The Red Tape is Unraveling

So, I finally got all the paperwork together that I needed to get my concealed weapon permit. Now I had to go to the courthouse to file it. I hate going to the courthouse for any reason at all. I left my gun at home because they're not allowed in the sacred halls of justice. They trust some 23-year-old cop with a gun but I've been shooting for 52 years, 24 of which were in the military and they don't trust me. But, I made the mistake of keeping my holster on because it's a minor inconvenience to remove. When I got to the metal detector, the deputy spotted the holster and asked if I were a police officer. I should have just said no. But for some odd reason, I said, "No, I'm a journalist." I would have been better off saying, "No, I'm a crazed gunman." She showed me a big sign just for journalists that said, not only could I not bring in a gun but no cellphone, no PDA, no cameras, no personal computers, no recording devices of any kind. They would allow me to keep my clothing on, however. I had to go across the courtyard to the jail to rent a locker to keep all my stuff in. Either that or trudge two blocks back to my car. Then I had to go to the sheriff's office to get fingerprinted. You'd think in this computer age, the prints I gave eight times in the military or the prints they took last year when my car was burglarized would be on file. But nope. All 10 fingers three times. But, I had a nice conversation with the deputy about our boots. Seems he has feet that are different sizes and weirdly shaped, so he has to have his custom made out of sheep or goat or pig or something. I forgot. All I had to do then was file the application and head for home. I headed for a Filipino restaurant about 15 miles away instead. I had a great lunch/dinner of dinuguan, garlic rice, kari kari, pansit, adobo and mongo guisado. Also a desert of fried plantain, coconut flan and a lump of sweet, black goo that I think was made from rice. Travel really broadens a person's horizons -- and waistline. Now, I'm waiting until 6:15 to pick up a package from the front desk. It's either a new holster, some Lone Ranger comics or a paddle for my breadmaker. (I left my paddle in the last loaf I made and then threw it away when the bread got hard). Then, I'm going to watch the Zorro I recorded on Telemundo last night while drinking a quart of iced tea and singing Feliz Navidad over and over. And that's my day. Oops, 6:15.