Speaking of bacon slicers . . .

. . . this is my Nihonto katana. I received it after my grandfather died in 1957. It was a prominent feature in his "doghouse" out back by his workshop.

Information on the origin of a true Nihonto is recorded on the tang (nagako). One side of the nagako usually has the date (nengo) and the other side has the smith's signature (mei).

This is the mei or swordsmith's signature. It reads "oiete toto hizen no kuni Tadamitsu tsukuru kore," which means: "at Tokyo, Tadamitsu of Hizen Province made this".

This is the nengo or dating of the blade. It reads "Showa jyu hachi nen san gatsu kichi jitsu," which means: "on a fortunate day in March in the 18th year of the reign of Emperor Hirohito," (March, 1943).

. . . and yes, it will cut bacon. Not a good idea, though. Legend says that a Nihonto, once drawn in anger, cannot be sheathed without drawing blood.

I must go and sheath it now. Done. OUCH! Wait. I wasn't angry.

Nihontos and Bacon . . .

. . . at least, that's what's on Ian's mind, I guess. To make any sense of this, you have to read here first. Even then, no guarantees.

Bacon Samurai



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To paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld . . .

. . . sometimes, we don't know what we know.

I'm not a believer in the paranormal, but sometimes things happen that seem to be out of the realm of logic. I started thinking about this again during our recent trip back to Natchez, MS. Two events within several days of each other came to mind.

First event: My second cousin, Daniel Farrar, of Adams County, MS, was a Captain in the Adams Troop, Jeff Davis Legion, Mississippi Cavalry during the civil war. On our previous trip to Natchez, I decided to drive to Fayette, MS to find his tombstone.

I assumed that the Fayette cemetery would be relatively small, but I was wrong. It was a massive graveyard built over a couple of centuries. I had no plot number or location for his grave. There was no sexton at the cemetery and no index. I had no idea how to find his grave marker.

So, Mrs. B and I drove around the outskirts for about a half-hour looking for clues. Finding none, we were ready to give up, when I said "I need to stop here." I got out of the car, walked up the hill about 20 paces, turned right about 10 paces, and was standing in front of the Farrar family gravesite. Lucky guess . . . or unknown guidance? I have no idea.

Second event: Several days later, we decided to take a tour of the Civil War battlefield at Vicksburg, MS. My cousin, Presley Rice was a sergeant in Company G of the 61st Illinois Infantry. My great-grand uncle, Napoleon Trimble, was a private in the same company.

We drove around the park, and saw monument after monument, but could not find the 61st Illinois. About 3/4ths of the way around the park, I told Mrs. B to stop the car. I got out, walked up to the next monument, and it was the 61st Illinois. Coincidence? I still have no idea.

The Queen is dead . . .

. . . long live the queen.

Last night was the season two finale of "The Tudors." Anne's speech given on the gallows seemed to be word-for-word from the historical record, and Natalie Dormer delivered it very nicely.

Whatever blows your skirt up . . .

. . . or, how is your logic IQ? How are these photos related? OK, that was a cheap intro. I admit it, but it was the first thought to come to my mind.

Random Sunday irritants . . .

The latest commercial has four or five full-on gee-tar playin', cowboy hat wearin', country singin' good ol' boys singing "VIVA Viagra!" Yeah. Like that's going to happen

Is there anyone more irritating than this guy?

I don't get it. In fact, I never did. I guess it's a chick thing. Also, I've noticed that all of Sarah Jessica Parker's magazine covers are photographed straight on. No profiles. I think I nose why.

On "The Tudors," Anne is in deep doo. Who could have predicted that? Not really irritating, but I hate to see her go off all headless.

Finally, an open letter to several folks I was stuck in traffic with yesterday: Hey! It's possible I could like you. We could even be friends. You're driving a nice car, and seem to be a nice person. There's even a chance I could learn to like your music. If I could hear it, that is. But . . . I don't hear a cotton-picking thing except that gawd-awful thumping bass woofer you've got stuck in your trunk, and turned up to 8.6 on the Richter scale. Like I said, you may be a really nice person, but at this exact moment, I really, really wish that the wires to your woofer would short out to , say, about 1200 volts, and generate a pressure wave that would completely implode your worthless fu**ing skull.

Odd . . .

. . . Very odd, indeed. I went out to the patio to toss a steak on the grill, and noticed this bird sitting on my neighbor's roof. Now, birds on a roof are not all that odd, but . . .

. . . ducks? This is the second time this week I've seen a duck sitting on the peak of a roof. I was not aware that ducks perched in high places. Web feet don't seem to be that good for gripping.