Saturday, June 18, 2005

Saturday Poetry



William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616

"The Taming of the Shrew"



PETRUCHIO
Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharina, in thy bed:
And therefore, setting all this chat aside,
Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented
That you shall be my wife; your dowry 'greed on;
And, Will you, nill you, I will marry you.
Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;
For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,
Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well,
Thou must be married to no man but me;
For I am he am born to tame you Kate,
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
Conformable as other household Kates.
Here comes your father: never make denial;
I must and will have Katharina to my wife.

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO

PETRUCHIO
Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world,
That talk'd of her, have talk'd amiss of her:
If she be curst, it is for policy,
For she's not froward, but modest as the dove;
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
For patience she will prove a second Grissel,
And Roman Lucrece for her chastity:
And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together,
That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.

KATHARINA
I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.

PETRUCHIO
Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself:
If she and I be pleased, what's that to you?
'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,
That she shall still be curst in company.
I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe
How much she loves me: O, the kindest Kate!
She hung about my neck; and kiss on kiss
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
That in a twink she won me to her love.
O, you are novices! 'tis a world to see,
How tame, when men and women are alone,
A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.
Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice,
To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;
I will be sure my Katharina shall be fine.

BAPTISTA
I know not what to say: but give me your hands;
God send you joy, Petruchio! 'tis a match.

GREMIO TRANIO
Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

PETRUCHIO
Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu;
I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace:
We will have rings and things and fine array;
And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o'Sunday.

(In honor of my friends Kate and John, marrying today!)

Saturday Poetry

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Interesting .22 Pistols

I've got one .22 pistol, a Taurus 94 revolver (4" barrel, 9-shot cylinder, blued frame) and I like shooting it. Browsing through a recent purchase, "Pistols of the World", 4th edition, Hogg and Walter, I was looking for interesting .22 pistols.

Vis a vis styling, a revolver is a revolver and not much changes from manufacturer to manfacturer. Ah, but the autoloaders can be much more interesting...

I like the look of the Astra TS-22, a well-made inexpensive target pistol:



Alas, none are to be found on the web for sale (Auction Arms, Gun Broker, Guns America, GunsLocal).

Guns

Politics: AB 352, SB 357

I wanted to write something about these bills and their respective sponsors (Koretz, Dunn / Perata), but they're all a bunch of lying fucks and I just can't face browsing through their records.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Saturday Poetry



Robert W. Service
Jan. 16, 1874 - Sept. 11, 1958

"Birthday"

(16th January 1949)

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that's mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I'm a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

My daughter thinks. because I'm old
(I'm not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn't let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humour her I won't contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.

At four-score years old age begins,
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I'll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I'm alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup -
Here's health to
Seventy-and-five!

Saturday Poetry