Gents:

The "Undaunted by Common Sense" tag came about when me and a couple of other fellows decided to recreate the old .476 British service cartridge using cut-down .45 Colt cases and a heeled .475" bullet, but that's a gun board story and not a kilt board story---but the motto remains.

Yesterday I decided a quiet Veteran's Day ought to include a (kilted) walk, so I called my friend Charlie, met him over at his place and then went to Memorial Park for a nice little three mile stroll. That went very well, as most kilted things do. We took Charlie's truck to the park, and I left my Honda Civic del Sol parked at the townhomes where he lives.

After walking, we settled into his den to watch some college football, saw A&M lose (but it was a great game), then watched Arkansas play Tennessee, and Arkansas was looking SCARY good. Charlie had some 18 year old Macallan that we sipped on while we watched the game. With the cold snap that had hit Houston, it was nice to sip whisky and be kilted. It's weather like that that makes me really appreciate the del Sol and driving around with the roof off.

When it was time to go home (I had a special "boys' night out" chit from the Missus) I thought I'd bring some shrimp enchiladas with me both as a peace offering and because I was in the mood for them. I hop into the del Sol, vroom vroom, and drive off. When I pull into the restaurant parking lot, I notice that something's different----the gate opener is gone from my sun visor! Someone had walked off with it, as a joke (ha, ha, ha, ha). I buy my enchiladas, hop into the del Sol, vroom vroom, and take off again.

I arrive at the Casa de Cossack and the gate is (of course) closed. There is a lever to release the gate so you can open it manually---but of course I cannae reach it. I get the jack from the trunk (boot) and try with it---no dice. I look at the fence. Two crossbars, six feet high, topped with decorative-yet-oh-so-functional spikes. I call the Missus on the cell phone, no answer. I don't want to mash the doorbell and wake up the children and the dogs and the cat, and put them all into a ruckus.

I wait a few minutes, and nibble a cheese enchilada (like unto a veritable barbarian, with me fingers) and think on things. Then I try to call the Missus again, on the cell phone, then on the land line. No answer.

I manage to park the del Sol right up against the gate, climb on the bumper and the edge of the hood and the roll bar and somehow manage to recon my way over the gate. Catch a pleat on a spike but am able to unhook it before I make my leap into the CdC.

As I'm balanced atop the gate, it occurs to me that, "Hey, this is kind of like being a border reiver" except of course that I'm going home and I'm not planning on stealing any cattle.

Vasque hiking boots and USAK hose and a SWK hunting McLeod and an old USMC skivvy shirt under a cable knit sweater, and a few drams of Macallan and I'm outside doing acrobatics and gate-breaching.

Undaunted by common sense, indeed.