And now for something completely different!


After neglecting this bloody blog for a year (Thanks,"Professor!"), I return with something actually interesting. For a few years now I, D. E. R. Hohenburger, have participated in a much better blog, the Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler, under the name Xystus. The Rott bills itself as an affiliate of the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy™--and merits a profanity alert. It's a real free-speech site, sometimes even for lefty trolls! Anyhow its citizens occasionally arrange to meet in the analog ("real") world, including a theoretically annual event called RottFest. In recent years, at least, it's involved a week at a rented house (the exact location labeled "Sooper Sekret") near the beach in a section of Florida formerly known as the "Pirate Coast." The actual cost to participants seemed reasonable, and I paid my share off sooner than expected, thanks to an unusually productive casino visit.

I'd considered saving for other possible travel episodes this year, notably the GOP convention in the nearby Twin Cities. Given the results of the national campaign so far, however, it looks as if I won't be motivated to attend even if invited. It's hard to get excited about one of those party "coronations," which the event is shaping up to be, particularly when the presumptive nominee is not a guy we want as president! What's more, April tends to be just about my least favorite month here in the Lesser White North, as spring--from melted snow to allergenic tree pollen--is my least favorite of our seasons: a fine time to escape the environment I grew up in and enjoy more pleasant surroundings. (I didn't always think this way, but that's another story.)

A highlight of RottFest is range time, where L[oyal] C[itizen]s bring guns and shoot targets. I planned to pack the Witness .45 purchased more than a year ago & securely stored since my brother (now my household's landlord) took it for safekeeping. Well, he got it out & our county-mountie sibling gave me some preliminary instruction--which I was entitled to, as it'd been about 33 years since I'd last fired a gun. So next day, right before my departure date, the three of us drove a few miles out of town to a sand/gravel pit popular as an informal firing range, a spot I knew nothing about, assuming that the gravel pit I used to hear about was beyond the other end of town. Deputy Bro had me start with a .22 pistol of his; for the record that was the caliber I'd last fired, back during my senior year in high school. It seemed easier than I might have guessed. Not so for my gun! Still, our instructor declared my performance not bad, considering the circumstances, though he noticed a tendency to shoot a little high and to one side. Before we could expend much ammo, however, my weapon's extractor broke for no evident reason, halting the action. Bro Law said such failures just happened and weren't to be blamed on equipment or storage. Well, so much for packing my pistol...

That day had been cool and sunny--but the next pulled an Algorific joke on us, as in the return of winter--as in a heavy snowstorm--as in the deepest snowfall I'd seen here in some three decades of record-keeping! Our final score/toll was 23 inches Old Style, or 57 centimeters. We managed to get me to the airport on time, but the Northwest Airlink Saab turboprop I was supposed to ride out couldn't, or wasn't allowed, to make its final approach through the snowy clouds, and there went my chance to get in on the first day of RottFest, though in retrospect I may not have missed much.

OK, so a day later I flew out of town next to someone who was returning to Chicago. I think I mentioned to her that a few of my ancestors had once lived there. The flight from MSP to Tampa International proved uneventful except for the originally-unnoticed loss of the button on my jeans, posing a long-term inconvenience.

While I'm on that subject, I'm displeased to report that what little I'd written in the way of notes has by now disappeared--presumed lost in my official clutter. But I probably recall enough detail anyway to proceed with this ridiculous account. Consulting with Tampa Bay resident & ranking Rottie BC--aka the Imperial Torturer, feared for his Dumpstersluts O'Doom™--I agreed to take the airport's shuttle-thingie to our Forward Operating Palace. Of my several fellow passengers, about all I recall is at least one guy from Staten Island who proved nicer than one might have guessed. And the FOP proved a little harder to find than a typical address, hiding almost in plain sight.