SO THE RACE HUSTLERS AND poverty pimps object to gentrification because … They want their people to live in rat-infested slums the gentrification would replace?
SO THE RACE HUSTLERS AND poverty pimps object to gentrification because … They want their people to live in rat-infested slums the gentrification would replace?
The idea that a first floor classroom filled with children, with no lock on the door and no reasonable means of defense are simply supposed to wait for death to arrive is barbaric and sadistic.
PHILLIP OF PUNXATAWNEY predicts (this Sunday passed) six more weeks of winter.
Let’s take a look at the calendar. From February 2, go forward six weeks. And you find yourself at… The first day of Spring!
This, ladies and gentlemen, is known as a tautology.
WHEN TONI AND I first set up housekeeping, we had between us three cats. I was owned by a dainty tricolor lady a tortie named Mnarra. (That’s how she said it. My last adolescent girlfriend called her “That little creep,” and so her use-name was Creep.) Toni had a pair of fine gentlemen a black shorthair named Smokey, who as legend has it saved her life when her apartment caught fire one night. He woke her up. and a Russian Blue named Lester Pedunk.
The first loss came when Smokey developed kidney issues. It’s possible (he was an outside cat no keeping him in; he was capable of opening a heavy, sliding glass patio door and jumping down one storey to ground) that he got hold of some antifreeze. No knowing. But it was a hard loss broke Toni’s heart. We had to have him put down. The vet said he would have had a hard, hard death, lingering in great suffering as his organs shut down.
Looked in the paper and came across a guy who had a litter and was willing to part with some. And Smokey’s successor was Bandit a gray-and-white moose with a Maine Coon-like coat. He came home with us in the pocket of my army-surplus field jacket. He and Creep developed a relationship of spare tolerance. When we moved to The Lane in ’85, he, Creep, and Lester all went out more-or-less on-demand. They all came when called, thank God. But Bandit had a practice of perching outside the kitchen window on the side stair where he could peer in the window and be seen. We kept and keep a roll of paper towels on a metal spindle just where it’s reflected in the window glass and you could be fooled into thinking he was at the window, wanting to come in, when it was just the paper towels.
At the time, Toni worked downtown and drove, while I worked downtown and rode the bus. One morning, she had headed out and I was eating breakfast when I heard a panic-stricken call from the front door and ran to find Toni standing there, horrified. Creep, she said, was lying, dead, on the Parkway that runs behind the house. I raced out and down there and scooped up the still form from the pavement and carried her into the back yard. We had just had a sassafras tree cut down and I buried her amid the rotting roots of it. Many tears shed that day.
Then it becomes a little blurry for me. I’m sure Toni could correct the sequence here. I’m pretty sure that thenext cat in the seniority was Annie — a black shorthair who was skinny as a rail until she died. Thus the name: Annie Rexic. Then, in quick succession: Max (named after a character Glenn Close played in the movie Maxie), a ginger tabby, Alex a gray tabby, Finnegan a gray tabby longhair (who did a very good impression of a dustmop when given a half a Valium once), and Charlie (Finnegan’s sister). Somehow, I remember that Max and Alex were left in a box on our front porch (or a neighbor’s — I’m not clear on the details), and that, when Toni called me at work to ask “Can I keep her?” my response was the canonical “Is she cute?” which has subsequently become our primary selection criterion for kittens.
Then, all too quickly, Lester, the much-beloved Russian Blue made a dash across the Parkway and lost a race with some asshole coming up the hill at 15-25MPH over the limit. He managed to make it to the sidewalk, but no farther and we found him there.
Fast forward a year or three (remembering that all of the cats in this period were permitted to go outside, but were kept indoors at night, when cat-killing racoons are about). Max got out or went out but didn’t come back in and didn’t respond when called. So she was posted as MIA (Missing In Action) for the time being.
Toni haunted the county ASPCA animal shelter, looking to find Max if she’d been picked up by animal control officers or had been brought in by a kindly citizen. She didn’t meet with success. But she did meet a fine young fellow, a white-and-gray short-hair in an isolation-ward cage where she had to pass by to check the runs. (She was such a fixture there that the staff gave her the run of the place.) He would reach out paw to catch at her arm in supplication in a manner that we took to calling Aggressively Friendly. She never did find Max, but she did feel it incumbent upon her to reward the little guy’s assertiveness, so she adopted him and brought him home.
When he got to Casa d’Alger and was given free rein to explore as he listed, he immediately made himself at home and free of the place. When Toni requested suggestions for name, I put in, “Jake,” because everything was just jake with him. And that was his name.
Then, some time later (might have been a week or a month; I’m not sure), Toni was lying in bed and got taken with a sneezing fit. Once it died off, she could hear an inquiring note in a “Meow” from under the neighbor’s porch and went to investigate.
Max. She’d been outside all that time. Scrawny and skittish as hell, she was dehydrated and had sniffles, but was otherwise little worse for the wear.
So, at that time, we were owned by Bandit, Annie, Alex, Charlie, Max, Finnegan, and Jake, and the number of “our” cats were seven. And, for a time, that was the most.
Then Finnegan had to be put down and Charlie went to live on a farm as a barn cat (if I’m not mistaken) and we inherited Emily, a tortie (Top, Right, click to embiggen), who resembled Creep only in the Little Half-face markings, but without the nasty tortie temper. She was, however, The Cat Who Walked by Herself and didn’t really get along too well with the others. This seems to be a characteristic of tri-color females; they want to be the queen of the clowder and don’t suffer usurpers-of-the-throne too damned gladly.
Emily is also the first of our cats of whom I have more than a handful of digital pictures — albeit scanned prints. Yes, I have a lot of shots of Murphy, Kane, and Indo, but most of those are genuine digital-camera shots. Emily’s pix all started on film, though I have a painting of Em done by Toni’s friend Taylor Johannigman.
Right about this time, Number One Daughter moved out, taking with her Number One Grandson and Alex. In one of the apartment complexes where she lived over the next couple of years, she (or somebody in her household) heard a plaintive meow coming from a dumpster and discovered at the other end of the cry a kitten wrapped in plastic and duct tape and abandoned there — presumably to die. At around the same or similar time, she (or householder) also found another in similar straits and of like provenance. She could not, however, keep them without breaking her lease, so they came to live with us — Kane and Indo. And the number of our cats became Nine (9), and our house was no larger, though our hearts were fuller.
As you can see, Kane (Center, above) might have been related on the distaff side to a flame-point Siamese, and he had brilliant, Tyndall blue eyes, (so we called him, variously, Old Blue Eyes, and Francis Albert Kane). Indo most certainly had, as an outfreyn relation, a walking haystack, as you can tell. Both of them were good ol’ boys, phlegmatic in temperament, gentle, and loving.
Murph’s pic is there because of his resemblance to Bandit. Bandit was with us from the early-to-late-mid ’80s until sometime around 1990. He lived with us in our apartment atop the West Tower of the Forum, where, I came to say of him (and cats in general) that there is something in a cat which cannot abide a closed door. He never tried to escape down the hall, but whenever there was activity around the hall door of our apartment, he would crowd the hinge side of it and meow most piteously into the crack. Never did seem to figure out that the OTHER side was the one that opened.
At the time that Bandit lived with us, WKRP In Cincinnati was either in first runs or saturation-level strip syndication and Toni and I watched it regularly. (Yes, I remember seeing the Turkey Drop episode when it first ran.) I took to calling Bandit “Little Guy” after the relationship between Arthur Carlson (Gordon Jump) and Herb Tarlek (Frank Bonner). Another thing he did was to, whenever I sat down to put my shoes on, he would come running and flop down on his side on the floor in front of me for a belly-rub. Never did figure out the connection between belly rubs and shoes-putting-on in his mind or how it formed, but there it is.
Bandit lived with us until, as I say, sometime around 1990. It was a Saturday night when I responded to a panicky call from Toni. She was lying on the bed reading. Bandit was on the windowsill by the head of the bed, panting — obviously in distress. His gums were pale, and his pulse rapid. We took him to the emergency veterinary hospital, where they put him in an oxygen tent and took X-rays. The diagnosis was that he had an enlarged heart, which was preventing him from getting oxygen. It was a long and fraught night. We struggled with the decision to end his life. (I pray you never have to go through that on behalf of a relative. It’s one of many reasons I’m dead set against euthenasia for humans.) I held him while the vet stuck the needle in and watched the light go out of his eyes. We buried him, in a teary-eyed non-ceremony, in our back yard.
Very shortly thereafter, a box of kittens was discovered by the local constabulary of the town near the Animal Hospital North, where Toni was working at the time. Two of them were stumpy-tailed. Not quite Manx, but related to them. One was a white-and-gray, Maine-Coon-coated fellow, whom I named Murphy Gray. That’s him above.
Then… Oh, how does this go, now? I think Belle was next. Black longhair. Street cat, tough and all BTDT, but still a real lover. She had been living rough in a vacant lot out back of Daughter’s town house in the hood. Weather was turning cold and she was observed (if I recall correctly) out in the rain and brought inside. And, of course, the household was too crowded (3-4 cats and 2-3 dogs, as well as two girl-children, a teenaged boy and a couch potato, as well as single-mom head-of-household), so cat could not stay, no matter how dire her straits. She got taken to the Animal Clinic, which Toni runs (the doctors own it and see patients there, but she runs it; just ask her clientele), and went through the usual quarantine procedure to make sure she didn’t have some disease that would run through our house like a wildfire. I met her there and, after getting spayed, she came home to live with us. She’s the queen of the house — the senior cat, now, although Earnie (no respector of personages, he) keeps trying to dominate her, with no regard for her irascible temper. (When Oliver was young and squeakier than he is now, she would body slam him against the lower kitchen cabinets when, at feeding time, she found his metrosexuality TOO tedious to bear.)
Her coat has gotten longer than thicker than it is in that pic. At the time that was taken, she’d been living — as I say — rough, and I don’t doubt having her coat trimmed for her by her environment and poor nutrition.
Shortly thereafter, Toni knocked on the door one day and handed me a longhaired tortie kitten. On seeing her, I exclaimed, “Fizzgig!” thinking of the pet animal in Jim Henson’s Dark Crystal. So that became her sietch name. But the name she was given was Rommie, after Lexa Doig’s character, Andromeda Ascendant in Gene Rodenberry’s Andromeda.
Rommie was a chest kitty. Like Earnie did after her, she came home to live with us and curled up on my chest, purred, and went to sleep. And she stayed there most of the time she lived with us. The unfortunate and sad part was that she died of FIP (I think) at under a year.
At the same time, Toni conceived a desire to have a Siamese. (Don’t ask me; I just nod and say, “Yes, Dear.” They call that being supportive.) The one whom we acquired (or who acquired us) was a blue point little guy, whom she called Simon (which I spell — being a pun-lover as I am) Siamon. If you’re on Faceplant, that’s him on my masthead shot. If you’re not, here it is. I call it Red, White, and Blue Point. Siamon was a world-champion napper exceptionally gentle and laid-back. If you love cats, and you get one like that, be suspicious. We soon discovered the reason for it was that Siamon also had a heart condition and had to be low-key because he couldn’t muster enough energy. Sadly, we lost him all too soon. It was a one-two kick to the heart, First Rommie, then Siamon: Gone — pooft!
And, very shortly thereafter, we lost Kitty Kane. His cause was kidney failure. That again.
Then Loki. I kinda forget the circumstances of it, except that he was a rescue kitty. We adopted him from creche. When he came to us, his coat was almost entirely white, with whispy tufts at ears and between his toes. Only an “M” mark on the top of his head, the backs of his ears, and the top of his tail were marked. His back has darkened since, but then, he might as well have been all-white. And his paws… You know you can tell a kitten or a puppy is going to be big by how outsized his paws are? Well, Loki’s were small and dainty, hinting that he’d be a little cat when he grew up. So, of course, he HAD to be named for a Frost Giant — Loki, the Norse trickster god. Which also proved apposite, because, as a kitten, he was the King of Getting Inta Shit. And falling on his ass behind it. He still hasn’t learned the difference between objects and surfaces, and always expects the former to provide the same footing and security as the latter. Which, of course, never works.
From the first night he lived with us, he’s slept on the bed. That first night, he clambered up and demanded rubs and scritches in his own particular croak. Since then, he follows a ritual. He hangs out in the office until he hears the lid of my laptop close and sees me dim the overheads. He hops down from his perch and trots around to stand beside me and croak urgently until I stand up and head for the bedroom. There, in the dark, he leads me along the foot of the bed, then flops over in the door to the half-bath. Then he gets up and runs along my side of the bed, jumps up on my nightstand (blocking the clock, so I can’t see the numbers), and climbs on the bed. He usually walks across Toni, who, if she’s awake, complains of it. Then, he meows at me until I get in and get settled, then he climbs onto a pillow and hangs out there, waiting for me to rub his head. He’s done that every night he’s been here since we got him.
Somewhere in here came Ollie — the original delta kitty He not only would never be an alpha cat, he would never develop the aspiration to become one. I think he was supposed to be a palliative for the loss of Kane. He’s a big, white, Japanese anime cat with a silly grin and fat cheeks. He also squeaks. In fact, his squeak, when he was young, was so annoying that Belle — the original basement cat if there ever was one — would body-slam him against the kitchen cabinets at feeding time she found his squeaky meow SO annoying. Or, at least, that’s what I imagine her motives to be. Oliver has learned to be very skittish around me and windows from the time I accidentally closed his tail in a window and cut off about an inch of the tip. He’s recovered physically, but will be in therapy for life, I suspect.
Next, Toni got her Siamese up to here. Got a set of triplets — a brother and two sisters. And they could do the Peggy Lee tune from Lady and the Tramp cold justice. They’re friendly enough to humans, but they’ll turn on another cat… Their names are Sky (the male, a seal point), Aqua (senior female, also a seal point) and Jazz (junior female, a lilac point). Jazz has bunny fur and was the first and principle ringleader in the Let’s Torment Karma club. All three of them are beefy sorts. Sky is kinda down-to-earth, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly, goodoleboy. Here they are in svelte-er days on the front windowsill in the study.
Then, we got Karma, a sweet little calico (which, according to lore, ought to be a contradiction in terms), who is the typical middle child. She ought to have the seniority to buck the Triplets, but she tends to go all “Mom! She’s TOUCHING me!” and scream like a squirrel in a caged death match with a weasel whenever Jane or the Triplets jump her in the utility room. She spends her entire time on the windowsill in there and will ONLY come down when one of us humans walks into the kitchen. Here she is doing her famous Heisenberg’s Cat routine.
And then we got another set of three. Now, on acquiring the Triplets, we were up to Seven (7) cats. Then Toni brought home two kittens, a brother and sister, we now call Chester and Jane, though Chester was earlier called Elwood.When she was a kitten, Jane had a regal reserve, which made her full name — Lady Jane Grey — seem more apposite. Now, she’s just that bloody usurper. She is the current ringleader in the Let’s Torment Poor Karma club.
And, tagging along — we weren’t going to keep him; he was being transported to Number One Daughter — was this funny little tuxedo kitten, with a pointy face and a bowlegged build, like a Boston Terrier. He climbed up on my chest and went to sleep and there was NO WAY you could have pried him out of here. At first, his name was Benjamin Butt-in-face, because he looked like a little old man, not a cute kitten. But, eventually, we realized he was aspie-earnest and SO serious all the time. So Toni called him Ernest, which would have fit with Hemmingway, but I pushed the “literary cat” another step and called him Earnest, because he realized the Importance of Being…
Anyway, he’s my buddy, Earnie. Earnie talks back to me. He’s got a teenager’s bad attitude. At the same time, he’s sweet and kind. He’s the only one of our other cats who gets along with Karma. At the same time, he’s always trying dominance games with Belle, who fights with him tooth and claw. (Neither one of them has taken wounds from it.)
Anyway, now our household includes Belle, Loki, Oliver, Aqua, Sky, Jazz, Karma, Chester, Jane, Earnie. And the number of our cats is Ten (10). Believe it or not.
OF GLOBAL Warming floating on the surface of the Ohio River. You can see the floes floating downstream as you cross the river on any bridge.
ALGER, REFERRING TO Hollywood twits mouthing off on topics where they are both ignorant and have their heads up their asses that they have nice tits, (implying, of course, that they’re not worth much else). Da Doll — possessed of a world-class rack herself — feels therefor, that it is incumbent upon this fine publication to, when a Hollywood twit mouths off where she appears to be well-informed, has her head screwed on straight (at least on the particular subject at hand), and (not coincidentally) has come in for over-the-top public opprobrium, point that fact out and offer up some small note of praise. Ladies and germs, I give you Scarlett Johansson.
Without knowing anything more about the FACTS — undeniable — that the problems of the Arabs of the Holy Land are wholly of their own making and of their leaders’ making — and that the antecedents of their movement are wholly despicable and reprehensible and that their claims are nearly without merit. (In other words, they’re typical left-fascists.), just listen to her words and tell me they are not considered, moderate, and well-tempered. That, in that context, her claims about the motives and actions of SodaStream are probably accurate…
Just sayin’. Yes. She does have nice tits. (And note how modestly proud she is of that.) She doesn’t deserve the shit storm. It’s being genned up by utterly despicable people and they are not worthy of your attention.
SO I HEAR HARRY RIED after a career of 27 years in Congress, has a net worth somewhat north of $5 million. Who says crime doesn’t pay?
IT OCCURS TO THE DOLL that, perhaps, sometimes, the media, rather than acting as a propaganda arm for the Left as a matter of bias and preference, they do it out of their own ignorance and naiveté.
I mean… they accepted it as gospel truth when John McCain told them he was a conservative. And they swallow the canard that Republican==conservative. Which, da Doll is here to tell ya, !== fact.
IS A CHOICE 55 million babies killed in 40 years is a holocaust.
Get a sense of proportion!
FOR JUVENILE DELINQUENCY OR DEVIL WORSHIP OR MOVIES for violent crime or sexually-transmitted diseases or video games for increases in violent crimes, but…
Harvey Weinstein thinks he can solve what he sees as a social problem with a single film.
And do you see the nature of leftist brain fart pipe dreams from this?
WHAT WILL SURELY BECOME A WIDESPREAD MEME, da Doll believes it needs to be said, over and over again, as loudly as possible, until it is known to all:
Governor Cuomo is a despicable human being. His statements are beyond the pale, and he has no place in the United States. We invite him to leave. If necessary, we’ll even kick in a couple of bucks for a one-way ticket for him to… somewhere else. ANYwhere else. We will NOT, however, EVER urge that the power and influence of the state be brought to bear on the problem his reprehensible views present the body politic. That would be — in a word — un-American.
MEETING ABOUT EDUMICATION and I wanna know… Given that a summit meeting is a meeting between and among the leaders — the HN’sIC — of two or more organizations… Da Doll wants t’ know…
Who the fuck died and made HIM boss?
Last I read the Constitution, the FedGov has NO authority over schools. NONE. Zip, Zero, Nil, Nada, Netchevko, Bubkis.
Somebody clue me?
AT THE COLLEGE Third World Center, to find kids who were from the same kind of place as her.
Well…? Chicago is a Third World Thugocracy with no regard for the rule of law or the rights of the citizen. So… Maybe she’s right.
GENIUS FOR THE OBVIOUS department.
If we have a system where the president can pick and choose which laws to follow, at utter whim and discretion, then the whole rest of our constitutional structure becomes superfluous.
–Sen. Ted Cruz (R-TX)
And ya know… He’s right. Couple that with John Marshall — if a law doesn’t comport with the Constitution, it is null and void. You get…
If the entire government does not comport with the Constitution, how are We the (little) People obliged to obey any of its diktat?
BUT I GOTTA DISAGREE The Demorats don’t want Christie gone. They want him to be the Republican frontrunner for 2016. They know the base hates him. They know the Tea Party would stay home and go in the tank for a liberal if the GOP were so stupid as to nominate him. That would be the dream ticket for them. They WILL want him as bloody as possible by March of ’16, to be sure, but they want to run against him.
BEAGLE BREATH. Overheard on the Glenn Beck Program on Thursday, “Conservatives need to RUN from Chris Christie.”
Sorry, Glenn. No.
Conservatives need to run Chris Christie off the freakin’ national stage.
Please make note of it.
ASPECT OF IT, DA DOLL would hold that MAIG is engaged in a criminal conspiracy against civil rights. And the members ought to be prosecuted for it.
Given that Bloomberg was a Democrat, who ran as a Republican when he perceived that would help him win, when he was — and remains — a rather unappealing candidate, and, now that he’s in a position where mending fences with Democrats again might do him some good in his further political ambitions, he’s taking up Democrat positions…
Not that gun control is a very Republican position in the first place.
Well, no. But still and all, please to note it’s Democrats who’re asking him to lay off.
WERE THE ONES using modern art as a weapon in the cold war — considering the cultural degradation the whole mess represents. After all, if art is what artists do, then you have to grant Abstract Expressionism and all the rest of the posings of the arts and croissant crowd (a little Rushbo lingo fer ya, there) the status of art. Yes. But, if the purpose of art is to uplift members of society, to inspire and contribute to true progress for humanity, the modern so-called art hardly qualifies. And, given that it did and does just the opposite (in a lot of cases) (And, yes, da Doll is a big fan of Lichtenstein, de Kooning, Calder, Mondrian, and a buncha others.), I’d have to say the movement served the evil and destructive Adversary to a T.
AND SEE WHERE IT LEADS.
Now, this is not going to be an effort-free exercise. You’re going to have to put forth your hand, stretch your mind, and, see things from my perspective — i.e., the truth. Are you willing and able to even see the truth? Trust me on this: the Left has tried mightily to blind you to the truth since Left first became Left. That is to say, your entire system of beliefs is founded on a lie. In ignorance. On false premises.
It’s going to mean you must research the facts of your position and be ready to accept the truth. No hedging. No persiflage. No prevarication. No “greater truth.” (If you are urged to accept the greater ANYthing, you are, in essence, being asked to support a moral lapse in favor of an illusion. The so-called Greater Good subsumes a supposedly “Lesser” evil. But evil is a binary condition — something is or is not. There can be no shades of gray. And the claim that they exist is an attempt to blind you to the moral reality. The very notion of shades of gray in moral terms is a lie. It is evil. Not lesser: period. Plain old-fashioned evil.
No. A so-called “greater” good — an infringement against rights, for example, for the benefit of a majority (the “greater” part of this equivocation) — always subsumes a greater evil. No doubt, the Nazis would claim that the Holocaust was for the greater good. And, Godwin notwithstanding, so it goes. Someone always makes a sacrifice — and if it were willing, why would anyone have to ask? — in such a case. If you kill someone in the service of the “greater good” does that make your act not-murder? How does that work? Can you explain the mechanics of that?
Or, take global warming. The original term was CAGW — Catastrophic Anthropogenic Global Warming. Both Alger and I have long demanded that, in order for the phenomenon to be worthy of humanity’s attention, ALL FOUR of the conditions must be satisfied, and any one of them failing on the merits invalidates the entire warmist argument. This is not a matter of opinion. It is self-evident fact. Moving the goalposts by changing the name of it to Climate Change is equally invalid. Climate is change. Asserting that a primary characteristic of a phenomenon is that which renders it problematic is what the logic folks call a tautology.
So, here’s where you have to exercise your mind. In order to test the notion of CAGW, indeed, to utterly debunk it, you need only find the answer to one question: the warmist conjecture asserts that the global temperature has risen x degrees over a period of centuries (one-point-five, or whatever). Fine. Here’s the kicker: How do they know? They are asserting a fact. Indeed, this fact is at the core of their argument. Without it, there is no argument. They are asserting that the temperature of the Earth has risen 1.7 degrees Centigrade since 1750. Or 1870. Or 1978. How. Do. They. Know? Show me the CarFax. There should be spreadsheets of data, attested to, certified, countersigned, and tested by repeated experimental verification. There should be ABSOLUTELY no doubt as to what the temperature of the Earth is right now. You should be able to surf to Weather Underground and get a number. It is 35 degrees Fahrenheit out there, folks. Or 53. It should lead the news report every evening at six and eleven.
Right? No-wait warming before the first commercial?
So, do some research. Look up the datasets. Import them into Excel. Do trend analysis. Or, accept as gospel the trend analysis available on the sites where the datasets are posted on the Web. Look at the metadata. How many sites are there? Where are they positioned? What areas of the globe to they cover? What areas are missed?
The more you learn about this subject, the closer you come to satori — to the realization, the enlightenment that there’s no there there. That there is no evidence — none whatsoever — that backs up the warmist assertion.
Now, it seems a reasonable assumption that, since the Northern Hemisphere was coming out of the Little Ice Age just as the Industrial Revolution was kicking into high gear, it’s a pretty good bet that the Earth has warmed — perhaps substantially — since then. But, as Alger has said many time in many venues, at the moment, the only proof the so-called “settled science” has put forth is that when we’ve looked where we’ve looked, the available data seems to indicate a warming trend — albeit nowhere near the intensity the warmists would have you believe. But that’s a helluva long way from proof or — gagme — “settled” science.
But da Doll is trying to make a larger point. That the foundations of your political beliefs are built on sand. Go ahead. Do your own research on warming. It’s easy to do. The actual data is readily available. Truly qualified scientists have gone over the data, the theory, its conclusions, and have thoroughly debunked it all. You won’t have to dig very hard to reach the inevitable conclusion.
And, as you do, you’ll come to recognize patterns. A certain shrillness of insistence. Patterns of illogic — argumentum ad hominem, appeal to authority, post hoc ergo propter hoc, playing liars poker with statistics — a hollowness of assertions, a tendacious mendacity: “Who are you gonna believe? Me or your lying eyes?” A tendency to use sleight of hand and other tricks of misdirection to distract you from facts you know for certain.
And, as you expand your search for knowledge to other fields — rights, the use of government largesse to buy votes and peddle influence, the corruption and abuses inherent in all government, without regard to intent or the putative integrity of those involved, the legitimacy (or lack thereof) of using government’s monopoly on the initiation of the use of force to coerce involuntary surrender to demands for specific behavior against conscience — you will come to recognize these earmarks of the Leftist argumentarium. These earmarks of Left-liberal fascism.
And, if you are honest with yourself, you will come to realize the truth in my position and, when you come out of the experience, I believe you will be at least a libertarian — a true liberal — if not a Buckley-ian conservative. As Milton Friedman put it: a small-l libertarian and a capital-R Republican.
And then we’ll have to educate you to capital-R Republican perfidy in opposition to ordered liberty.
But that’s another battle. Some other time.
WITH FOLKS WHO ARE asserting in the Phil Robertson contretemps that, because the confrontation is not between Congress and an individual citizen that this is not a First Amendment matter. And, OK, stated that way, it’s not. However…
It is a matter of freedom of speech, as well as the free exercise of religion, and therefor at the very least touches on the spirit of the First Amendment.
That it is not speaks perhaps to the utter corruption of government in America, inasmuch as Congress is supposed to be the sole legislative authority in such matters — no other having say in them — all of the other bodies and individuals seeking influence over the speech or religious practices of other individual American citizens are infringing on Congress’s privilege and authority. And, as such, the First Amendment being the final authority in the matter, this is a First Amendment case. If Congress is forbidden to act, then EVERYBODY is forbidden to act.
But, Alger, you say, The Constitution is a bill of limits on the Federal Government.
And: Oh, really? I say in response. Is it not rather an affirmative statement of limits on the government as defined by the rights of the individual? Does it matter, therefor, WHO, exactly, is infringing on a right? Is it not sufficient to define that individuals have the right to render it unlawful for ANY actor — public or private — to infringe. If I have a right to free speech, how can you have any authority to squelch what I say? If I have a right to go armed, how can you have any authority to assert that I may not carry a weapon?
Is it a right? Or is it a limited license? Does not one affirm the basic concept of America and the other put the lie to the whole experiment?
If Phil Robertson, a free citizen of the United States, has the right of free speech, and makes a statement on his own time, in a venue not controlled by his employer, not representing his employer’s position, and his employer punishes him for exercising that right, how can it NOT touch on the First Amendment?
This goes wider than the First Amendment — or even the Second. For example, where in the Fourth Amendment are the limits on searches and seizures applied only to government agents? They’re not, of course. The prohibition is absolute and universal. It means, for example, that your bank has a fiduciary responsibility not to reveal your bank details without a proper warrant. Indeed, to not reveal even the existence of your accounts. The over-reach by the Internal Revenue Service in demanding this information is only one bit of evidence in the avalanche that proves — I think dispositively — that the “service” is corrupt and needs to be disbanded.
I propose that you look at — or re-examine, if you haven’t recently — the entirety of the Constitution in this light: the document is meant to make it clear that the supreme law of the land stands in defense of the rights of the individual against ALL comers.
INCLUDING READER Random Lurker (We’ll call him Randy.), who commented on the bewbage, for not having posted in a frakkin’ week.Sorry ’bout that, Chief. And more bewbage later. And, yeah, I know the rules: “Never apologize; never explain.” But it just felt like the right lede. I do more of that that I probably should admit to — going on gut instinct.
Anyway, through a creative use of paid holidays, I have managed to stretch my vacation to the end of the year, starting Monday just passed. And then for another week into 2014, using days from next year’s vacation days (I did the same at the beginning of this year, so it kind of rolls over.) All-in-all three weeks of free time, with the exception of family visits on Christmas Day.
My intentions were threefold (and still are, to the extent that life rolls have messed with my momentum). I want to write substantial wordage on Discovery — the working title of the current novel. I want to get started on a regimen of yoga and develop the habit of exercising daily. And I want to start working to get my drawing chops back. I had, in fact, hoped to have reports of developments on all three fronts — and can report that I have written 5,000 new words — but life has conspired to fuck my shit up.
Kris Rusch calls these little bobbles in the event continuum Life Rolls. I can’t argue. Life does roll — right over you. But I can’t help snarking back — life doesn’t so much roll as it sucks. But I’ve had a few minor life rolls in the last few days.
Last Thursday evening, I was fixing dinner. Chicken and Spanish Rice. On this occasion, I had discovered a package of white mushrooms in the produce drawer and figured that, since they were almost two weeks old, they probably ought to get cooked before they started to spore. I washed theme, breaking the stems off the caps and running the stems down the disposal. I cut up the caps and was sauteeing them in butter when I noticed that the water had not gone down in the sink. No panic. This has happened before. I got the plunger and wanked the drain with it.
Yeah, Dolly. Ever seen somebody plunge a sink drain?
…Oh! Wanked. I see.
Anyway, no joy. the water went back-and-forth between the plain drain and the disposal, but none of it went down.
Then I noticed my feet were wet. “Why is there water on the floor, coming out of the base cabinet?” I asked myself. “Where could the water be coming from?
As it turned out, it was coming out of the bottom of the disposal.
Did I ever tell you how much I HATE working on the plumbing under the sink?
I just didn’t feel like messing with it on a school night. So, I sent an email to Toni (who was on an away gig) that the kitchen sink was non-operational and went to bed. Friday, went to work, had an amazing day. (Why do customers always call with last-minute projects right when you’re trying to get out of the place for vacation?). Friday evening, I had leftover chicken and Spanish rice. Washed my dishes in the bathroom sink, but resolved not to trust it and re-wash them all once the kitchen sink was fixed. Toni wondered if that was sane, but once she saw the situation for herself, ratified my decision.
Some quick research on the Innertubez informed me that water leaking from the bottom of the disposal means the disposal’s main seal has blown. I should take it out and take it to the nearest service center (which is clear the other side of the county). In-Sink-Er-Ator verified this on their site, so I felt pretty confident I had the straight poop. (Remember: they can’t put anything on the Internet if it’s not true.) Meanwhile, Home Depot told me a new one would cost $80.00. What do you think the service center would charge to replace a main seal? Add in gas and time and. No brainer. Get a new one. Did. Put it in. Didn’t fix the no-drainee problem.
Tried various flavors of chemical drain cleaners. Couldn’t find a microbial variety at Home Depot, which I suspect would have worked just fine. Advise from the Internet (verified, of course), was that the next step is to snake the drain.
Now, I had a snake already. But it was one of those long-straight ones that you attach to your drill, pull the trigger, and it twists into a pretty plumber’s braid. So, back to Home Depot (one more visit and it’s a project), to get a better snake. One with a reel and a crank handle.
SO. The video instructions for the snake show a guy standing at a kitchen sink. His narration leads me to believe that he was dealing with a single drain that went straight down to the trap and then straight across to the wall. How convenient. But not in this house you don’t.
Here, you have a different situation. One side of the double-bowl sink is the disposal. Even I know better than to put a snake down a disposal. the other side, the drain goes down to where it meets the cross connection that would have been the join if there were NOT a disposal on the right. Then there’s an elbow onto a straight shot…
No. That’s not right.
Oh, I don’t know.
Then it all goes back to meet the laundry drain. But somehow, this all goes down to a last horizontal run that joins with a brass compression fitting to the side drain that services then across and down to the trap, then to the side line that serves this side of the house. That last run is where I want to insert my snake into the line. It’s about two inches above the floor of the cabinet and way at the back. NOT someplace you can get to standing up. Or even in a comfortable crouch.
I could have used a creeper just about then.
Swewnneyway, I spent a good portion of Sunday afternoon spinning away at that snake, lying on my back, with my hands over my head in awkward positions. (It would have been fine if my elbows bent the other way. As it was: pain.) The lip of the cabinet was sharp and hard, so I grabbed a bunch of throw rugs to build up a support for my shoulders. It worked, sort of. After a lot of shifting around, I finally found a position I could stand and cranked the snake out to its full length (25′) and brought it back. Cranking five or ten minutes, then breaking for five or ten… or fifteen… or twenty.
Aside from a few stray strands of… don’t ask… there was no sign on the snake of any serious blockage. But, when I put the drain back together (Yay! for threaded, hand-tighten PVC connections.), damned if it didn’t run free. But that managed to blow two days’ free time, and thus no bloggage.
Then, Wednesday morning, I woke up with a cough. Last couple of days, it have been just a thrill to be me.
At the moment, I’m still under the weather, but feeling better than since Wednesday. Here’s hoping this cold-flu-whatever continues to improve.
AND THE WINNAH OFMost Economically Free State in North America… AL-BER-TA… CANADAAAAH!
::and the crowd goes wild::
A LOTTA BLAH-BLAH (a little Alex Lifeson lingo for ya there) in this post pointed to by Vanderleun. But fer da Doll, the key thing is how BADLY the Left fails on points like this. One of the first mental lapses of leftists, liberals, progressives, and other stupid, evil people that Alger taught me was the “I’ve already got my mind made up; don’t confuse me with facts.” (Actually, in that case, it was a lesson on using the semicolon to link two independent clauses, but wottevvah.) It’s why Alger says a leftist brain fart can be detected by three earmarks — it will be founded in ignorance, focused on irrelevance, and engaged in wishful thinking.
The post linked at the top is focused on Obamacare, which is evr’body’s bete noir of the moment. Tomorrow or next week, it’ll be something else. And all the while, our liberty is diminished thereby. The left, like the poor, will be with us always. The major difference being that the poor can’t tear down the world.
Through sheer pig-ignorance.
I suspect that might be an insult to pigs.
Your typical leftist has the comprehension and wit of a brontosaurus — or whatever they’re calling them this week — with their brains so far apart that there’s a light speed lag and so small that they literally can’t walk and chew gum (trees) at the same time.
The laws of economics are as firm and immutable as the law of gravity, or the first law of thermodynamics, or Einstein’s E=MC2. But your leftist figures that, with the right number of votes and a lot of hope, they can change that.
Would that it were so. If it were, da Doll would wish for liberals to not be so stupid. But that appears to be another one of those cold equations. More’s the pity.
BONER DIDN’T SAY, “Why anybody would vote against this bill is beyond me.” That’s because, as you and he both know very well, it’s not beyond him. He knows, as I say, very Goddamned well why any rational person not in the grips of the Washington DC lust for power would vote against it. (Ask you doctor if you live in or have recently traveled to any locations where there is an overweening lust for power.) It’s a bad bill. In fact, I would venture to guess that there hasn’t been a good bill out of that fever swamp on the Potomac in over a hundred years.
Was there ever?
It is not an irrebuttable presumption.
They keep telling us we don’t understand the reality on the ground. THEY fail to comprehend the reality in flyover country. A promise was made in the seminal moments of the TEA Party, “If you ram socialized medicine down our throats, we’ll shove it up your ass.” Well, John. Bend over and grease up. Same principle applies across the board. I know. I know.You don’t have principles. That’s OK. We’ll bring our own.
BONER THINKS THAT less than a 100 bill over ten years is serious deficit reduction … and he expects to get re-elected next year? Hate to disillusion you, John. Your base is ready to kick you to the curb — right there at Columbia and Reading. You heard it here … oh, about a millionth.
You just watch. He’s not going to come home to Reading, either. He’s gonna stay in DC and go to work on K Street. And he’s gonna be bitter about the Tea Party until he dies. Some people just ain’t never gonna get it.
PLEASE AGREE THAT anyone — with any mood other than mockery — who alludes to or asserts as fact the fraud known as Catastrophic Anthropogenic Global Warming or its heirs, successors, or assigns is not to be taken seriously as an adult human being?
WET AND HUNGRY at my door on a hot summer night. So why should it matter to you whether we run bewbage on this blog?
I seem to recall doing that once.
for to me you never.
Oh, no.It was Drummond. ‘Smatter fact, it’s in the book you’re writing right now, innit?
I do believe you’ve called it, Dolly.
Well, there you go.
So I have to imagine it to make it happen?
SO MY FRIEND I haven’t met yet, Cedar Sanderson, has a relatively new book out, Pixie Noir.
Recommended. Read it. Compares favorably to Harry Dresden. Just sayin’. Only waiting for the next one.
HOW LONG DID IT take ’em to figure that out? How many degrees and how many multi-million-dollar grants to come up with a basic fact of commerce a five-year-old could have told you for free?
“Health care” “insurance” (scorn quotes all) is not a cost-saver. Jeeze. Ya think? So you mean to tell me that insurance companies won’t work for no margin. Who’d ha’ thunk it?
Some people. They give stupid a bad name.
SO DOLLY AND I say, “To Hell with it! We’re running bewbs!”
What!? A girl can’t like bewbage?
This one makes me think of Cally. (The driver.)
WAS PASSING: getting by without having to actually do any — you know — work. So it should come as no surprise to you that the lot of them worship a woman with absolutely no accomplishments to her credit.
IT APPEARS THAT some businesses which, while, perhaps, not supporting Obama, didn’t really work all that hard to oppose him — and continue to support Democrats… (slow learners, aren’t they) — seem to have picked up on some facts about him and them.
NOT TO POINT fingers of blame, you can be sure what they really mean is, “Don’t point fingers of blame at me.”
By which you can be sure they know they are to blame.
Learn it. Love it. Live it.
SO CASA D’ALGER have been blessed with a couple of shiny new Windows 8 tablets. (Due to having to replace a bricked iPhone, but nevermind.) And now we have an issue. An opportunity.
(That’s what the motivators call a problem when they want to psych you into being “positive” and shit.)
Seems that the tablets can see the printer. It’s a USB-connected HP LaserJet, served from a Windows XP laptop. Windows 8 drivers are installed — I think. The tablets can find the printer on the network. Then a command to connect is met with “Operation failed with error 0x00000490.” The process can proceed no further.
A Bing search on the error code yields the usual ten billion returns of marginally relevant mentions of the error code, but no solution.
Any clueage to be had?
HAVE TO AGREE WITH The News Junkie at Maggie’s that this article by John Hawkins at Town Hall is or ought to be a candidate for the best short essay of 2013. We all know it, but Hawkins ‘splains WHY liberalism is on the wrong side of… well, everything.
AS INSTY PUT IT if you’re concerned about income inequality, consider the gap between DC and the districts. Panem indeed.
ONLY WAY THIS GOAT SCREW
COULD EVER POSSIBLY not face plant in the shit is if it were mandatory — required by law. And even then, dumb-insolent resistance may bring it down. The Potemkin website lies try desperately to plaster over the fact that Obamacare is an utter failure. But all the lipstick in the world ain’t gonna turn this overgrown porker into Miss Piggy. And people can see it. Could see it coming a long way off.
HAVE BEEN SADDLED WITH a toy train set, a textbook boondoggle for rich downtowners because they want to look all cool and shit next to Toronto, Portland, and Berlin or Bonn or Geneva or something. We’ve been gifted with a streetcar line.
Now, you have to understand that Cincinnati is somewhat unique in that, like Pittsburgh and a few other similar cities, it is built largely atop bluffs which form the banks of a major river valley. We call this being built on hills. Which, from the perspective of surface transportation, means just that — a lot of inclines to be traveled. Steep ones. And, in the era before pavements and pneumatic rubber tires, a lot of slipping and sliding. Even a lot of that these days. There’s one street near the university — the street called Straight — which plunges down a five-hundred-foot slope at — I kid you not — a forty-five-degree angle. (In all fairness, Straight Street really is straight, just… straight DOWN. Trust me, in that, it’s not unusual.)
All of which makes rail a bad choice for in-city transport.
Unsurprisingly, the city was nearly bypassed in favor of Cleveland, Indianapolis, and Chicago (which stand on more flattened circumstances) by early rail development. Fortunately, we got more-or-less caught up and, today, you can see a massive freight switching yard in one of the flatter areas of the central basin. (Plus the city owns a railroad — if we can keep the kleptocrats in City Hall from selling it to some crony or other.)
But, for transit, for the most part, we’ve relied on other modes. And, as late as the ’60s and early ’70s, you could see wheeled busses on central routes being powered by overhead catenaries. Trollies on tires, so to speak.
But, even then, it was being proven in the biggest laboratory in existence — the real world — that mass transit solutions are uneconomic outside a very narrow set of circumstances (very large and high-density populations, such as new York and Tokyo, where land or underground rock layers support construction). The bus company then extant went belly-up because the family which owned most of the stock could no longer earn its way running the thing. So the government took it over and turned it into a massive white elephant. I haven’t seen figures for years, but I would not be surprised at all to find it costing many multiples of the per-trip fares per-passenger-mile. It is certain that the equipment is the best and latest, takes up disproportionate space on the roads, and creates all manner of traffic problems and probably, despite “green” initiatives in fueling, is partly responsible for the region’s having been forced into a recently-terminated “consent” agreement to lower levels of certain EPA-defined pollutants. (Things like 15% ethanol at the pump and strict monitoring of “air quality”.)
But Portland has light rail, as do myriad other cities to which statists in city government like to compare the Queen City. So, of course, we have to have it.
And, as I say, the reason Democrats like light rail so much is that they like to imagine THEY can make the trains run on time.
All irony, sarcasm, et al, intended.
I tell you all that to tell you this.
At the beginning of this month now closing, we here in Cincinnati held an election for a new city council and mayor. The streetcar boondoggle was a bone of contention in the race. It had been pushed through on a ballot initiative where the ballot language had you voting “No” to support the levy and “Yes” to deny it; the break-even requires the completions of two additional phases of development; its eventual goal is the development of an inter-city line to Cleveland that will never, in a million years be realized, but much of the hand-wavium is founded in assumptions it will; none of the exemplars — not Portland, not Toronto — none of them — are anywhere near paying for themselves from fares, (So why is this being done?)… For once, the issue didn’t polarize the political class along party lines. The Democrat mayor was term-limited. The Democrat vice-Mayor was running against a Democrat former-councilman for the top spot. And the mud-slinging was glorious, if strangely restrained. The incumbent was pro- and the challenger anti-. A coalition of Republicans and Charterites (an independent party which has actually been the majority in the city from time-to-time) ran against the streetcar, and enough of them were elected to form a majority — with some anti-streetcar Democrats in the mix.
And there was this one Democrat who played the part of the moderate — claiming to look at the issues and seek the best option for the people of the city. Sounding all reasonable and shit, he drew a lot of his support from the anti-streetcar right. He was the top vote-getter in the election. His name is P.G. Sittenfeld. (Never trust a man who won’t tell you his name.)
This week, he has announced that he has changed his stand on the streetcar. He is now in favor of it.
Da Doll submits the belief that was his intent all along. Once again proving: You. Can’t. Trust. Democrats.
I’LL BE ON THAT HILL… well, no. Not really. I’ll probably be right here at this desk, pounding out more adventures for Dolly. But you, you good American consume-a-holic, you, you’ll be out there spending yourself into oblivion to support the economy and make Obama look good in the government’s phoney baloney numbers.
And, since I’m a greedy capitalist type, and have a product on the market (to wit, my book), I have a dog in this fight, so to speak. You see, my book is on special for Black Friday.
It’s set up on what Amazon calls a Countdown Deal. The price is dropped by some staggering amount on the first day. (Or hour, or whatever.) Then, over a given period of time, it goes back up by increments until it’s back at “regular” price.
Ours starts at Five AM PST today and runs through… well. That would be telling.
So here’s your chance to get in at the beginning. Get the first edition of my first novel. You can say you read Alger before Alger was cool. Come on! You know I’m gonna be cool some day!
I HAVE TO AGREE WITH “Chuck You” Schumer, but I gotta say he’s right on Iran.
On the gripping hand, it does bear pointing out that the Iranians aren’t Arabs. But as Otter said to Boon in Animal House, during the John Belushi Pearl Harbor rant — “Forget it; he’s rolling.”
Tangentially — you do know we live on tangents and cream around here, doncha? — da Doll heard on the radio that the White House (and, one presumes, the Fuckface-social-climbing-gigolo State Department) is a bit dyspeptic over the gut rumbles from Congress over the
sellout er — deal with Iran over sanctions. Yeah. Another branch of government is overstepping and playing the loose cannon. Sucks, dunnit?
To quote the Instameister: Heh. Indeed.
A LONG TIME GONE, NOW, that there’s no way in Hell a financing scheme that cuts consumers off from market price signals is going to lower anybody’s costs.
So this headline falls into the “No Shit, Sherlock” category.
ARE BAD FOR YOU so you’ll switch to levers and you’ll like them if you know what’s good for you.
Should cut down on the transmission of STDs, too. So it’s a win-win. ‘Cept for the people who make round knobs. But they’re retrograde and evil, so fuck ’em. Liberty be damned.
FIRST SALES IN THE UK Ding!
WHEN WE REFER TO the nation’s governance.
The way we deal with drugs in America is insane. Umm… Mebbe so. But — and I don’t know about you bunky — but I have resisted the notion of the War on Drugs as despicable, unconstitutional, morally unacceptable, and morally bankrupt for the entirety of my short life. Alger’s like fifty years older’n me, so — same thing. How either of us gets included in “we” with whom we do not agree, and against whom we have struggled our whole lives is… well… insane.
I didn’t vote for this. The government no longer has the consent of the governed and has, instead, taken on the aspect(s) of an occupying power, and can no longer be considered the legitimate government of the country. It is entirely apposite to refer to the government as “they” or “them” and to view them as political, social, and religious enemies of We the People.
That being true, adjust your semantics to suit.
When does it leak out that Obama is really an Ayn Rand sleeper agent?
Like we been sayin’…
HEARD A LINER ON 55KRC Talk Radio that Goshen (a distant northeast suburb of Cincinnati) would be run by women for the first time.
Kids, da Doll is here t’ tell ya one thing, if it’s the only thing y’ absorb this day. If you elect a person to office — any office — on the basis that they are the first or last or just a member of a group, you deserve the shit sandwich life’s about to serve you.
As Gen. Honore put it: don’t get stuck on stupid.
BE INVOLVED IN health insurance, getting the government out of the [mal] practice of medicine would probably be the best possible solution for the benefit of the greatest number of people. It’s good to see ever more people coming toward the same conclusion.
LEE ANNE IS BACK. That’s right, everybody’s favorite retail clerk, snarking on the GenPop, AssMans and all the other characters that live in her head. Or… maybe not. But does it matter? It’s such a rich world in there and we’re lucky to get glimpses of it.
OF THE OBAMACARE LAW — you know, the one of a stack of 8.5 x 11 paper about seven feet tall on a two-wheeler, all tied up in red tape — and this Moment in Cinema came to mind.
HATE THE PRESIDENT BECAUSE he’s black. (Well… half black.) (What is it with this One-Drop rule? That’s so 1859!) Unlike you, we can see past the skin color to the character of the man. And the character of the man is a Marxist MFCS bent on destroying America, and we hate THAT. But the black thing? By now, that’s pretty much a “M’eh!” (with or without the exclamation point) for most of America.
Love ya! Let’s do lunch some time.