I have the understanding that the previously-mentioned salsa can be had at Cosco, so not really a sourcing issue.

Comparison born from a conversation this evening: The rifled 16-inch guns on the four WWII Iowa class battleships (New Jersey, Missouri, and Wisconsin were the other three) had a range of about 24 miles. The shells used against other ships were 2,700 pound armor piercing. These four battleships were the last ever made for the US Navy. Recently, the US Naval anti-ship missile has been the Harpoon with a 488 lb warhead and range of around 80 miles. A very good trade-off of explosive size for range and accuracy. Now US Navy will have the LRASM to throw 1000 lbs of high explosive at other boats within 350 miles. Accuracy within ten feet. The first versions are going on Hornets and Lancers, but their cousins will be fitted to vertical launch systems in the ships. China better keep turning out those destroyers.

An adult friend of mine lost his hearing recently. It turned out the wax and trace bits of other material had compacted in his ears. After a multi-day "softening/dissolving" drop treatment, he moved to a planned direct spray irrigation/flush with a mixture of alcohol, vinegar, and peroxide. The biggest chunk to fall out was roughly the size of a nickel. What the hell? This reminded me of a kid in elementary school named Scott. The gunk in his ears was only surpassed by the full double-plug of green/yellow buggers in Joe's nostrils. One day it was so bad that, as a 3rd-grade class, we appealed to the teacher to make him blow his nose. The teacher did us one better and held the tissues while she kept telling Joe to blow for successive rounds of new tissue until those cannons were bare. Prior to that assist, I doubt Joe had every breathed so well in his life. Anyway, Scott's ears weren't flush with the surface, completely full like Joe's nose, but the dark, dirty wax made scale sized stalactites and stalagmites. It was distressing enough that a group of us finally surrounded him and asked him why he didn't clean his ears. He claimed his mother did the cleaning. We made it clear that she was doing a shit job. I think she was one of those idiots that bought into the preemptive litigation packaging insisting that Q-tips were not to be placed in the ear canal. Where the fuck else would you put them? Did any teachers get involved, you ask? Well, not during school hours proper, but since his mother was the music teacher and Scott had magically cleaned ears the next day, I assume there was some kind of teaching done at his house overnight. Also, I was among the horrified witnesses of a retarded kid named Glenn pissing at the urinal with his pants around his ankles and a five inch piece of turd dangling from his butthole. It was a footrace to get the principal informed before that sucker broke loose. I still remember the look on that poor, dignified man's face and his gentle groan, "Awww, Glennnnn!"

It has been beautiful outdoor weather all week, but the heavy rain arrived in mid-afternoon. That took the post-work recreation out of the lake and into the house. I dominated at Bananagrams and Boggle. Then the indoor range in the basement garage was opened up for some archery. I put my second shot into the 2x4 under the shelf upon which the target block sits. I haven't shot since the fall, but after a couple rounds, my back stretched out, my eye calmed down, and I located my matchstick point-of-aim. I don't have any dynamite arrow experience (that's for Hansen), but I won't starve as long a there are rabbits, squirrels, and ducks around. I would have to pick up my stalking skills and find some broadheads if deer is to be on the menu.

A game I like to play when I am stuck in a public place at someone else's discretion is the "I never" game usually reserved for college freshmen drinking. Obviously, the drinking aspect is usually missing, as is the asking a group of strangers to raise hands. It is most fun for me to adjust the qualifying condition for minimal positive returns. Location matters; pedestrian mall, farmer market, public park, airplane, museum, airplane museum all have a different expected mix of humanity. One of my favorites is to look through the farmer market crowd and try to pick out anyone who had ever cleaned a kill for later consumption. There are better odds among the selling farmers, but the experimental vegan crowd usually makes for hard targets. Is there a blue-hair who grew up de-scaling or filleting fish caught for the family fish fry? Is that lady with crow's feet and a denim jacket the daughter of a father with no sons who took her out to kill her first deer at fourteen? That blonde in yoga pants with the golden retriever never marinaded duck she shot, brought back to the shore by her well-trained dog. If that blonde is wearing a jacket in Mossy Oak Shadow Grass Blades and walking a brown lab, the odds are going up.

There are some observable details that signal an individual has made, at least, a cursory examination of Life's finite quality and has decided to act accordingly. Furthermore, the most illuminating of these sign posts will reveal whether the individual has set upon a life of reflective integrity or spiraling despair. One such revelatory details must surely be the unit capacity of carbonated beverages purchased. For example, as one reaches for a bottle of Tonic Water, there is only one condition in which that bottle must be prior to the conjugal release of its contents to the partially filled glass of Ice and Gin. To be clear, that condition is factory sealed, or more colloquially, un-opened. Now, some may be attempting the reconciliation of liter bottles of Tonic Water open for an individual drink. It would be hoped that three or four genuine friends in communion on the deck or the beach would, by equal measure, distribute said Tonic to their respective libations, because if this is not the case, most certainly the selection of the liter bottle was made in haste or habit, without even a Fool's thought about the course this unmeasured decision has set for the Soul. As is the certainty that a human with a re-capped liter of Tonic Water will add the residual to a future glass of Potential, resulting in a diminished shadow of an experience that need not have seen the Spirit thus gutted, so is the certainty that same Unenlightened will reflexively excuse such a ruinous result as some type of misguided attempt of efficiency.

But do not advance to the conclusion that we have born witness to the aforementioned depths of anguish, as there might still be hope that the application of Knowledge to such a situation could blunt, or possibly cure, the wayward trajectory sufficiently for a chance at proper Redemption. No, if the reader needs exposure to such an incurable example as to generate that gasp of terror deep within the bosom, the focus should be on the shopping cart containing multiple 2 liters of Diet Coke, or possibly, store-branded generic flavors. These phantoms are of the type whose existence is distilled into a slow march in blinders to a personal gallows. Does any hope remain for the idled couch-ridden and their 2 liters of Mountain Dew Code Red? There does exist a way-point when the human condition has passed that event horizon of large-volume degradation, with the lowest possible odds of Salvation. This curse is known as the 3 liter bottle. Beware these plunderers of hope and dignity.

The moral of the story: If engagement with Tonic Water from Schweppes or Seagrams is necessary, 10 oz containers should be considered the upper limit. To truly live, find the Boylan or Fever-Tree in 200 ml/6.8 oz.

Lifetip: If it has a re-sealable, screw-on cap, it is a trap. Stick to classic bottle caps that deform upon opening or cans that punch out a tab.

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A friend, my dad, and I explored another segment of the Grand River utilizing Juneteenth. The Grand River is an underutilized resource. The new holiday in June should not be an underutilized resource. Luckily, I have an enlightened employer. We dropped in around 8 am and were out before noon. We saw two humans on our journey. We encountered a deer attempting to cross the river. The birds serenaded us. We floated slowly past herons, ducks, and swans during our trip. The next step looks like a drop in that takes us out to Grand Haven. Of course, we have also been taking laps around the lake in the mornings and evenings when the water is still and glassy.

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My Christmas present (chronograph) from my brother-in-law finally arrived after a period of back-order status. I can finally determine which specific .300 blk ammunition is leaving my 8" barrel at subsonic speeds. I would think that this should not be a hill I need to climb, but hell if the internet isn't a ball of contradiction and information black holes. I am spending some time switching out the buffer kit on the .300 blk to a lighter weight, in hopes that it will finally cycle a reload.

If you are looking for a can from Rugged, I think they are currently running a few specials where they will pay for your $200 tax stamp.

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I have been given access to a jar of Mateo's medium salsa out of Texas. I am not sure what their distribution footprint is right now (my jar came from Denver). I am not a salsa expert, but I am picky about which salsa I choose to eat. For years, my everyday driver has been Pace medium picante. I haven't purely enjoyed another salsa since the in-house salsa at the Peruvian place (Farolito, if I remember correctly) in Coconut Grove. If you see a jar of Mateo's and haven't tried it, I suggest that you do. I am running it 50/50 mixed with Pace as I type this.

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Why aren't more people panicking about the next presidential election? We have already established that both Trump and Biden are busted, but it is like both sides are playing a game of chicken. We are on track for an entire term of senility, no matter which is selected. And neither will keep the old Vice, right? Maybe that will be our salvation? Doubtful. How can so much time go by without someone interesting and viable positioning themselves for a shot at the nuclear football?