Author: Aaron Weber

Someone shipped 32 pounds of marijuana to the wife of the mayor of a small Maryland town just outside of Washington DC. The mayor came home, found a box on the doorstep, and brought it inside. Then a SWAT team broke down his door, shot his two Labrador dogs, and took the dope. Now, if that was the mayor’s weed, or the mayor’s wife’s weed, that was very very strange. But what if it wasn’t?

What if someone wanted to teach the mayor about what it’s like to have cops break down your door and kill your dogs? Having drugs delivered to his house would be a good way to do it.

If you search Google for “Edgar Sawtelle” I come up somewhere halfway down the second page of results. So I don’t know how so many people are finding my short review of it, and commenting, even weeks after I wrote it. But I’m somewhere between pleased and thrilled, even though not every comment is positive. This is not your typical summer read and it’s not your typical book about dogs, but it’s also not your typical pretentious novel that I’d recommend to someone. It’s a gripping story that’s also thought-provoking, and that’s really difficult to do.

It turns out that a significant number of those luxury granite countertops that, together with fingerprint-prone stainless steel appliances, will become the most regrettable style cliche of the early 21st century, are not only ugly and difficult to maintain but also radioactive. Not just radioactive in the sense that nobody will buy your house and that you’ve overextended your credit, but radioactive in the sense that the exotic granite sometimes has more uranium than usual and gives off radon.

Spend too much time cooking or screwing on your new luxe kitchen and you might end up sterile or dead. Well, you’re bound to end up sterile and dead one way or another, of course. Just sooner than you’d otherwise expect.

This really is a very good diagram of the Bush scandals.

Some people like to say that “Friends don’t let friends read Slate,” because they tend to ask a lot of the wrong questions, especially about the war. But I think their coverage of health care and finance is good.

And I do love a good chart!

I took this picture in midafternoon from my office window when the clouds over Boston got kind of freakish.

Live free and die, baby!

We finally got our hands on some firepower this weekend! Megan and I and her pals Bronwen (above) and Heather drove up to Manchester on Sunday to visit the open and functional gun range in New Hampshire instead of that shuttered misfortune in Worcester. I’ll just go ahead now and say it was totally freaking awesome, and that I am glad that New Hampshire exists.

When we got inside the shop, there were two big dudes with imposing beards renting an enormous piece of machinery that I was later told was the legendary MP-5 submachine gun. I was more than a little intimidated, and I really expected the guys behind the counter to be at least as condescending as record-store clerks. They were not. They really liked guns and talking about guns, and they were glad to share their interest with us. They explained how each one worked, and made sure we understood it, without being jerks and without being rote about it either.

We rented one lane and started with the beginner’s choice, a Ruger .22 pistol. After ten rounds of ammunition each, we swapped it for a pair of larger guns: a 9mm Beretta and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. The Beretta was fine: Although its magazine was quite difficult to load, it held fifteen rounds, so you didn’t have to do it often. The revolver held only five rounds, but it was far, far easier to load. And it was by also incredibly, impossibly loud, even with the enormous earpieces. It was also difficult to aim, but whatever – loud noises and smoke and a few holes somewhere on the target were enough.

I kind of want to come back. And bring my parents.