Rooting around in i tunes I found a band named "Anal Thunder".

Feel free to preview any or all of their songs, tell me what you think.

Although I highly and strongly recommend Pepper by "Butt Hole Surfers". Don't be off-put by the band name, and don't miss this song.

I found the Thunder looking for another - "Band of Skulls" - improbably recommended in the New York Times Book Review.

The book review has long been one of my very favorite magazines. I subscribed for years, but recent financial adjustments have priced it out of my reach. I take this moment to Officially Damn to Hell the three people most responsible for this. May you all die slowly and painfully and burn in the hottest corner for eternity.

I read the book review online now. As does any pre-Korean War baby with achy bones and an unsuitable computer chair, I prefer a hard copy 87 to 1. Plus, my attention span could only be mapped using fractals (thank you, Anne), and sitting in my chair for more than a couple minutes is about as likely as if I had fire ants in my pants.

There are two new books about, one a chronicle of Custer, the other Quannah Parker and the Comanche Nation.

Custer has been rescued from ignominy and dereliction, making a judgement call that cost the US the lives of 257 men, good and true, and his flaming asshole self.

Custer was a moron with much charisma, graduating last in his class at West Point. (What recent idiot president does this bring to mind?) He was rather more successful as a cavalry officer in the Civil War (hell, even Bush nutz learned to fly a plane), but the review, by Bruce Barcott, whose "Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw" I liked very much, gives credit to a Custer-led charge for turning the tide at Gettysburg. I am by no means a scholar, but I take issue with this particular assertion.

The Battle at Gettysburg was lost by the South because of rare tactical and field blunders of leadership by the officer staff, from Lee down. There was hesitancy to advance when an advantage offered, and the subsequent debacles, such as Pickett's charge, coming much too late and directed at a strong, easily defensible ridge, when the entire rear of the Union Army was all but undefended.

Lee picked the wrong battle to be indecisive, but may be forgiven some, as his best General, easily one of the very best generals of all time, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, had been killed less than two months previously. And, his most reliable scout and fire extinguisher, cavalryman J. E. B. Stuart, was caught up in the fun of easy pickings of supply depots 20 miles in the Union rear, costing Lee valuable reports of battlefield salients and weaknesses.

In my readings, Custer is mentioned only as being there. Much, much more is made of Stuart not being there, the only blemish on a stellar career, yet cited by some southern historians as "the" reason the South lost Gettysburg, and the war. But there is plenty of blame to spread around Lee's officer corps to make Stuart's absence all but meaningless.

I will absolutely pass on another book on Custer. The story of the Comanche Nations appear to be must-reading, and certainly a necessity is an upcoming release about the Lakota (Sioux).

Never mind those are the guys who kicked Custer's ass to hell. Crazy Horse belongs on any list with Jackson.

I spent this month in 1966 as a 17-year-old in basic training near San Antonio, Texas. Just the most wonderful place for a kid with the lowest self image and literally starving for approval.

We bunked on the second floor of our barracks. One beautiful June Texas morning, the DI (training instructor, or "Drill" Instructor) threw my foot locker out the window. The reason? So obvious, really. There was some toothpaste residue in the neck of my tube. In the interests of National Security, the neck of a toothpaste tube had to be cleaned, on the inside. Somehow, that morning, I must have missed some.

We had a few Negroes, and they kept together in a far corner of the barracks. Being from Elwood, Indiana, I had never spoken with a Negro. Ever.

(Note: this was before a race a thousand thousand shades of brown came to be called "Black". With all due respect, I will point out that the Jockey Club of America took the opposite tack: all dark horses are "dark bay or brown". This includes Sunday Silence, the beautiful velvety black stallion with the map of India on his forehead.)

So one evening I made my way down to the corner, and said something I thought was witty. The oldest guy of the group threatened to cut me if I ever came near him again. I left.

Later a couple of the other guys were there said not to worry about it, he was full of shit.

So I didn't worry about it, although I did consider beating the shit out of him for a couple of days. But, wisely, I let it go.

And stayed away.

At the railroad crossing next to the Converse Cemetery Thursday evening, a couple of meadow voles were scampering about, and quickly made the tall grass. According to the Princeton guide to mammals of North America, this is the most prolific mammal on earth. Easy to believe, as I'm almost 62 and I've already seen two.