RECCE ROOM

Bolt CEO announces he let go the entire HR department for "creating problems that didn't exist." Many people agree with this position.  Some do not - mostly HR people. For example, I typically like this YouTuber's content... but he went off the rails on this one. He points back to HR being a buffer to prevent the company from getting sued, etc. Here's an idea: Employ one single employment attorney, and you completely cover that singular problem. For far less money, and with far more useful additional skills.  There are probably some broader issues overall with what the Bolt CEO did in the layoffs - I did not study the situation that closely to speak intelligently on that. But he got this part right.  "Absorb what is useful. Reject what is useless." - Bruce Lee. 

This was posted online. Reposted here because it is good information on what should be trained primarily. -----   After meticulously viewing 1000s of OIS (Officer Involved Shootings) here’s what we continue to document:  We generally don’t see:  Braced kneeling, of any kind.  Shoulder transitions on rifle.  Slug select on 12ga.  Rifle to handgun transitions.  Multiple lethal threats.  Patrol rifle magnifiers being utilized.  Reloads with retention.  Shooting on the move, towards a threat.  Patrol rifle dot to iron sight transition.  Proactive prone engagement.  Shooting to trigger reset.  Transitions from handheld light to handgun WML.  Braced barricade work.  Patrol rifles / handguns being used through loopholes.  Auditory lethal cues.  Failure drills being needed.  We usually see:  Draw stroke under rapid reactive movement.  Muzzle orientations in confined spaces (door procedu...

Even Babylon Bee was having fun yesterday with the crying contraians Libertarians.  ---- Now, to the more realistic side, I saw this posted online. It is accurate: Massie is for everything you are... except when he isn't.  He's against raising the debt ceiling... Except when it's done by Joe Biden.  He wants to open up the Epstein Files....Except when Joe Biden is in office.  He wants to expose the child predators... Except after all the files are open.  He thinks everyone should have free speech rights.... Except the jooooos.  The only thing he wants to keep out of America is political money.... against him.  He thinks there's too much Money spent in politics.... Except when he spends twice as much as his opponent.  He's really for secure borders.... Except when it comes to paying for a wall or people to watch it.  He really supports republicans... Except when it's time to actually vote for some part of their agenda.  He's looking out ...

The Kentucky-4 primary concluded yesterday, and the results were overwhelming. Incumbent  contrarian  Republican Thomas Massie lost to newcomer Ed Gallrein, 55% to 45%. The AP immediately framed it as “another win for Trump.” The online  contrarians  Libertarian crowd is now pitching absolute hissy-fits over the result. This is why I will never vote Big-L Libertarian. I still hold a few small-l libertarian principles, but as a political movement, Libertarians need to grow up and stand for something - not just oppose the party in power. All the excuses I keep seeing for Massie’s loss completely miss the point. “Money.” “Establishment pressure.” “The Epstein files.” “He stood on principle.” None of that is why he lost. Nobody in Kentucky was sitting around saying, “I’m voting against Massie because his opponent has more money and will protect the Epstein list.” Massie lost because Republican voters eventually get tired of politicians who seem to break ranks precise...

Many people have asked my opinion about the Kentucky-4 primary: Thomas Massie vs. Ed Gallrein. And I have heard both sides of the argument. There are legitimate points on both sides. There are also legitimate concerns on both sides. On the Massie side: Pros: • Established “Republican” who claims conservative and libertarian philosophies. • Consistently positions himself against expanding federal power. • Has built a reputation as a political dissenter willing to oppose leadership. Cons: • Only seems to vote obstructionist against whomever currently has power. • Like so many Libertarians, he does not really seem to stand FOR anything as much as he stands AGAINST the majority. • He is exceptionally good at framing contrarianism as principle, and sugar-coating it into "Conservatism" or "Libertarianism." On the Gallrein side: Pros: • Never held political office. • Trump-backed. • Exemplary military record. Legitimate SEAL and Army Ranger, not some résumé-padding cospla...

In reference to this situation , today is the first business day at the end of the entire divorce in question. What is meant here is that all alimony and child support is paid. The then-minor child is now age 18, and has graduated high school (last Friday evening). This is important because according to Tennessee law, that satisfies the requirements to end the wealth redistribution alimony and child support.  People ask why so many posts about men's rights?  1. Men are people, too, and deserve basic human treatment.  2. Our system is HEAVILY skewed against the men.  3. There are not many people singing the song of men's rights, and we need more.  Here are the numbers behind it: This divorce was filed in 2012.  "Child Support" paid since then: $147,000 "Alimony" paid since then: $50,000 Total wealth redistribution: $197,000.  And that doesn't include the over $200,000 paid to the attorneys in this case!   Real Total: $397,000.  The man ...

Some time back, this class came to my attention. Specifically, see the wording here. "Unlike other local “Civilian Sniper” courses, this class is taught by instructors who have served in dedicated Army sniper roles, providing students with instruction grounded in professional sniper doctrine and practical field experience rather than recreational or theoretical approaches." Now, I have a rule of thumb. I do not disparage other firearms schools or instructors. It is not a good look, and frankly, any competent instructor could probably nitpick another instructor’s wording, methods, or marketing if they wanted to. To what end? That said, I got curious. So I searched. Guess what was the first entry in Google? Ghost Ring Tactical has a class called Civilian Sniper . I sincerely hope the entity from the first screenshot was not taking a swipe at Ghost Ring, because Ghost Ring is one of the best organizations in the industry. In fact, I am friends with one of their instructors, and ...

  Standing on that land, I realized something. My father didn’t just give me memories. He created the conditions for them. And now, whether my children ever connect to this farm the way I do or not… I carry that same responsibility. They will have their own places. Their own “farms,” whatever those may be. Places that mean something to them in ways I may never fully understand. And that’s okay. Because this isn’t about recreating the past. It’s about providing the present. One day, I hope I get to ask them the kinds of questions I’ve been forced to ask myself. I want to know what matters to them. What places shaped them. What memories stayed. Because the truth is, the things I remember from this farm… I am the only one who will ever remember them exactly this way. And maybe that’s reason enough to write them down. Not to preserve the land. But to preserve what it meant. This is the final post of a multi part series, reflections on the farm owned by my father and my gra...

  The farm is 18 acres, split into two main sections—east and west. At one point, even the town’s water tower stood on this land. Eventually, my father sold one acre to Madison County so they could officially own the ground beneath it. That’s how time works in places like this. Lines shift. Ownership changes in small ways. Pieces get carved out, repurposed, formalized. But the core remains. For decades, the same man has rented this land for pasture. He rented it from my grandfather. Then from my father. Now from me. Three generations of us. One continuous thread. The cows don’t know any of that. The land doesn’t care about names or titles. But there is something steady in that continuity. Something that says not everything resets when a life ends. Some things just… continue. Quietly. This is post seven of a multi part series, reflections on the farm owned by my father and my grandfather. This is written for me and my siblings. 

  There was a tree behind the house. Not directly between the house and the shed, but close—just offset enough to stand on its own. Maybe 8 or 10 feet in each direction from those structures. When I was a boy, my grandfather hung a tire swing from one of its branches. That tree felt big back then. It is massive now. More than 40 years have passed since I last swung from that tire. My grandfather has been gone since 1985. My father since 2018. The swing itself is long gone. But the tree remains. And it grew. Standing there today, looking at it, I didn’t just see a tree. I saw a connection. A living thing that existed then and still exists now. A witness to everything that has changed and everything that has been lost. It’s an old friend. One that doesn’t speak, but somehow still communicates. And for the first time in a long time, standing there… I felt it. This is post six of a multi part series, reflections on the farm owned by my father and my grandfather. This is writ...

  The Day Power Became a Choice I grew up in a violent household. There was not violence every day, but there was more than there should have been. We could count on a family fight about 4-6 times per year. Something that should never be aimed at a child from their parent or parents. But, it was aimed at my siblings and myself.  There are moments where you realize you’re no longer subject to something. This was one of those moments. The Story I was about 17. In our house, there were days where things escalated. Not constantly — but often enough that we recognized the pattern when it started. Again, 4-6 times per year. This was one of those days. Something minor set it off. It always did. My mother escalated. She always was the one who did. My father was home, and as had happened before, he joined in. His anger wasn’t really about us — but it still landed on us. He was angry with her, but he took it out on us. He mistakenly believed that if we capitulated just the right ...

There’s a corner on the property where two fields meet. It forms a clean 90-degree angle—an L-shaped boundary marked by barbed wire fencing. To the west lies the larger field. To the north, the eastern field stretches out. To anyone else, it’s just a corner. To me, it was a battlefield. My brother and I spent hours there with GI Joes and Transformers, turning that patch of ground into something far bigger than it actually was. The terrain mattered. The angles mattered. The fence line became cover, the dips in the earth became strategic positions. We didn’t know it at the time, but we were learning how to see space—not just as it is, but as it could be used. We lost things there. Accessories, probably a figure or two. Small plastic pieces that slipped into the dirt and never came back. And there’s a good chance they’re still there. Buried just beneath the surface, waiting for someone who doesn’t know what they’ve found. But I do. Because I remember not just the place… …but wh...

The Day I Stopped Playing the Game I've mentioned that I grew up in a violent household. Well, not surprisingly, it was also a household filled with mental and verbal abuse. Something that should never be aimed at a child from their parent or parents. But, it was aimed at my siblings and myself.  There are moments where you realize the rules you’ve been following were never fair to begin with. This was one of those moments. The Story My mother asked me to fix her TV. I told her I would, but I couldn’t do it immediately because I had plans already in motion. I left. I came back several hours later, exactly as I said I would. When I went to my room, my TV was gone. There was a note: “Since you went back on your word, I went back on mine.” The TV had been taken. It had been given to me by my grandmother. This was somehow the "word" that my mother was going back on. Don't ask me to make it make sense. Folks with paranoid schizophrenia rarely make logical sense. My mothe...

  Behind where the house once stood, there is still something left. We called it a barn, but that’s not quite right. It was more of a shed—high-ceilinged, open, covered with a mix of tin and plastic roofing that had seen better days even back then. It extended forward and to the right, creating additional covered space. It wasn’t pretty, but it was useful. Vehicles, equipment, whatever needed shelter found its way under that roof at one point or another. Today, it still stands… barely. Time has not been kind to it. The structure leans into its own age. The roof looks like it could give up the ghost with the next strong wind. And yet, it remains. The man who rents the pasture keeps a piece of farm equipment under it. There was also an old Mitsubishi Mirage sitting there, its license plate years out of date, like it had been forgotten mid-sentence. That shed is the last physical connection to what this place used to be. Everything else is memory. But that one structure… it st...

The Day I Realized I Could Fight Without Hurting People I grew up in a violent household. There was not violence every day, but there was more than there should have been. No, it wasn't spanking - though spanking did happen. There was also true violence. Something that should never be aimed at a child from their parent or parents. But, it was aimed at my siblings and myself.  There are moments in life where something shifts, and you know it’s not going back. This story is about one of those moments. The Story I was about 19 or so, still living at home and attending college. My girlfriend at the time (now my wife) was there with us. The family was doing something simple: folding and putting away laundry. There was a stack of towels that needed to go upstairs. My mother asked my younger sister to take them. My sister asked a reasonable question - how many towels should go in each of the two bathrooms upstairs? That question was taken as defiance. The situation escalated instantly. ...

About 30 to 40 feet west of the house stood a two-car garage. It wasn’t tall—maybe ten feet at most. Low enough that my grandfather’s 1985 Dodge Ram barely cleared the opening by a couple of inches. Pulling into that space required attention. You didn’t just drive in. You placed the vehicle there. The driveway in front of it still exists. Concrete doesn’t forget as easily as wood does. Inside the garage, the front half was for vehicles. Functional, straightforward. But behind that, partitioned off, were two smaller rooms. Storage rooms. The kind of spaces where things went when they were no longer needed daily, but not yet ready to be discarded. You could access those rooms from the main garage or through a side door on the east. They weren’t glamorous. They weren’t organized in any modern sense. But they served a purpose. Like everything else out there. The garage, the shed, the grain bin—these weren’t aesthetic choices. They were solutions. Each one answered a question: Where...

  The house is gone now, but I can still walk through it. It faced south, like it was meant to greet the day head-on. There was a front porch that wrapped across the front and leaned slightly toward the west, as if it wanted a better look at the setting sun. A side door sat on the west wall, and a back door on the east—each one used for a different purpose, each one part of the rhythm of daily life. Inside, everything revolved around a central fireplace. Not tucked away on a wall, but planted right in the middle like a heartbeat. The rooms spread out from it—bedrooms, bathrooms, the kitchen off to one side. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t modern. But it worked. There was a small room near the kitchen, something like a utility space. My grandfather used it as a laundry room. It also served as a kind of back entry—one of those in-between spaces where outside life met inside life. Upstairs, there was an unfinished attic. No insulation. No drywall. Just exposed structure and stored item...

Shameful One: "You lost me at not needing a sling. Unsub." Reply: "LMAO - this is not an airport. No need to announce your departure. And LMAO2 - you were never subbed."  Context: Video explains the insanity that is people who advocate a sling on a home defense firearm, then use a rubber band or similar to immediately tie it up so the sling doesn't snag on things. Solution offered: simply don't put the sling on the home defense firearm. If a sling is needed, store it with a go-bag. 

  Death tried to take Chuck. Chuck, of course, was Chuck, and kicked Death's ass. However, Chuck over did it. The final roundhouse kick was too much, and Death himself was literally kicked out of existence. Chuck is many things, but dishonorable is not one of them. As such, Chuck took up the mantle of the Grim Reaper for the rest of Time. Moving forward, the scythe? It’s just a fancy training prop. Chuck can harvest souls with a glance and a one-inch punch if he likes. This is not a mourning of a loss, this is an Origin Story. And you found it here first: In the time when mortals whispered the name of Death with dread, a shadow walked the earth that even the void feared. Death, the eternal collector, came to claim its latest prize. It was a challenge unseen in all the eons. But the mortal before Death was no ordinary man. He was Chuck Norris, the man whose fists rewrote the laws of physics, whose gaze made mountains reconsider their stance, whose roundhouse kick could split oceans...

  It was 65 degrees when I stepped out onto the farm in Mercer, Tennessee. Not a cloud in the sky. The kind of late afternoon where the sun lingers just long enough to remind you it won’t be here forever. Birds were calling to one another across the open land, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. But everything had. It was a little after 5 p.m., and the quiet hit differently than I remembered. Not empty. Not lonely. Just… still. The kind of stillness that doesn’t ask anything from you, but quietly invites you to notice it. There was no movement from the neighboring property. No distant machinery. No voices. Just the land, breathing slowly under a soft sky. I didn’t walk the whole 18 acres. I didn’t need to. My feet carried me toward what used to be the center of everything—the place where a house once stood, where a garage once echoed with the sounds of work, where life once gathered in predictable, meaningful patterns. That’s the thing about land like this. You...