Series

Friday evenings in July & August

Transition from your busy week into the weekend surrounded with fragrant flowers and warm breezes at our Friday night summer picnic concerts.

Enjoy a socially distant picnic spot in the gardens to spread out your blanket and enjoy the evening. Food and brewery vendors on site each evening for all your picnicking needs.
Doors open at 5PM. Music begins between 5:30PM and 6PM.

July 9th – Three at Home – harmony-driven pop-rock

July 16th Marina Evans – jazz with traditional folk

July 23rd The Love Dogs – jump blues, New Orleans R&B and early rock ‘n’ roll

July 30th Grain Thief – Americana string band

August 6th Matt Heaton & The Outside Toys – Rockabilly, surf, and American roots for families

August 13th – New England Film Orchestra – Symphonic concert orchestra

August 20th – Grace Givertz – Instrumental folk

August 27th – Terrafunk – Funk, Soul, and Rock & Roll

Space is limited; Pre-registration required.

BYOB Prohibited. Lawn chairs welcome.

For more information, please contact

Refund policy: Refunds must be requested no less that 7 days prior to event date to be honored.

A weather decision, if necessary, will be announced on social media and emailed to ticket holders, by 10AM on Friday.

*New Entrance: 153 Chickering Road, North Andover MA

Nonmember adult: $20

Trustees member adult: $12

Children: Free

August 27
5:00 pm - 8:00 pm
Event Category:

The Stevens Coolidge House
113 Andover St.
North Andover, MA United States
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Stay up-to-date with what is happening in-and-around the North Shore of Boston, MA with local events, community highlights, and exclusive deals.


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Brutus – the good boy!

999673_10151484531758317_267512270_n‘Am I a good boy?”

My puppy Brutus graduated from Puppy group last Saturday, he did if I say so myself, do exceptionally well and won the sniffing contest and had to sniff out food under cones and got to eat everything that he found. Well I dont call him Brutus ‘the breakfast boy’ for nothing. (he does a breakfast dance every morning)

Anyway, all the dogs were chatting except for the staffie, she hadnt turned up for the last day. The dogs were all moaning about how cold it was, how some of them were tired and could have easily stayed in bed, one of them – the tatty terrier had his own jacket on which Brutus was jealous of, although why I do not know as he eats everything I give him and no doubt he would eat his jacket had he been wearing it.

‘She won’t get her certificate’ Jackie the border collie whispered to Shadow the retriever who nodded in agreement.

‘Does that mean she is not a good girl?’ Brutus asked, his forehead creased with worry, in fact Brutus always looked worried – life in general made Brutus worry, as did the thought of a food shortage.

‘Oh she is a good girl I am sure, but perhaps her owners were busy or something’ Jackie reassured Brutus and then licked his genitals while he cleaned round her mouth in return. Personally I would not have allowed it as I know where Brutus’s mouth has been and it usually involves Gordons butt and more lately, the litter tray – need I say any more!

‘Shhh, it’s started’ Shadow said in his firm retriever voice. You see all dogs have their own voice – be it a mongrel voice, a whippet voice, a kelpie voice, a mixed breed voice or in Brutus’s case, a bloody big deep voice.

Puppy group was good fun as we all had to put our dogs through an obstacle course – Jackie was first and then Brutus was second.

Jackie did a stirling and somewhat perfect job of sitting in the hoop, weaving in and out of the cones and laying down in the cones for 10 seconds.

‘Go on Jackie, you can do this!’ Shadow and the small tatty terriers yelled from the sidelines.

‘Go on, run yer tits off!’ Brutus shouted in his deep voice that sounded like a big fierce dog and not a six month old puppy.

‘Brutus don’t be so rude!’ Shadow said in his firm voice, trying to be grown up as he was the biggest of the group.

Brutus blushed at his reprimand and then before he knew it, it was his turn to do the course.

‘Go on Brutus, you can nail this, you’ve got this!’ Tatty terrier shouted in his tatty voice.

‘Go on Brutus, you can do it!’ Jackie the border collie shouted. She really did have a crush on him and it would be rather marvellous if he did well. Perhaps they could get a job together on a farm and herd sheep, she would like that and although you wouldn’t think it, Brutus is rather good at herding, his inner Ridgeback has frequent battles with his inner kelpie and he often finds himself herding everything (including me) and then wanting to bring it down like the lions in Africa – which is what Ridgebacks were originally bred for.

Brutus swallowed nervously and took his place and we were given the command to do the course.

‘Sit in the circle’ The dog trainer instructed and Brutus dutifully sat down trembling in the circle like a good boy.

‘Weave in and out of the cones’ She ordered and we went in and out of the cones.

‘Drop for ten seconds’ She ordered and Brutus dropped although the treat in my hand made lying on the cold wet grass for ten seconds a lot easier.

‘Go on Brutus!’ his pals all yelled from the side, even the magpies who were watching from the trees were shouting ‘Go on my son!’ and clapping their wings. It was rather nice that the local birds had got involved with supporting the dogs, they were a regular group that watched the class in the hope of treats that fell on the floor.

When all the dogs had finished, we did the sniffing contest where treats were hidden under the cones and each dog had to race one another as to who could sniff out the treats and get to the end.

‘I will be good at this, I can sniff out dead bodies and the food inside them’ Brutus said dramatically.

‘Bollocks can you’ Shadow snorted with laughter and even the magpies on the sidelines sniggered.

‘It’s the hound in me you see, I am half ridgeback’ Brutus said and then added ‘I have the best of both worlds, I sniff, I hunt and I herd it up and I eat it and I can shit like a man’

‘Off you go Turd Legs’ Tatty terrier yelled to Brutus, who had earned the name ‘Turd Legs’ long ago when he had that episode of shitting the bed and slipping in his own turd in the garden and more recently, eating Gordons turd from the litter tray and justifying it on the grounds that it was ‘cat nuggets’.

Almost trance like, Brutus snorted along the floor and with an uncanny speed, snouted out the treats from each cone and before the others had barely started, Brutus stood proudly at the end smacking his chops which are so crumpled, he looked like an old man with no teeth, chewing a toffee.

‘I am so going to get diarrhoea for this’ He yelled proudly, he did as well, his stomach is that sensitive but as he had been a good boy, a bit of diarrhoea in return for treats could be overlooked – just this once, a bit like eating chocolate when you know it will make you sick.

‘Good boy!’ Jackie shouted proudly and then blushed as everyone looked at her.

After that we did another game called ‘Simon Says’ involving obedience commands so you get the general picture and Rocky was rather good at it and came third I think (not sure).

‘Bollocks!’ tatty terrier yelled as he was eliminated and then shouted ‘I was robbed’

By the end of it, Brutus got sent off because he was too tired to sit quickly or do anything quickly and the only thing he could do quickly was say ‘fuck it, I have had enough, I am hungry and tired’ – never mind the fact he had stuffed his face all morning with puppy chow and treats.

And before we knew it, the class was over and our prizes were handed out, Brutus got a Dentastix chew for coming first in the sniffing contest, he got a bonio for the obstacle course and a dog biscuit for the ‘Simon Says’ – all of which could give him the shits so it was decided to share the treats with Rocky – much to Brutus’s protests as he believes that all food belongs to him.

‘Give us a bit of that dog biscuit’ One of the magpies yelled from the branch. He was quite a tough magpie and wore a leather jacket and carried a flick knife, he was a formidable enemy and Brutus was rather scared. However, come between Brutus and his food and that was another matter.

‘Fuck off, I ain’t sharing’ Brutus hissed back and tatty terrier giggled at Brutus’s bravery.

‘Just you wait till breeding season Turd Legs, I am gonna swoop you’ Magpie replied and then crapped – just missing Brutus’s head. I believed him too as I have been swooped by magpies when I used to ride my electric bike to work and could regularly be seen cycling down the road at 40km an hour with my bike on full power as I tried to dodge magpies, I may have even been shouting ‘Piss off you bastards’ as I did so.

We all stood up to receive the certificates of graduation, the boy dogs puffed out their chests and smoothed their ears out, you could see them standing so proud, all ready to graduate. Those that had beards cleaned them, the girls checked their teeth and ears – it was so sweet, you should have seen them all trying to straighten themselves out and smarten themselves up.

‘Don’t we throw our hats in the air like they do at Uni?’ Shadow asked – the other dogs laughed.

‘I don’t have a hat’ Brutus whispered to me looking worried.

‘You don’t need a hat to throw Brutus, this is not a degree you are getting’ I comforted him as his little head creased again with worry. I hadn’t seen him look that worried since Rocky pissed on his head the other week.

‘You can throw your collar – I dare you’ Jackie suggested and then giggled as the other tatty terrier snorted with laughter. The other dogs then all got excited about throwing their collars in the air until someone said that was not allowed as their leash was attached.

So the certificates were handed out with the dogs names on them – each dog examined their certificate and they were all unusually quiet as though they couldnt quite believe they were all officially ‘good dogs’.

‘Are you crying Brutus?’ Shadow asked sternly and then gave Brutus a friendly poke.

Brutus bit his lip and stood up and said ‘No, don’t be daft’. (he is such a liar, he was crying because I saw him.

Brutus gets his certificate of graduation

Even the magpies were nodding proudly, acknowledging the puppies and their achievement.

‘Will I see you again?’ Jackie whispered to Brutus as we all said goodbye to one another.

‘Not sure, I hope so’ Brutus’s little brown face stared at Jackies black and white one. She really was the star pupil of the class and I am sure will have her own flock of sheep one day.

‘Call me!’ Jackie mouthed to Brutus and did a phone impression as he got in the car.

It was a subdued puppy that I drove home that day, despite getting his certificate and winning prizes for both himself and Rocky, he loved his puppy group and would miss it, and I had no doubts about his attraction for Jackie.

‘Mum?’ Brutus asked as we were about halfway home.

‘Yes Brutus?’ I asked him – canine question time again!

‘Can I go back for the intermediate puppy group?’ Brutus asked hopefully. He had grand plans for agility and everything!

Just as I was looking forward to getting my Saturday mornings back, I sighed and replied ‘Maybe Brutus, maybe’.

‘Mum?’ Brutus asked again.

Staring at him through my rear view mirror ‘Yes Brutus?’ I said.

‘Am I a good dog now that I have been to school?’ Brutus asked with his forehead all creased up.

Thinking of the past week where he had dug up a small section of $7,000 worth of fake lawn, eaten cat shit, pulled Abdel’s shirt off the line and stolen my knickers, the answer was debatable.

But then on the other side of the coin, he had started life out as a critically sick puppy, fought back from gastro, weighed little more than 7kgs when he came out of hospital and had fought back, attended and completed his course at puppy group.

He could now sit, drop, stay, shake hands, herd up the cat and myself, barks like a bastard to protect the garden, has a heart of gold, loves his family and his cuddles, adores Gordon (and cleaning his arse and eating cat shit).

He is six months old, he is an adolescent, he is pushing the boundaries with Rocky who duffs him up on a daily basis to put him in his place. He is not naughty, he is a normal healthy puppy doing normally puppy things.

He greets us when we get home, he sleeps quietly in his crate when it is required of him.

‘Mum?’ Brutus asked impatiently, ‘Am I a good boy now?’

‘Yes Brutus, you are officially a good boy’ I smiled proudly at him.

And with that, Brutus curled up happily on the back seat and went to sleep.

Brutus loves his puppy group

He is a good boy, he is our boy, he is my little Turd Legs, he is my eating machine, my kangaroo dog – he can jump 6 foot, he can dig a 2 foot hole he can chew, and he ‘talks’ like any good hound can.

Brutus sings the song of his people

Brutus – my dog and my very own good boy and yep, what is a bit of fake lawn anyway.

Samantha Rose (C) Copyright June 2013

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Home » Employee Abuse in the Workplace

Employee Abuse in the Workplace

This seminar addresses a topic long overlooked in the workplace – verbal and emotional abuse among employees, customers, and managers. Stimulating and controversial, this highly interactive seminar is for employees and managers as well as professionals who deal with conflict between the two.

The objectives of this seminar are for you to be able to:

  • acknowledge the existence of abuse in the workplace.
  • recognize the lines between unacceptable behavior and abuse.
  • identify the values, mindsets, responsibilities, recourses, and choices necessary to create a respectful workplace.


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Counselor / Therapist in Millstone, NJ

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Aspire Health Services LLC

Aspire Health Services LLC photo
Aspire Health Services (AHS) is a private, outpatient mental health practice owned and operated by Ellen Deckoff, LCSW. AHS's mission is to provide quality counseling services to individuals, couples, and families. Ellen Deckoff emphasizes short term, solution focused approaches to treatment. Depending on your situation the initial session(s) will be spent clarifying your issues. Once we understand your issues. we will agree on the goals you wish to accomplish. Tasks or assignments are given to be practiced between sessions. The tasks are aimed at moving you toward the therapeutic goals we set together. We will discuss these tasks and your progress frequently.
Practice Areas
 Counseling / Therapy  Life Transitions
 Anger Management  Loneliness
 Anxiety and Panic  Marriage & Family Therapy
 Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD)  Marriage Counseling
 Body Image Issues  Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
 Caregiver Issues  Online / Video / Teletherapy
 Coronavirus/COVID-19 Issues  Pre and Postpartum Mental Health
 Chronic Illness  Relationship Issues
 Couples Therapy  Self Esteem Issues
 Depression  Seniors and Elder Care Issues
 Divorce  Stress Management
 Eating Disorders  Trauma and PTSD
 Grief and Loss  Work and Career Issues
 Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW)  Master's Degree in Social Work (MSW)
MSW, LCSW, Ackerman Institute (2 year externship) in couple/family therapy
Payments Accepted
Cash, check
Hours:Day, evening and Saturday hours
4 Ephriam Rd
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Rent metal detector cardiff Tag | The Ring Finders

Diamond Rings Lost and Found Cardiff Beach

  • from Carlsbad (California, United States)

TheRingfinders Metal Detectors has helped reunite a wedding ring set with their owners. What a miracle behind the story for this search  recoverying such precious stones that contains a Large sentimental piece of monetarily valued metals and gemstones.

July 17th I noticed an add online in the San Diego Lost and found while googling. A lady who lost her wedding ring on or near Cardiff beach had needed some dire help.I emailed her to see if there was a chance myself Curtis Cox/a Member of TheRingFinders could help find this with a Metal detector and if it could be simply buried in the sand at one of many places the rings could of been lost during that particular day. She emailed me back right away and asked me what I charge and some details of when/where the rings could of disappeared. I replied to her  with the honesty of what I do and The link to Theringfinders sight where I have many story’s of successful recovery’s to read.

I have rescued many Rings for Free especially for The military and ALL service members who protect and serve our Great Country.  I do not have a charge to help, Sometimes I am offered a reward,Tip,Present or any Gratuity they can afford but No matter the Cost,I Volunteer my time regardless of the dollar figure,Item lost. I am blessed with very good Karma in addition to the Piece of mind that comes with in these hunts.

Later that day Brenda and I had chose a good time to meet that afternoon plus to rule out if these rings may of still been naturally buried in the wet/dry sand or lost along the roadway in the city where they had walked.

After going over fine details of where,when and how it was lost I prepared to get my feet wet and started in the most pro dominant area where it may have fell first,The waters edge where they moved a wagon and belonging’s after the High tide was moving in.

Roughly 20min after brenda headed home with her newborn in the hot sun I had dug up an obvious pennie sound,Then after a similar but distinctive tone 6-8″ deep in wet sand just  happened to be a tiny 14k band loaded with diamonds.I emediatly sent her a picture asking if she had lost 1 or 2 rings?? I did not know she had lost 2 rings until Brenda responded via text there was Two..and I had just found the band…Oh wow. Extatic we both may of been so I geared up my equipment again and scanned 3′ from the first ring and heard a crystal clear familiar sound then dug up the Main Motherload diamond ring!

I contacted Brenda with the good news & she drove back down there with a big Smile.😀.

I hope one day the world will know there are Metal detecting guys From Theringfinders all over the globe out there with a generously big heart and the skills needed to help locate and return your lost Precious Ring.


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Hebrew Israelite T-Shirt w/ Premium Gold Fringes

Regular price $21.95

** 100% Cotton Pre-shrunk T-Shirt  (Olive Green)  **

**  Beautiful Premium Gold Fringes & Blue Ribbon double-stitched **

** Wear your fringes like you obey His Law - EVERYDAY! **

** Read Numbers 15:38-40: "Speak unto the children of Israel, and bid them that they make them fringes in the borders of their garments throughout their generations, and that they put upon the fringe of the borders a ribband of blue: And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye may look upon it, and remember all the commandments of the LORD, and do them, and that ye seek not after your own heart and your own eyes, after which ye use to go a whoring: That ye may remember, and do all my commandments, and be holy unto your God." **


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AIDS Drama "Angels in America" Opens on Broadway (May 4, 1993)
Final Episode of "Golden Girls" Airs (May 9, 1992)

Pet Shop Boys Top the Charts With "West End Girls" (May 4, 1986)

Westendgirls_singleThe Pet Shop Boys is a British duo comprised of Neil Tenant and Chris Lowe.  Their first single,  West End Girls, went all the way to #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 the week of May 4, 1986.  They would have a number of other top-10 hits (including their duet with Dusty Springfield, What Have I Done to Deserve This?, which peaked at #2), but never another chart topper.  Despite their initial success PSB never achieved the level of mainstream success on our shores that they had in the U.K.; however, they did attain a lofty level of popularity among Uncle Sam's gay population.  Gay men embraced PSB's mix of theatrical electronica, catchy pop numbers with a political message and achingly beautiful ballads.  (I have 83 of their songs on my iPod.)

Neiltenant_chrisloweTheir limited popularity in America was likely due to the duo's sexual orientation, which was often reflected in the lyrics of their songs (especially a number of haunting melodies alluding to the AIDS crisis).  However, back in the 80's it was unheard of for entertainers to be "out" and the Pet Shop Boys were no different - but their gay followers were wise to their true nature.  Not until the mid-90's did Neil Tenant acknowledge his orientation - and Chris Lowe has always played coy.

In 2006 I saw PSB in concert at Radio City Music Hall but was disappointed by the lack of imagination and lack of much in a way of a stage presence (especially disappointing considering how inventive their videos were).  I suppose I was spoiled by the athleticism displayed by Madonna during her performances.

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Cut the Gourd

Author: Kirsten K., Holidays, Inspiration, Nostalgia
Cut the Gourd 1

These faux pumpkins can easily be mistaken for the real thing.

I love Halloween. When I was little, I’d start planning—and sometimes making—my costume in the summer. My crowning achievement was made in 8th grade. I’d seen and read Gone With The Wind months before and decided I wanted to dress up as Scarlett O’Hara. I sewed a petticoat out of an old bed sheet, attaching a hula hoop and two macramé hoops underneath to give it the proper bell shape. I couldn’t fit down the narrow walkways at a few of the houses on my Halloween route, so Kirsti (dressed sparingly as a Playboy bunny) had to trick-or-treat on my behalf.

Cut the Gourd 2

Isabel looks innocent enough by day on a tiny Tiger Cub Fun-Kin…

Carving the jack-o’-lantern was part of the fun, but it was almost an afterthought. My father did the actual carving, while my sisters and I sorted through pumpkin guts to extract the seeds for roasting. I remember the large knife and how difficult—and dangerous!—it was to cut the classic face of three triangles for the eyes and nose, plus a grinning mouth full of jagged teeth. Then, just as I began to outgrow trick-or-treating, Pumpkin Masters came on the scene and changed everything.

Cut the Gourd 3

…but the night reveals that inside she’s a bad (pumpkin) seed.

My sister Heidi was the first person I knew to carve a pumpkin using a Pumpkin Masters pattern and tools. Blown away by the level of detail, I thought she was an artistic genius until she explained the simple process. After that, my obsession switched from costumes to pumpkins. I’m no artist, but I can follow a pattern with precision, and this method seemed foolproof for someone with a steady hand and a little patience.

Cut the Gourd 4

This real pumpkin was only five inches tall, so I dubbed it Mini Mo.

Each year I’d search out new patterns to carve and marvel at the effects that could be achieved with just a few judicious cuts. I also became fixated on carving smaller and smaller pumpkins (the hollowing out of large pumpkins being my least favorite part of the process) and using increasingly complex patterns. When I’d see my hard work begin to shrivel up within 24-48 hours, I would become a little wistful, but I took pictures of each carved pumpkin as a memento. I briefly considered soaking my pumpkins in bleach to make them last longer, but it seemed wrong to defile an organic object that way. Better to let nature take its course and be Zen about the whole thing. That is, until I became a victim of “Skullduggery.”

Cut the Gourd 5

I went out on a limb with this Skullduggery design, which led me to branch out into faux pumpkins.

Last year I attempted my most ambitious carving. Years before, I’d discovered the witty and macabre designs known as Killhouettes when my sister gave me one as a gift. I thought they’d make perfect pumpkin-carving patterns, except for the fact that most of them seemed too complicated, but I finally decided to take a stab at the one titled Skullduggery. In the picture, two men in bowler hats face off with knives drawn behind a picket fence with a lamppost in the center, creating a skull in the negative space between, while tiny tree branches stand in for cracks in the forehead. I painstakingly cut the pattern and was pleased with the result…until I took it out of the fridge mere hours later to find that the delicate branches had shriveled up before the first trick-or-treaters had even arrived!

Cut the Gourd 6

This skull at Rise of the Jack O’Lanterns was created entirely with Fun-Kins.

I’d heard of Fun-Kins, which are faux, carvable pumpkins molded from living versions, but I considered myself a purist and only wanted to use the real thing. Not anymore! I was ready to trade in my environmental principles for the unspoiled glory of polyurethane foam. When Kirsti and I recently went to Rise of the Jack O’Lanterns at Descanso Gardens, I asked an employee if the large and elaborate displays were made from faux pumpkins, and she confirmed that, while many of the pumpkins throughout the exhibit were real, the showstopping arrangements were composed of carved Fun-Kins. I went home that night and placed my order.*

Cut the Gourd 7

Here comes the Bridezilla…

The pumpkins are lightweight and hollow with walls about half-an-inch thick. No scooping required. There was a bit of a learning curve as I got used to this new medium. It is easier to go around tight corners and carve tiny details with a real pumpkin, since the flesh has more give, but a Fun-Kin is more forgiving when it comes to precarious elements that hold on by a thread. I’ve had a few mishaps over the years with real pumpkins where a fragile piece broke off and needed to be staked with a toothpick, but Fun-Kins are sturdy. Based on the examples at Descanso, they lend themselves particularly well to etched designs, but I haven’t yet mastered the art using a linoleum cutter or similar tool to scrape an image into the surface of a pumpkin.

Cut the Gourd 8

…all dressed to kill on a white Brookester from Fun-Kins.

This year, I’m already enjoying my pumpkins instead of frantically carving them the afternoon of Halloween or doing so the night before and hoping the designs hold up in the fridge until the trick-or-treating commences. I’ve put them in my front window, each with one of Fun-Kins’ own battery-operated tealights to illuminate the design. I’m still going to carve a real pumpkin to put on the front porch with an actual candle inside. After all, you have to leave something for the juvenile delinquents to smash. But the pressure is off. I can use a simpler design and not worry if it rots or gets destroyed. There’s no reason to limit myself when I have so many choices, because attempting something like A Rose for Lady Ravencourt on a real pumpkin? I’d have to be out of my gourd!

S.W.O.O.N. Stamp
Stuff Worthy Of Our Notice™ in this post:

Pumpkin Masters

The Isabel, Skullduggery, and Bridezilla pumpkins are based on designs created by John Fair for Killhouettes. Rise of the Jack O’Lanterns can be seen in New York, San Diego, and Los Angeles through November 1st.

*My Fun-Kins arrived within two days of placing my order, so there’s still time to get yours before Halloween if you order in the next few days.

R.S.V.P. (Respondents Swoon Very Politely) Please

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UCS 20 - Ones to Watch - 80s Retro

UCS 20 - Ones to Watch - 80s Retro

UCS 20 - Ones to Watch - 80s Retro

Regular price $73.00 Sale price $44.00

Taking it back to the old school! This card was specifically designed to bring back some nostalgia. Customize and purchase your card today to get the perfect gift for the ULTIMATE sports fan!

Small (7.22″ x 11.72″)

Medium (10.10″ x 16.40″)

Large (14.20″x 23.18″)

Extra Large (20.25″ x 33.10″)

Payment: We currently accept Visa, Mastercard, Interact, Shop Pay, Apple Pay, and Google Pay as payment methods.

Standard Production: 5-7 Business Days

Unfortunately, due to the current COVID-19 situation, some couriers are experiencing minor delays, thus meaning delivery times may exceed the estimation we are provided.

Shipping Time: Approximately 7 Business Days

Need help or have questions? Click on SUPPORT to get all the information.

Top Quality
Quick Production
Fast Delivery
Our Guarantee