Category Archives: Scribbles

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Your shovel-ready job awaits

Beating the white supremacist drum

[Updated below]

The snooze media, when it’s not sucking up to our imperial president, his cronies and political party (for you newly arrived illegal immigrants, that would be the Democrats), likes to emphasize our political hyphenation of the past several decades. You know, the multiculturalism nonsense (all cultures are equal; none are superior to any other) that’s supposed to (somehow) make minorities feel better about themselves if they happen to come from a (clearly) backward culture.

Thus the recent killing of the district attorney and his wife in their home in North Texas is, the ever-mendacious NYTimes and cBS assure us, the probable work of the “white supremacist” group the Aryan Brotherhood.  (When it comes to brotherhoods the only one the snooze media likes is the radical Muslim version.)

As Wretchard points out in one of his usual understated blog postings, white supremacism is the snooze media’s favorite hobby horse because it excites their multiculturalist chums. After the Tea Party, perhaps. And gun owners are somewhere on the list. But snoozers have been flogging the gun owners recently and before that the Tea Party. So now, apparently, it’s time (to continue mixing metaphors) to beat the white supremacist drum again. All of which are much easier than thinking or actually working, two things the snooze media tries really hard to avoid and almost always succeeds.

Especially when the probable reason for the DA’s murder is (as usual) staring them in the face. It’s one of the big three. The big three any cop will tell you is the usual reason for murder: sex, drugs or money. Wait and see. The odds are it’ll be one of them, not white supremacism at all. And the snooze media will act like they never doubted it from the beginning and go back to picking on the gun owners.

UPDATE:  Indeed, by April 19, a former justice of the peace and his wife have been charged with the crime, neither of them Tea Party or Aryan Brotherhood members. Nor organizers of a dramatic “hit.” Just plain vanilla murderers, apparently over money. Big surprise.

A Soldier of The Great War

What a brilliant book, this epic of Italy in the first world war, with touches of the later rise of fascism and the contemptible Mussolini. It’s a dense story with much complexity about music, culture and love, in addition to the expected combat sequences. A few of the longer sentences are a bit hard to follow, but it’s worth rereading them to get the whole sense the author intended.

Implausible some of the plot turns may be, as some Amazon reviewers have complained, but this is fiction, after all, with all its special license. I particularly liked the soldier of the title, Alessandro’s, transition from atheist to believer, especially because it develops out of combat (rather than war’s usual, stereotypical, forced conversion from belief to atheism) though he continues to reject religious dogma.

He’s such an honorable guy, this almost-professor of aesthetics turned conscript, who gives as much (or more) than he takes, that it’s a joy to follow him through the intricacies of Mr. Helprin’s considerable tale. I learned more about Italy than I ever knew.

The author’s style is classic. He writes relentlessly with verbs and nouns, seldom adjectives, and should be taught for his craft alone, if he isn’t already, though he may not be politically correct enough to suit the predominantly-leftist literary academy.

Too many of his books aren’t ready for the Kindle yet, however, and I hope that changes soon. He seems to be a writer who’s made for paper but I prefer digital’s easier distribution and storage, not to mention cheaper price.

Discovering the sad truth about brassieres

I haven’t gotten around to informing Mr. B. yet. I’m not sure that I should. He’ll find out in his own way, of course. But I do recall my own pubescent shock when I finally discovered the trick that made girls’ breasts stand up so perkily under their tops—some  aimed straight ahead like the nose cones of ICBMs.

Learning the cruel reality of the under-wired brassiere was disillusioning, to say the least. I would have been fortunate, indeed, to have had this celebrated brassiere analyst’s blog to turn to from the beginning. Revealing such details as that Victoria Secret bras don’t even fit the models. Of course the Web in general would have been a great favor in and of itself back in those dark ages of the late 1950s.

UPDATE:  This was mainly intended as a joke. (Sorry, Scott.) This is not funny at all and it explains why Mr. B. came home from his sex education class back in fifth grade thoroughly mystified as to what was under discussion and why he should care.

Yipes: Fossil fuels are greening the planet

Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t fossil fuels and the Greens quite distinct? Isn’t the former the nemesis of the other? Isn’t the so-called runaway greenhouse effect and, uh, its attendant global warming, supposed to create deserts at least as far north as Minneapolis-St. Paul?

Hmm. Instead, it seems, vegetation up there (and even farther north) is growing like mad. More plants, more trees, more grass. Well, these things do take in CO2 in order to grow, and so, taking in the CO2, they are, indeed, growing. Duh.

UPDATE:  The Gorebot didn’t get the memo, or, more likely, he got it but didn’t want to read it as it conflicts with his plan to raise taxes. And, naturally, Obutthead is still leading with his behind. As what they’ve left of our economy dies, get ready for the new Ice Age.

Rule 5: Alberto Vargas

Of course the famous Vargas pinup drawings got more and more revealing over the years but classic ones like this are still the most appealing to me.

Today I am actually 69

I’ve been telling people all year I was 69. Now I will start telling them I’m 70.

Why, you may well ask. Beats me. I’ve done it this way all my adult life. Maybe I’m just an inveterate liar. If so, it comes with the territory.

Or maybe it’s supposed to be predictive. A superstition. As in if I say I’m a year older, then I’ll get to be a year older. Or something like that.

“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”