The Reaper's sickle swings close.

You ever have one of those days where you feel like you spent it in a dream, watching terrible things happen to other people while you stood there stone-faced and powerless to stop it? 

The Reaper made an appearance yesterday at work, and I feel as though he still hovers.  And that's probably a poor choice of words, given the tragedy that's taken place over the last two months - the plane crash, and then -

Hold the phone.  I didn't tell you about the replacement, did I?

The company searched and recruited and scoured and interviewed and hired, and they brought on someone named Greg to replace Mark, who as you may recall, passed away in August.  (See post titled "Dave and Mark," somewhere below this one.)

Greg moved into Mark's old office and started assuming Mark's duties.  And he was there for a week - and then during the ensuing weekend, had a heart attack. 

And died.

!!!


!!!


And yeah, it's just a stupid coincidence, I'm certain, but still.

It's the utmost in tastelessness when, a week after that took place, one of the managers asked me and Nemesis, "So, either of you want to move into Mark's old office?"

And it was the utmost in professional behavior when I immediately replied, "Fuck no."  Wait, what's the opposite of utmost?

Anyway. 

As I was saying, The Reaper made an appearance yesterday at work.  It's an inappropriate choice of words, yeah, but how else do you explain this gnawing feeling that he still hovers?  Although I feel safe, I'm reasonably certain that the guy who lost his job today felt the same.

Joe Corduroy* came to us when we were hiring a bunch of folks from a local auto-parts plant that shut down.  By "a bunch of folks," I mean 2.  We hired the first one, Ozzy**, to be our group's lead, and then he recommended Joe Corduroy for an opening in FP&A (financial planning and analysis).

* - "Joe Corduroy" because I don't use real names here and he happened to wear corduroy on more than one occasion. 

** - "Ozzy" because I don't use real names here and his last name was similar to "Osbourne" and because it's an ironic nickname, much like you'd call a fat guy Slim or a clumsy girl Grace.

Ozzy lasted about 9 months or so in his position as our lead before deciding he wasn't cut out for it, and he moved over to Contracts.  He spent about 4 or 5 months there before deciding he wasn't cut out for *that*, and moved to another company just last week to do something in accounting.

Me?  I was still terribly aggravated by Ozzy's handling of one particular episode early on in his tenure as our lead, and I don't suppose I ever really got over it, seeing as how I contributed zero point shit to his farewell breakfast and only consumed a couple of donuts at my desk, not socializing or wishing him fair winds and following seas and all that good-time-touchy-feely crap that goes on at these things.  (And wow that was a long sentence.)

(Full disclosure to undercut my wordy badassness: I did send Ozzy an e-mail upon learning of his pending departure.  Said something about keeping my name out of the book that he was sure to write about his time in our company, but he could use Nemesis' name, and best wishes and all that.  He didn't reply.)

Although this did happen:  Before I arrived that morning, however, I did leave a voicemail on my own phone and then forwarded it to a select handful of people who I would trust with such a thing.  The gist of it was this:  I impersonated Ozzy wishing me well as he embarks on his new career as a cashier at the Super Weenie Hut in his town.  ("They have a real good lunch crowd," "he" said.)

We've gotten some mileage out of that one in the last week, Nemesis and I.

Anyway, I was standing in the accountant's office late Thursday afternoon when Joe Corduroy came in behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.  Announced to the accountant and me that he wouldn't be attending tomorrow's financial meeting because he was leaving the company.

I thought he was joking, riffing on his friend Ozzy who just left the company.

Ultimately, he wasn't joking, although his departure is less than voluntary, if you catch my meaning.  He claims that it was performance-based, and deep down, I really wish he was looking at midget porn at work or something instead.  I'll tell you why.

The fact that even though he had an entirely different chain of command than I do doesn't make the appearance of The Reaper's sickle any easier to stomach. We still worked very closely together, and the fact that other people keep their jobs in spite of their raging incompetence - and Joe Corduroy wasn't incompetent, just sort of a doofus - makes me feel a lot less secure than I did at this time yesterday.  If someone who was mildly competent could get the ax while all of these Reverse King Midases who I work closely with (and often have to clean up after) still get to keep their jobs, then something is terribly upside down, and so it goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that I didn't sleep very well last night.

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You can keep your "football is a game of inches" crap. This is a game of millimeters.

(part II of my shooting match essay, started last night)

So, the Celestine match last night came and went.

I believe that these events come down to 10 percent skill and 90 percent luck - we can quibble on the numbers, but if you believe that the mix is any closer than 20-80, you're crazy - and here's why. Assuming that you have your gun sighted correctly, and you've spent time "patterning" it - i.e., practicing your shooting to see where exactly the BBs should spread out on the board - and you have everything down to the tiniest fraction of a millimeter, then the smallest change in humidity or a slight gust of wind can throw your pattern all to hell.

It was a relatively uninspiring night to start with. I was in rounds 33, 35 and 37, and my boards were all rejected. I had a pretty good spread of shot on my boards each time, but as is often the case at these things, I had my X in the wrong spot.

I was a couple of shots into my last board on round 39 when - at long last! - I noted through the scope that it looked like I had something to be excited about. The circle I had marked around my cross was filling up with BBs, and it looked like at least one was pretty close to dead center, best I could tell. I finished my round and went inside the building to wait on the result. (Don't know if you've noticed, but there's a lot of waiting at these things.)

The board runner brought all the boards in from that round. Judge looked at the first one (out) ... the second one (out) ... then mine ...


First, some background:

This board is approximately 6.25 inches by 7.25 inches. My name is in the upper left corner, the number of shots I am taking is written in the upper right. In red pen just below says, "R39 P3" - this means that this board was shot in round 39, from post #3.

The black circle on the left hand side of the board, just past halfway down - about the size of a quarter, to give you a sense of perspective of the sizes we're dealing with - is a mark for me to know exactly where the cross that I've cut onto the board earlier tonight is. (Again - this is from 47 yards - 141 feet away. Give or take.) This is the cross that I am most interested in - a dead center shot here, and you've probably won a good portion of beef. Graze the center of it, and you'll probably still take pork home.

The red circle on the right hand side is stamped on there to denote that the cross inside of it is the half-pot circle. I have marked that cross with pencil as well, to indicate that that is my half-pot cross. Dead center there, and you've won the money that everyone put in to win half-pot (an extra $1 per board). Last night, it was $176, which means that $176 went to one lucky shooter, while the other $176 went toward the community club. Sort of a sucker bet, really.

So, your opinion of the board above? Do you think my excitement and subsequent expectations went fulfilled?

The answer is no. Here is an enlarged picture of the cross on my board.


You see, just below where the lines intersect, the BB embedded in the vertical cut? The distance between the top of it and the point where the lines meet - and likely some meat at the end of the night - is about one-twelfth of an inch, or 2.12 millimeters. To have been in the running for a half beef, the distance from the intersect to the middle of that BB is 2.5/16 of an inch, or 3.97 millimeters.

Which brings us to the other marking on the full image of the board a few paragraphs up:

The two red markings with a grease pen about three-quarters toward the bottom of the board mean "out." That's how they mark "out" boards at Celestine and most other places. At some places, the judge will scribble "out" on the board. At Ireland, they stamp the word "OUT" on it, which seems very formal.

And so the difference for me on this night from going home empty-handed versus going home with some meat is a hair over two millimeters. As I said, 10 percent skill, 90 percent luck.

Life at 47 yards. Give or take.

Something that I've gotten great enjoyment and misery out of in the last year or so is participating in shooting matches.

This seems to be a uniquely rural/middle America activity. It's pretty blue-collar, as the participants are typically the people who make America go. Truckers, factory workers, machinists, mechanics, farmers - people who typically get their hands dirty for a living.

These shooting matches are a great moneymaker for the community clubs or conservation clubs that put them on. Usually the prizes are some form of meat item - usually a half-beef is the top choice for the winner, with various choices of beef and pork for the other top finishers - although occasionally you might hear of one that offers cash instead.

Here's what happens at one of these.

Before it starts, you make your selection of any number of boards to shoot at. These boards are usually about 6 inches by 8 inches, though there is no uniform dimension from place to place.

Then you take a knife and mark a cross anywhere on the board. Many places, in addition to offering meat, also offer a cash prize called the half-pot for an extra dollar, for which you can mark a second cross on your board.

You determine how many shots to shoot. These events are strictly for 12-gauge shotguns, so the more shots you shoot, the better chance that your shot will splatter toward your cross. There is usually a mnimum purchase of 5 shots, max anywhere from 12 to 20, all at a dollar per shot.

Mark your name on each board and the number of shots for each, then go turn your boards in to the folks running the match. After they take your money and stamp your boards, they'll ask you which of the available rounds you want to shoot, as well as which post you want to be at. Consistency is important for these matches, so I typically take the same post in each round I shoot. Terrain changes or inconsistencies in board height from post to post - even of a few inches - can play havoc with your fortunes. At most clubs, there are anywhere from 10 to 12 posts to shoot from.

Once you've made your selections, you give them your boards and then wait. This waiting period can last anywhere from a few minutes to a couple of hours, depending on when you shoot. (This time is often filled by socializing, smoking, drinking, playing cards, eating dinner or, if you're anything like Your Author, blogging about shooting matches.)

And then when your round comes up, you shoot. You sit on a stool about a foot high, load your gun when they hand out the shotgun shells, and take aim at the board you marked earlier, which is hanging about 47 yards away.

If the splatter of the shot happens to land close to where the lines of your cross intersect, great. You might be going home with meat. But shooting matches are a game of millimeters - you've got to have a BB either dead center in your cross or "cutting three" - that is, in three of the four lines of your cross - to really feel comfortable about the prospect of winning some groceries for the evening.

Myself - I use a stock Remington 870 with a Sightron scope. Lots of people bring custom or "outlaw" guns to these, with 60-inch barrels, scopes where you can count the BBs on your board when looking through it, with really elaborate stands where all you have to do is point and shoot - you barely have to hold the shotgun. I'm not a fan of that; it took me the longest time to even break down and buy a scope.

More later, as I'm getting ready to shoot. I have four boards in tonight, with 12 shots each.
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