Cold Fury

Harshing your mellow since 9/01

The only New Year prediction you’ll ever really need

Schlichter has it, and it’s a sure-fire can’t-miss:

The fact is that no one knows what’s going to happen next year, but we can make educated guesses based on trends, probabilities, and past performance, or lack thereof. Sometimes that prognostication goes really poorly, as President Felonia Milhous von Pantsuit can attest between eager gulps of Chardonnay – oh sweet, life-giving alcohol. For a little while, it deadens the pain.

So what will happen in 2018? Well, it will either be terrible, or great, or kind of both. You can take that to the bank.

Follows, some more prognosticatin’, and then a caveat:

So will 2018 work out this way? Maybe. But maybe there will be some stunning sideswipe that will knock civilization off its feet. A war with North Korea. An asteroid strike. Ben Sasse going a week without saying something obnoxiously condescending and sanctimonious. Anything is theoretically possible.

Place your bets, folks!

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Happy New Year piss-soaked nightmare!

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m probably going to Hell for finding this story so gut-bustingly hilarious.

But still.

Standing on your feet for hours during the freezing cold, not having a single sip of water because there’s no restroom to relieve yourself, and being crushed on all sides by strangers sounds hellish — but some 2 million people do it willingly every year.

Indeed, there are no port-a-potties, and local businesses turn away revelers in need, as Jeryl Lippe learned the hard way.

When the 22-year-old from Mahwah, NJ, hit Times Square with her boyfriend, Gabriel, four years ago, she smuggled in vodka in a water bottle. (Alcohol, along with large bags and umbrellas, is forbidden; plus, Lippe was underage.) She didn’t eat anything other than a breakfast bagel, and didn’t have her illicit drink until the end of the day. But, “by the time it was turning midnight, I had drunk a lot and was desperate to go to the bathroom,” said the junior social-media editor. “I tried to find someplace to go — hotels, restaurants,” she said, but she was denied.

One of the more unpleasant realities of life in NYC is that there are just about NO public toilets, male, female, or 37 Flavors Of Diverse Undecided. Other than the ones in the subway, that is, most of which aren’t exactly…welllll, let’s just say you’re way better off just pissing in the street. Which, late in the night after the bars have closed, is exactly what a lot of desperate folks, filled to the ears with booze and their back teeth afloat, end up doing.

Yes, me too. Plenty of times, in fact.

A telling aside: in Little Richard’s autobiography, he waxes rhapsodic about his days hanging out in the Times Square subway stop men’s room trolling for prospective blowjob recipients. It’s a testament to his encompassing kinkiness (legendary among older rock and rollers, by the way; Richard, bless his perverted little heart, was way beyond either gay or straight, long before anybody even thought of the term “omnisexual”) that it comes off as one of the tamer stories in the book.

It’s also as good a reason as anyone not within reach of Richard’s exalted level of buck-wild should ever need for resolving to stay out of the place at all costs. Perhaps even worse yet, that was back in the tamer, politer, and supposedly sexually-repressed (yeah, right) 50s. I very much doubt environmental conditions have improved in there since.

Alvarado recalled how one of his friends gave up and urinated in the street, adding, “I’ve heard stories of people who wear [adult] diapers.”

Yeah uh huh, no. I assure you most sincerely: NOT. It ain’t worth it. I have no intention of putting on adult diapers until I absolutely must, thank you very much. And once I do, I’ll be in them for good. I damned sure ain’t gonna make that depressing capitulation in order to see a ball drop after long, long hours of being squeezed in cheek by jowl amongst a bunch of yahoos freely pissing themselves and each other the whole while. The smell alone would be disincentive enough for me.

In all the time I’ve spent over the years in NYC, both as resident and visitor, I was never once even tempted to do the Times Square NYE thing. Part of the reason for that is probably the time I went to Herald Square for the Thanksgiving Day parade back in the 80’s. It wasn’t as hellish as the Post story makes NYE sound—barely—but it was certainly bad enough: packed in like sardines, freezing-ass cold, and hardly even able to catch more than a glimpse of the parade over the heads of my fellow victims. Afterwards, as the great mass of humanity started to try to edge out of the mob any way they could, it took about an hour to get to the subway station a half a block away.

It was bad enough, in fact, that when I was living there years later my girlfriend’s older sister, who was a Macy’s exec with a bit of clout, offered us much-coveted seats in the grandstand for the parade one year. We turned her down politely, firmly, and without a moment’s hesitation.

I have never once rued that decision.

I was much younger and more adventurous back then, too. Nowadays, I don’t usually stay up til midnight on New Years’ at all, and can’t even be bothered to watch any of the New Years’ Eve TV specials when I do. For years, the band would be playing every New Years’ Eve, since on that night even a half-assed, lower-tier outfit can expect to make three or four times as much as they would any other day of the year. On the rare occasions we weren’t playing that night, a quiet evening at home seemed like just the thing—something of a vacation, almost. It’s a tradition I’m happy to go on upholding, for as long as I last.

Happy New Years? Bah. Humbug.

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The Kwanzaa con

Fake news holiday.

BLACKS IN AMERICA have suffered an endless series of insults and degradations, the latest of which goes by the name of Kwanzaa.

Ron Karenga (aka Dr. Maulana Ron Karenga) invented the seven-day feast (Dec. 26-Jan. 1) in 1966, branding it a black alternative to Christmas. The idea was to celebrate the end of what he considered the Christmas-season exploitation of African Americans.

Now, the point: There is no part of Kwanzaa that is not fraudulent. Begin with the name. The celebration comes from the Swahili term “matunda yakwanza,” or “first fruit,” and the festival’s trappings have Swahili names — such as “ujima” for “collective work and responsibility” or “muhindi,” which are ears of corn celebrants set aside for each child in a family.

Unfortunately, Swahili has little relevance for American blacks. Most slaves were ripped from the shores of West Africa. Swahili is an East African tongue.

To put that in perspective, the cultural gap between Senegal and Kenya is as dramatic as the chasm that separates, say, London and Tehran. Imagine singing “G-d Save the Queen” in Farsi, and you grasp the enormity of the gaffe.

Worse, Kwanzaa ceremonies have no discernible African roots. No culture on earth celebrates a harvesting ritual in December, for instance, and the implicit pledges about human dignity don’t necessarily jibe with such still-common practices as female circumcision and polygamy. The inventors of Kwanzaa weren’t promoting a return to roots; they were shilling for Marxism. They even appropriated the term “ujima,” which Julius Nyrere cited when he uprooted tens of thousands of Tanzanians and shipped them forcibly to collective farms, where they proved more adept at cultivating misery than banishing hunger.

Even the rituals using corn don’t fit. Corn isn’t indigenous to Africa. Mexican Indians developed it, and the crop was carried worldwide by white colonialists.

That’s from a classic old column by the late great Tony Snow, laying bare the whole disgraceful swindle. I don’t give enough of a shit about the worthless tool to bother looking it up, but I’d be willing to bet almost anything that the “Dr” in Ron Malingerer’s asserted nom de fraud is as big a shuck-and-jive as everything else associated with him is.

Oh, and need I even mention the Kwanzaa Kreep himself is a woman-torturing psycho, too? In sum:

It is hard to understand why anybody would want to follow a violent felon, in a made-up holiday that mistakes racism and segregation-ism for spirituality, and fiction for history.

Because they’re fucking chumps, that’s why. With a capital C-H-U-M-P, in big bold letters so nobody makes any mistakes about it.

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Site news

Look for a new theme hereabouts next week, folks. With Christmas nearly upon us, it’s soon going to be time to put dear ol’ Scrooge Picard back on his shelf for another year, so I’ve spent most of my late-night insomniac time this past week putting together something I think y’all will really like. Ordinarily I’d leave Picard up a little past New Years, but I’m pretty excited about how this new thing is turning out and am eager to activate it and see how it actually runs in the real world. As always, any information you can send me about malfunctions or glitches you encounter will be much appreciated, if groaned at initially.

Update! Where will wants not, a way often opens, or so t’is said. I got the new theme pretty much set and ready, and in my usual impatience with delayed gratification, lo and behold if I didn’t come up with the idea of marrying old Scrooge Picard with the new style. So, y’know, here ’tis. Merry Christmas, and don’t say I never gave y’all nothin’, hear?

Updated update! More site news: I’ve seen an almost incredible influx of Russian-spammer registrations via the comments section, for some strange reason. It started earlier today, and really crescendoed once I activated the new theme. Got no idea why that would be. No spam in the comments yet, though; guess the good ol’ Akismet anti-spam plugin is still working, and up to the job.

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Miracle On 34th Street

So I had intended to do my next Christmas-themed post on another wonderful old classic movie, but damned if Eskiman didn’t beat me to it in the comments to the Wonderful Life post. Did a very good job of it too, thereby saving me a lot of labor, so I’m just gonna swipe it and bring it right on out here.

Another wonderful film from that era (1947) I just re-watched last night: Miracle on 34th Street with Maureen O’Hara and John Payne, Edmund Gwenn as Kris Kringle and a very young Natalie Wood as Susan. Do please watch it, but –SPOILERS– do follow!

It was delightful, and better by far than the much more modern version produced in 1994, though the newer one’s Richard Attenborough as Kris Kringle was excellent; in fact he was so good that the other actors’ performances appeared mediocre, which is as much as could be said. I saw this version the night before last, which is why I had to find the original; this new one left a bad taste in my mouth, which was dispelled by the beautiful Maureen O’Hara.

The original film, made in 1947, is in black & white, and reflected values of that time. Unlike It’s a Wonderful Life, it was actually bitterly cold when it was filmed; I understand that some of the cameras froze during the shoot! But the real reason it was remade wasn’t just because someone wanted to make the film in color- it was to “sanitize” it. The later version is much more PC: it has no black housekeepers and women are more than equal. For some reason I don’t know, even the department stores’ names had to be changed: the old version had Macy’s versus Gimble’s, but the new one had Coles versus Holiday Express (is there actually such a store?) The 1994 version toward the end has Fred and Doris getting married late at night in an empty church, for no particular reason. I was not impressed; the entire ending sucked in this version.

The original script was re-written, but not improved. Many changes seemed to be made just to make it different, but the changes didn’t make it better, and most made the newer film much worse. In the original, Kris Kringle’s cane was a simple wooden cane, not very heavy. Its replacement was a fancy silver-headed cane that looked like a club; someone could easily be killed with such a cane. This didn’t improve the plot, nor did other changes which made the original drunken Santa into a real bad guy and Holiday Express a viper’s den instead of honest competitors.

The original was much more light-hearted, made more sense, and the ending was much, much better: the unmarried (but very sweet on each other) couple were sent on a “short-cut” and Susan saw the house of her dreams when they arrived at a cul-de-sac; she was thrilled, and ran into the house, with Doris and Fred in hot pursuit; inside, it was just an empty house which was for sale- with a swing in the back yard! Susan knew who had arranged it all!

And Kris Kringle’s cane was propped against the fireplace.

I highly recommend the 1947 version of Miracle on 34th Street; accept no substitutes (because there really isn’t one.)

I couldn’t agree more; the original is another great movie of the Wonderful Life stripe, made to a standard that present-day Hollywood can’t even approach anymore and seems indifferent to at best anyway. More light-hearted than Wonderful Life (which is not necessarily to say frivolous), certainly; you won’t find much examination of weighty existential issues here, which is just fine, and shouldn’t really be scored against it.

One caveat, though: it aired on the teewee earlier today, and to my horror and disgust, it was *ULP* the colorized version. Gag me with a maggot. What a revoltin’ development.

Leaving his commie predilections and Jane Fonda out of our consideration, Ted Turner should have had his skinny ass kicked up between his shoulder blades twice daily in perpetuity for coming up with the wholly rotten idea of desecrating carefully-conceived and meticulously executed black and white films—which were framed, lit, and shot with black and white film in mind, remember—by painting over them with washed out, drab, sickly looking colors, supposedly to heighten their appeal to modern audiences anesthetized by color TV.

It kicked up quite the little controversy at the time, as I recollect, which Turner dismissed in his trademark high-handed, arrogantly ignorant fashion (“The last time I checked, I owned the films that we’re in the process of colorizing…I can do whatever I want with them, and if they’re going to be shown on television, they’re going to be in color“).

The filmmakers of the day did not consider black and white to be any sort of limitation or handicap. To the contrary: it was their palette, and the best among them were quite skilled at its use, thanks. To vandalize their purposeful art by the rough equivalent of scribbling over it with crayons is a perfect example of the sort of arrogant application of present-day standards to a long-gone era we see all over the place nowadays. Hey, given modern advances in the production of pigments, maybe somebody should go back and paint over all those Rembrandts too.

Thankfully, you don’t see those colorized obscenities nearly as much as you once did, which amounts to pretty righteous repudiation of Turner’s smug assertion that “once people start watching the colored version, they won’t bother with the original.” But having to endure Miracle On 34th Street sullied by the annoying, ugly travesty of colorization is reason enough to suspect there must have been a special place in Hell waiting for Turner upon his death all the same…and that the jerk had it coming, too.

Oh, and one more thing: if Donna Reed had any real competition as America’s loveliest woman, the magnificent Natalie Wood would have been it—with Maureen O’Hara making a credible bid herself.

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Breaking the law, breaking the law!

Unwarranted risk.

Can We Be Honest About Women?

The real question is: do we DARE?

David French of National Review recently wrote an article asking, “Can we be honest about men?” In it, he laments the avalanche of sexual harassment cases in the media, politics, and entertainment, asking, “When will it end?”

Oh Lord. The King of the Cucks again.

I have no problem with the basic points of French’s article, but I do take issue with the assumption that women are passive and innocent in this sexual interplay between the sexes. This might not have been his intention, since he was focusing on men, but we can’t let these conversations remain fixed only on men, as if they alone exploit. We can’t always assume women are hapless damsels in distress horrified by how they’re objectified.

Here’s a little secret we have to say out loud: Women love the sexual interplay they experience with men, and they relish men desiring their beauty. Why? Because it is part of their nature.

As I always say: Progtards’ argument isn’t with us. It’s with reality.

Outside of a woman looking for a mate, her beauty is a source of power because men and other women value it. This is why married women still want to be beautiful. It’s an expression of their femininity, which doesn’t disappear at the altar.

We don’t need studies to bear this out, though we do have them. A recent Pew Research study says society values physical attractiveness in women the most. Nurturing and empathy are second. The top traits most valued in men are morality and professional success. In other words, men want women who are attractive and emotionally connective, and women want good men who are financially successful.

Feminists will say this is a social construct from the Victorian era that has yet to be cleansed from our society. I say this is human nature. So do history, religion, and millennia of myths, legends, and literature. Humanity’s stories are filled with the most competent man winning the most beautiful woman. Men are drawn to beauty like moths to a flame, and women want to be the flame.

And then we get down to the, umm, meat of it.

Speaking of breasts, you can’t pick up a magazine, turn on a website, or watch television without seeing boobs. They’re everywhere. From selfies to profile pics to advertisements—they’re on full display. Why do you think that is? It’s because a man is drawn to a woman’s feminine beauty, and a woman wants to lure him in with her most sexual traits.

Fun bags. We call ’em fun bags. Not for nothing, either.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry. I couldn’t restrain myself.

When men are being their sexual selves, drawn to a woman’s beauty, they’re not exploiting women. They’re responding to them. The women are the fire, drawing a man toward their feminine heat.

This is true even for all those beautiful women who hook up with rich, powerful men—the “arm candy.” I was watching a Premier League soccer match the other day, and the camera focused on one of the rich owners and his wife. He was short, old, and terribly unattractive. She was a foot taller than him, with long blond hair and legs for miles. She was dressed in a fur, and diamonds graced her fingers. She didn’t look miserable at all. In fact, she looked like the cat who ate the canary. One has to ask, who here is actually exploiting whom?

Okay, before I run afoul of fair use again, suffice it to say that DC (who I just realized is a neighbor of sorts, from right here in CLT—hi, DC!) makes a whole bunch of excellent points here, and is taking a pile of crap from the expected sources for writing it. Hats off to her for her honesty. It took courage to put these eternal truths out there publicly…which speaks volumes about the sorry state of our affairs nowadays.

I’ll also note without further comment the delicious irony of so many of those self-same “feminist” termagants who have saddled us all with ubiquitous Pajama Boys wondering sourly where all the “real men” have gone. Three guesses, gals.

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It’s a wonderful movie

Can’t recall offhand if I’ve written about It’s A Wonderful Life here before; most likely I have, not least because it’s one of my all-time favorite movies. I know I did mention the wonderful Donna Reed, the loveliest human female ever to grace the Earth, in this old post. And I’m quite sure I’ve expressed my contempt for the tiresome hipster douchebaggery that had every snotty twerp in hearing distance caviling about the movie as a lightweight, manipulative, sappy piece of schmaltz—little more than a standard-issue three-hanky weeper cranked out by the Frank Capra factory, noted for producing thinly-disguised propaganda flicks promoting those wretched, repressive old American values we’ve thankfully left in the dustbin of history.

Trust me: if you feel that way about this movie, you will NOT enjoy the rest of this post, which I will tuck below the fold to spare your finely-honed artistic sensibilities until such time as you grow the fuck up and cultivate a proper appreciation for Capra’s masterwork, a film that will far outlive anybody’s jejune cynicism towards it.
Continue reading “It’s a wonderful movie”

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Get your grubby government fumble-fingers off

Shoulda never let Big Nanny meddle with it in the first place, it was working quite well as it was.

The one thing we’re all told about net neutrality is that it’s meant to keep internet service providers from discriminating between websites, speeding access to some and throttling it to others. In theory, according to the ubiquitous fans of net neutrality, evil ISPs would charge content providers more to provide fast access to their sites, while also charging customers more, for reasons that are never made exactly clear.

The truth is that ISPs have been doing the exact opposite, with deals like AT&T’s, or T-Mobile’s Binge program, which didn’t count data used to stream Netflix, Spotify, and other popular sites.

Also, ISPs already provide super-fast access to the biggest sites on the web, from Facebook to Google to Netflix, even hosting their servers in order to give customers the fastest connection possible. This is why the debate is misnamed. ISPs already discriminate; it’s working fine.

The lawsuits make it even clearer that the advocates for regulation aren’t really looking out for the interests of the consumer. John Oliver once boiled down the issue pretty well. Instead of “net neutrality,” he said, the issue should be called “preventing cable company f****ery.”

He’s right. The real issue has nothing at all to do with network peering between internet giants (those direct pipes to Google) or free data plans. It is at best an attempt to control the behavior of cable companies, who have poor reputations.

We all know that cable companies offered terrible service when they were monopolies, and their service is still lousy where they’re not faced with competition. When they realized my brother up in Idaho was a cord-cutter, they jacked up his internet fees to $200 a month. In my neighborhood, where I’ve got a few options, the cable company called me up the other day to offer some extra premium channels for the rate I was already paying.

Competition in the market for internet service is still somewhat limited by the physical necessity of connecting your home to the network, but even a battle between the phone company, the cable company, a satellite company, and your cell service provider does a decent job of keeping prices in check. They’re all offering more of what we want for lower prices, and they’re about to face more competition still, once wireless goes 5G.

While the scare stories are legion — my favorite is a bizarre rant in the Globe and Mail arguing that the end of net neutrality would mean doom for “the resistance” — and the technical details are often mind-numbingly complex, this is still a simple story. Between 2005 and 2015, competition produced an 1150 percent increase in broadband speeds. Free markets and unfettered capitalism built out the fast internet. Now the government wants to step in and help.

It’s an old story, and we all ought to know by now exactly how it always turns out. It’s been demonstrated again and again and again: competition in a relatively unfettered, open market will produce lower prices, more innovation, and generally better results than government control each and every damned time.

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The War on Christmas is real

Well, why wouldn’t it be?

Why does your friendly neighborhood Leftist war on Christmas? Why does he hate it so? Other writers, wiser than I, cannot answer:

No one quite knows the reason. It could be his head wasn’t screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. But I think that the most likely reason of all, may have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

On the other hand, the good Dr. Seuss penned one of those Christmas books that somehow manages to mention Santa without mentioning Saint Nicholas, or Christ. So maybe he honestly did not know.

Why must a Leftist hate Christmas, then?  Let us look at it as a multiple choice question.

  • (1) A Leftist is rude.
  • (2) A Leftist is a killjoy.
  • (3) A Leftist is divisive.
  • (4) A Leftist hates America.
  • (5) A Leftist hates Christ.
  • (6) All of the above.

All that being so—and it surely is—why wouldn’t they be making war on Christmas? I mean, for them, what’s not to like about waging it? It’s a no-brainer, is what it is. They HAVE to do it. They can’t possibly NOT do it.

I’ll repeat: they’re such joyless, juiceless, shrivel-souled, just plain miserable moaners it’s sometimes hard not to feel a little bit sorry for them. It’d be nearly impossible not to if it weren’t for their constant campaign to inflict their misery on everyone else, rather than seeking a way out of it for themselves instead.

Via Vox, who says: “Don’t let them do it. Feel the joy. Feed the joy. Fuel the joy.” Which will only make them even MORE miserable.

Update! Now and then, some libtard will feign great umbrage at somebody noticing their hatred for America, and will protest indignantly that they are too patriotic, you guys! They just don’t hold with the kind of unreflective, mindless jingoism espoused by all the warmongering, racist, bigoted, homophobic, misogynist troglodytes who don’t agree with Progressivism, see. The libs’ patriotism is vastly superior, really, all the deeper and more meaningful because of its nuance and inclusiveness and humility.

So they’ll say, and expect you to believe. Maybe they even believe it themselves, some of them. But then Liberal Sideshow Bob will step on yet another rake.

Comedian Sarah Silverman told the audience on her Hulu show I Love You America that, at the sight of the American flag, she “instantly felt very weird. It didn’t make sense, but I felt…scared.”

The reason? “Nationalism.”

Washington Times:

The talk-show host said she immediately questioned her boyfriend’s motives, to which he responded, “Um, because I love America?”

“I was like, ‘Right, right, of course,’ but inside I was shaken,” Ms. Silverman recalled.

“I had no idea why I was freaking out,” she said, so she called her sister, a rabbi in Israel, to try to understand her feelings better.

Ms. Silverman went on to criticize President Trump’s “nationalist” slogans like “Make America Great Again” and “America First” as problematic because they “exploit patriotism” and indicate that America is “No. 1” without acknowledging the need for change.

“As patriots, I think we should strive to see ourselves in each other, whereas I feel that the nationalist view is to see yourself and then others,” she said. “There’s a willing blindness in saying, ‘We’re No. 1.'”

Well, actually, no. What there is, is pride, a belief that this country is, in truth, the greatest nation on earth, warts be damned. To believe that America is unique in all the world, to love this country first above all others, to wish to see its elected leadership pursue its interests doggedly and unashamedly, does NOT render one A) incapable of recognizing its imperfections, B) hostile to other countries by default, or C) eager to see the American system imposed by force or chicanery on any other country.

As Moran says, this fine-toothed parsing of “patriotism” and “nationalism” is a time-honored Lefty ploy:

Conflating “nationalism” with “patriotism” is a political construct that has nothing to do with reality. Silverman, like many liberals, have decided to define nationalism extremely narrowly. That definition equates the simple, heartfelt patriotism of most Americans with the virulent, racist nationalism of Nazi Germany.

You can love America and point out its errors, its troubled past, or its sins. But without acknowledging America’s triumphs, its generosity of spirit, its dedication to human freedom, and all the things that make us an exceptional nation, one can legitimately question what kind of “patriotism” Silverman and her ilk actually feel.

A very narrow, self-serving, and superficial one, of course. They’re “patriotic” not for an America that actually exists, but for a dim fantasy in which all their collectivist dreams have been realized: an America humbled—weakened, docile, and impoverished by a vision that is diametrically opposed to everything its Founders wished. A “patriotism” that can only react to the sight of the nation’s flag unfurled and flying proudly with fear and horror—rather than being moved and inspired by it—is no kind of patriotism at all, and is as useless as it is contemptible.

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Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown redux

I excerpted this piece back in 2011 when it ran on NRO, but it’s been reposted on Lifezette and updated a bit, and is worth another look.

While Charles Schulz’s “Peanuts” characters were well-known from the newspaper comic strip, there were fears among the creative team that the characters would not translate well to television. They’d created a pitch once before, a pilot for television recounting the story of the world’s worst baseball player, Charlie Brown — and all three major networks rejected it.

The Schulz team hoped this time would be different. Luckily for everyone, they didn’t have much time to ponder their earlier failure: They had only three months to create a working script, record voices, get a soundtrack together, and create more than 30,000 animation cells from scratch — and this was back in the days before computers.

As things ended up, the network was not pleased with the final product. The first big complaint was the lack of a laugh track, something unimaginable in 1960s television. Schulz thought the audience should be able to enjoy the show without being cued on when to laugh. CBS created a version of the program with a laugh track added anyway, just in case Schulz changed his mind.

That seems a bit bizarre to me; I’ve watched it every year I could since it first ran, and I don’t really remember ever laughing out loud at it. There are funny bits, of course, and the whole thing is light-hearted and amusing. But it’s not really something I ever thought of as a comedy, somehow. And the annoying distraction of a laugh track getting in the way would have been…well, awful.

The executives also had a problem with the jazz soundtrack by Vince Guaraldi. They thought the music would not work well for a children’s program, that it distracted from the general tone. They wanted something more … well, young.

They also thought the show plodded along, that it was too slow. There wasn’t enough action, went the thinking, in a show dedicated to children.

Last but not least, the executives didn’t like how Linus recited the story of the birth of Jesus Christ from the Gospel of Luke. The scene was too long, too literal. The media orthodoxy of the time assumed Americans wouldn’t want to sit through a long spoken passage from the King James Bible.

“They were freaking out about something so overtly religious in a Christmas special,” explained Melendez. “They basically wrote it off, like, ‘Hey, this just isn’t going to be interesting to anyone, and it’s just going to be like a big tax write-off.'”

Thereby demonstrating that being completely clueless about the beliefs and lifestyles of normal Americans is by no means anything new for the high muckety-mucks running the entertainment biz. You see that same disconnect today in all sorts of places, as they labor mightily to push the masses in the direction they want them to go: ambiguous war flicks with the American soldiers portrayed as deeply flawed or corrupt in some way, fighting for motives that are dubious at best, or confused and deceived by the soulless commanders who are manipulating them for their own malign purposes. Or in commercials or sitcoms wherein Dad is either a helpless, hapless, incompetent buffoon whose blunders the rest of the family patiently endure; a stupid drunk who lives only to watch sports, hooting like a gibbon with his fellow boors; or an emasculated, biddable nebbish eager to be led around by the nose by his far more capable and authoritative wife.

And that’s when the family is even still intact, rather than consisting of a courageous, gutsy single mom and a couple of plucky, extremely well-adjusted kids, all abandoned for selfish reasons by a scurrilous douchebag, Mom struggling nobly to give the kids a proper upbringing without a moment’s support from the irresponsible cad who barely even appears in the show at all, and whom nobody is glad to see if he does.

If ever they do present a more traditional-type American family, Dad is a rigid, aloof tyrant, Mom is miserable and unfulfilled, and the kids are either intimidated or destructively rebellious, depending on their ages. Never do you see a well-adjusted, happy family with parents taking on traditional roles as part of a coherent plan to assist each other in the ways they’re most suited, sharing the load to everybody’s benefit: respectful of each other; appreciative of one another’s contribution; affectionate and warm towards each other; courteous and thoughtful; firm, but supportive and loving with the kids, who are mannerly and considerate, if a little rambunctious or uncooperative sometimes, as kids will be. No, none of them were perfect at all times and in all circumstances. All anybody expected was honest effort, and expected their own effort to be rewarded appropriately—which, in the main, it was.

I grew up in just such a family, and lived in a neighborhood, a town, a county, and a region surrounded by many others. It was not at all a grim, suffocating colony of undifferentiated zombies, everyone thinking and looking and acting exactly alike in a cookie-cutter nightmare where creativity was stifled, initiative was discouraged, independence was a serious transgression, and a joyless conformity was ruthlessly enforced—a place where there was no laughter, no honesty, no humanity, and above all, no sex. None. Ever.

Discipline was maintained in part via weekly attendance at a hate-filled, bigoted, narrow-minded church, through scorching, condemning harangues from the sour prude behind the pulpit. Everyone absolutely hated it. Well, except the preacher, who enjoyed having his fearful parishioners in his thrall and exercising his power over them like any other cheap dictator would.

Most of the zombies coped with this wretched existence through strictly-closeted reliance on alcohol or prescription drugs, infidelity, or habitual brutality to the kids, the wife, or the family pet, which was also kept well-hidden, discussed only in whispers by those in the know. Anyone different or odd suffered a life of sadistic torment at the hands of the other drones, until he or she either suicided or fled to the more welcoming, tolerant environs of New York, San Francisco, or LA.

Y’know, like the Fifties, duuuude.

If all you had to go by was TV and movies from about, say, 1970 on, you’d never know such a thing as a happy traditional family ever existed at all. Yet it was the norm in most of this country until fairly recently, and worked well for most families (and for society itself) despite life’s inevitable setbacks and unpleasant surprises, or the occasional human failing of one partner or the other. Certainly our culture as a whole was by far the better for it.

Which I’m confident that Schultz himself knew quite well, thanks.

Schulz, a Sunday school teacher, pushed back against everyone. He had many doubts in his life, but few about his characters and his storytelling skills. He also had the benefit of a very tight production schedule. The suits at the network, the advertising agency  — and the show’s sponsor, Coca-Cola — had invested in this program and promoted it in TV Guide. Schulz knew he had leverage, and he wasn’t about to acquiesce on any of the creative elements — especially the Bible reading.

The network executives capitulated and aired the special as Schulz intended it. And that’s why Charles Schulz was Charles Schulz. He knew his own country and the things Americans cared (and care) about, the things that meant something to them. He also knew — really knew — that the Bible reading was the most important part of the whole show.

As Charlie Brown sinks into a state of despair while trying to find the true meaning of Christmas, an unlikely character quietly saves the day. Linus walks to the center of the stage where the “Peanuts” characters have gathered, and under a narrow spotlight, quotes the second chapter of the Gospel according to Luke, verses 8 through 14:

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good will towards men.

After Linus finishes the beautiful reading, he walks across the stage and says these words: “And that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

And so it is—no matter what those coastal elite types might or might not believe, in spite of their own hostility to Christianity and Christians…and their mistaken assumption that normal, decent people share it, particularly back in 1965. Even disregarding that, the Bible passage is central to the story; the whole damned thing depends on it. It isn’t just what Christmas is all about—it’s what A Charlie Brown Christmas is all about, too.

I dunno, maybe they’d be closer to correct about that assumption today. In fact, it’s difficult to even imagine such a thing making it to the airwaves now at all. Which says more about us than about them, and is not a happy thought. Thankfully, Schultz stood his ground; as Habeeb winds up:

Thank God the Grinch-like executives at CBS chose to air the special back in 1965. If it had been left to their gut instincts, we would have one fewer national treasure to cherish come Christmastime.

Yep. I watched it myself the other night, as I do every year. It’s held up a heck of a lot better than a lot of things those Hollywood and New York types would have imagined to be “timeless,” and has probably had far more impact than many things they’d consider “important,” too.

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Tis the season

For predictions of what might take place next year, and Schlichter goes ahead and gets himself an early start.

THE DEMOCRATS, THE GOPe, AND THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA WILL NOT TAKE A PERSONAL INVENTORY AND THINK ABOUT THEIR ROLE IN ELECTING ROY MOORE. (Confidence Factor: 95%)

Nah, it’s much easier, and so much more self-satisfying, for urban elites to pretend that the people of Alabama are a bunch of pro-pedo freaks than to consider that they actually don’t believe the charges, in large part because they don’t trust their establishment and media betters. Oh, and it’s easier to pretend that Alabamians don’t see the incredible hypocrisy being rubbed in their face by people who protect their admittedly guilty establishment fellow travelers while demanding that these red staters submit to years of representation by an ardent leftist based on hotly disputed claims.

TRUMP WILL TWEET ABOUT SOMETHING AND THE LIBERALS AND WUSSY NEVER TRUMPERS WILL FREAK OUT AND WE CONSERVATIVES WILL LAUGH HYSTERICALLY (Confidence Factor: 100%)

I mean some freakoutrage besides Pocahantasgate. While the libs and Never Trumpers were wetting their collective collectivist selves, we normals were rolling and those awesome Navajo Code Talkers were totally thinking, “I was at freakin’ Iwo Jima – I think I can handle a joke.

Yeah, that prediction was almost too easy.

That might just be the worst of it: these greasy degenerates have become so predictable. Our present-day political class has lost whatever entertainment value they might once have had, and have shriveled into something boring and banal.

I mean, come on, remember Wilbur Mills and his stripper girlfriend, “The Argentine Firecracker,” splashing around in the DC Tidal Basin nekkid after getting popped for a late-night drunk drive around the DC environs? Now THERE was a scandal worth paying attention to, I tells ya. There were giants in them days, folks, real lowlifes who knew how to fuck up properly, and disgrace themselves with style.

Pygmies. They’re all just pygmies now, feeble shadows of the truly amusing miscreants that roamed the earth before them. It’s kinda sad, and certainly disappointing.

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Antidote

Beginning to find the recent tsunami of sleaze, sordidness, and perfidy tiresome? Try this on for size, then.

The phrase “he’d give you the shirt off his back” is routinely used to describe someone who would give everything to help another, but how many are as giving as Johnny Bobbit, Jr.?

Bobbit recently stepped up to help a literal damsel in distress after Kate McClure ran out of gas. McClure pulled over and got out of the vehicle to walk to the nearest gas station.

Bobbit, however, was having none of it. He knew the neighborhood was a dangerous place for a woman to walk alone:

[Bobbit] told me to get back in the car and lock the doors. A few minutes later, he comes back with a red gas can (and) his last 20 dollars to make sure I could get home safe.

This is a serious act of generosity from anyone. But Johnny Bobbit is homeless, and that last $20 may have meant all sorts of important things to him. He gave it to someone in need, even though most of us would have seen Bobbit as the one in need.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Bobbit is a former Marine.

McClure was so appreciative of his act, she started a GoFundMe campaign. Her goals were simple:

I would like to get him first and last month’s rent at an apartment, a reliable vehicle, and 4-6 months worth of expenses. He is very interested in finding a job, and I believe that with a place to be able to clean up every night and get a good night’s rest, his life can get back to being normal.

The campaign has amassed, as of this writing, almost $380,000 for Bobbit.

With that money, Bobbit could buy a modest home, a reliable vehicle, and get any treatment he needs. Hopefully he can find and maintain gainful employment.

Indeed. I know both from observation and bitter personal experience that once you’re down, the way the system is structured makes it very damned difficult to climb back up again. That difficulty is compounded severely as one gets older, too. There’s nobody to blame for it, and there’s no point in complaining about it; it’s just the way it is, that’s all. When you’re in a hole, it gets deep so incredibly fast that before you know it you can’t even tell which way is up anymore. So I wish Bobbit the best of luck in getting his feet back under him again. I sincerely hope he makes it.

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Latest shoe dropping

The Uniparty Coup Cabal find themselves a new Ewan McMuffin:

When retired Marine Col. Lee Busby read it was too late for a write-in candidate for the Alabama Senate race, he said, “Hold my beer, we will just see about that.”

Busby told The Daily Beast on Monday he is launching his long-shot bid to stop Republican nominee Roy Moore from reaching the Senate.

“I have no idea if the allegations against him true or not, but I don’t see anything within his experience as a judge that qualifies him for the job.”

Busby said his state needs a choice other than Moore or Democrat Doug Jones.

“Alabama is not happy with the two choices we have down here. They are not appealing.”

Seeing as he’s a former Marine, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt and conclude that he’s sincere, with integrity enough to refuse to be part of any low Establishment skullduggery. On the other hand:

Busby said he spent 31 years in the Marine Corps and on his last tour of duty was vice chief of staff to then-Gen. John Kelly, who is now White House chief of staff.

Now, Trump might be concerned enough about Moore’s chance of winning that he or his staff could conceivably have instigated Busby to throw his hat into the ring, sure enough. But frankly I doubt it; for one thing, I think the odds are on Busby ending up as a spoiler, siphoning enough votes from Moore to throw the election to the Democrat Socialist viper. The odds are always long against winning as a write-in, and Busby has jumped into this one way late: what kind of organization can he possibly have, and how could a slapdash, cobbled-together campaign crew possibly hope to get itself running smoothly enough to push an underdog candidate over the top in so short a time?

Trump and his advisers would have to know all this, and I’m sure that, despite his lukewarm support for him so far, he’d far rather hold his nose and see Moore sworn in than have that happen.

As unpredictable and/or unmanageable a wild card as a Senator Moore might well turn out to be, Trump can still count on one hell of a lot more support and assistance with pushing the MAGA agenda from him than he could ever hope for from any Democrat Socialist you could think of, much less as staunch a Statist tapeworm as Doug Jones seems to be. He does himself no real harm in remaining mostly aloof on this…apart from the prospect of helping Jones and the Uniparty shitweasels steal an election via Busby that still looks like Moore’s to win.

An ironic aside: anybody remember back when the self-same GOPe frauds who are now far too pious to endure a candidate “tainted” by unprovable, decades-old sexual smears backed only by the say-so of suspect witnesses were demanding that we all “hold our noses” and vote for Romney, McCain, Bush, etc? Nah, me neither.

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Buy Remington!

Dismaying news.

Remington Outdoor, the second-largest U.S. gunmaker has suffered a “rapid” and “sharp” deterioration in sales and a similar drop in profits since January, and faces “continued softness in consumer demand for firearms,” credit analysts at Standard & Poor’s Global Ratings said in a report Friday.

Bill says:

The decline may be accounted for by a growing feeling among potential buyers that President Trump, unlike his predecessor, has no intention of trying to erase the Second Amendment and take their guns in the process.

From what I’ve read, gun sales are in fact down across the board since Trump took office, for most all manufacturers and types. Of course, that’s after years of record-shattering highs during the Obama regime, despite his professed deep and abiding affection for hunting and skeet shooting. Of course, shooters know a gun-grabber when they see one, and such phonus-balonus claims are always one of the telltales.

In any event, one truly hates to see Remington suffer, especially after this:

Remington announced a plan for a new state of the art plant in Huntsville, Alabama on February 17, 2014. Remington moved two production lines from the Ilion, New York as a result of the fallout from the New York Safe Act which restricted gun ownership. Huntsville is now building the AR-15/Modern Sporting Rifle (MSR) from Bushmaster, DPMS and Remington Remington R-15 and 1911 style R-1 pistols in the new AL plant which is an $87 million boon for Alabama’s economy. The new plant consolidates Remington’s production to promote efficiency and lower production costs. Experts in the gun industry believe that it is only a matter of time before Remington completely abandons its New York roots for states that are more gun friendly and pro business.

As Bill says, they did the right thing when it counted, as did Taurus back when Bill Clinton sent Albert “Second Shakra” AlGore to threaten them with undefined repercussions unless they started including free trigger locks with every product sold. Taurus, you may recollect, told Gore to get bent in no uncertain terms by including a free year’s NRA membership instead.

I always had a soft spot in my heart for ’em after that. In fact, one of the best guns I ever did own was a Taurus PT92, which I had for a decade or so and put literally thousands of rounds through without a single burp or hitch. I still have an affection for their Millennium .45, which is somewhat dampened by a rumor that their quality control has taken a severe nosedive of late for some reason.

At any rate, if you’re in the market for a boomstick this Christmas, please do consider Remington. They have a long history of making quality hunting and sporting arms behind ’em, and are deserving of our support. It’d be a damnable shame to see them lost as an unintended consequence of not having a gun-grabbing liar infesting the White House anymore.

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Still stinks

Aesop remains on the Vegas case.

And oh, BTW, they have no idea why Paddock is supposed to have started shooting. Nor why he stopped. Nor why he quit with over 4,000 additional rounds remaining.

I repeat, this wasn’t a mass shooting as much as it was a photo op. One or two weapons is a shooter. Twenty-three is a press release.

And quitting while fully healthy, with over 80% of your rounds remaining?

The simple answer is that the shooter didn’t want to get caught. And didn’t. 

But he (or they) left us Schmuck Paddock, helpfully already dead on the suite floor, likely the exact same place he was when the shooting started, as he/they made their retreat a full 10 minutes before anyone from LVMPD arrived to secure the shooting scene’s perimeter.

And both the Clark County Sheriff’s Department and the FBI know this, but they have no idea who they’re actually looking for, so they don’t want to reveal that nugget.

Or, alternatively, they know exactly who they’re looking for, and don’t want to reveal that nugget.

Either way, once again:

Top. Men.

Has there EVER been one of these incidents that was less closely examined by the media, which seems unusually disinterested after dropping it unusually quickly; in which the stated conclusions of the “investigation” hung together less coherently; in which the handful of “facts” we’ve been allowed knowledge of have been less credible and more contradictory; in which Occam’s Razor has cut so sharply against the crooked grain of the official narrative right from the start?

It’s looking more and more like what happened in Vegas is gonna stay in Vegas for sure this time. Even JFK’s assassination wasn’t this suspiciously opaque…and that was in the days before every urban area had security cameras every five feet, running 24/7/365.

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A becoming gratitude

Our final Thanksgiving post this year comes from Schlichter. He has his usual good time with it.

No. 2: Be Thankful That We Now Know The Truth About So Many “Conservatives.”
Besides defeating the chardonnay-swilling Mayonnaise Chavez, Donald Trump’s other great achievement has been to cause so many prominent Fredocons to show who they really are – and it isn’t “conservative.” It’s remarkable how many peeps we thought were solid revealed themselves to be narcissistic hacks focused only on preserving their pathetic sinecures within Conservative, Inc. Exhibit A is Cruise Director Bill Kristol, who turned out to be much more worried about empty cabins on the sinking S.S. Weekly Standard‘s lido deck than actually making conservative change. He flat-out defected to the enemy and was last seen pushing for a Deep State coup. After all, the establishment is gonna establishment.

But stay with me. Not all Never Trumpers are phonies; some actually believe in conservatism and are simply strategically confused. We are in the fighting phase now, and not everyone has the stomach to make the choices you need to make when you are grappling to the death in the Octagon. In the midst of our fighting, we have to sometimes prioritize, and yes – some traditional conservative values and ideals do need to get put on pause. As adults, and as people who have been in fistfights, we get that mindless purity leads to pure defeat.

The Captain Stubing of Conservatism exemplifies the loser class of GOP frauds who actually preferred Hillary because Trump’s supporters are so…well, you know, not Harvard material. Oh, and also because a Hillary regime would have been a great opportunity to pretend to lead the conserva-resistance and cash-in with profitable events like chin-stroking panels starring conservative firebrand activists such as Jeff Flake, Ben Sasse, and Chet the Unicorn. Let’s give thanks that the marks caught onto the grift.

That’s number two out of seven as noted, all of which are worthy reasons for giving thanks. But for me it’s the biggest one of the bunch, in terms of both impact and pure enjoyment.

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A tale of Thanksgiving

A pretty unusual one, too. In fact, I’m betting it’s unique.

Explanation. Given the Diplowife’s aversion to feathery creatures, our overseas Thanksgiving Day meals consisted of seafood paella. My wife had, ahem, implied in some way…oh, heck, she flat out told the kids that the Pilgrims ate paella with the Indians. Maybe she was thinking about Cortez and Pizarro, I don’t know, but anyhow the kids had gotten into their heads that paella was the meal on Thanksgiving. Now in NY, the older boy had been asked the previous day to make a presentation at school on Thanksgiving. He, of course, reported that the English Pilgrims sat down and shared paella with the Native Americans. This caused a bit of a commotion and, I guess, led to some considerable ridicule, or what the politically correct nanny-staters now would label “bullying.”

He was furious with us. He refused to eat paella and demanded a turkey. Even my wife was shocked into submission by the uncompromising fury coming from the tyke. It was Thanksgiving Day. I had to find a turkey in Manhattan! I dashed out of our building on the upper east side. All of the supermarkets were closed. A turkey! My kingdom for a turkey! I wandered the cold, darkling desolate concrete canyons, my despair growing and threatening to overwhelm me. I had let down my kids! The wages of sin, the consequences of falsehoods! God give me a sign that You will allow me to redeem myself . . . Wait! A deli! Still open but about to close! I ran in! Turkey sandwiches! They must have a turkey somewhere! A bizarre negotiation followed in which I finally convinced the suspicious Pakistani owner of the “Jewish” deli to sell me a whole kosher turkey at the price per pound of the sliced sandwich meat. I paid him a fortune–in cash–for a small bird about the size of a Chihuahua, and ran like the Grinch with my turkey under my arm.

My kids had turkey that day, and every other Thanksgiving since then has featured a big bird on the table. My wife refuses to sit anywhere near it, and has her own separate fish-based meal.

I like paella one hell of a lot more than I ever have turkey, so I’d say those kids were lucky in one way at least.

And a personal aside to the ol’ Diplomad himself: e-mail when you get the chance, buddy. I dug around at your place a bit, but couldn’t find an address for you.

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Nougat? NOUGAT?!?

I don’t write about these things much anymore, and haven’t in a while. I used to really enjoy tweaking Steven Den Beste about my beloved Macs versus his crappy ol’ PeeCees back in the old days; him, me, and Brian Tiemann had many an enjoyable and informative three-way e-mail exchange about that stuff, with my old friend CapLion chiming in on mine and Brian’s side now and then, just to make the fur really fly. It was great fun, and educational as all hell, too. I like to think the resulting rasslin’ around on our respective blogs yielded some worthwhile reading for our respective audiences to enjoy as well.

But nowadays tech is slowly but surely leaving me behind. Perhaps even more appalling, I’m A-okay with that increasing disengagement, too; I’m an old dog now, getting older by the minute, and am finding myself less and less interested in all the new tricks. I do make a half-assed effort (okay, quarter-assed) to at least keep the young ‘uns in sight as they blaze off into the ether in their self-driving aircars and their personal jetpacks and their Travolators in the sky and suchlike. But as time grinds implacably on, the appeal of just staying on the porch and waving at them from a creaky old bentwood rocker as they reach escape velocity grows ever more compelling.

Notwithstanding my creeping fuddy-duddydom, to any of you Android users out there wondering about the new 7.0 update and willing to trust this old dog’s assessment: DO IT. Just do it. I installed it yesterday, and it is GREAT: a noticeable up-kick in speed across the board, and the extension of battery life (thanks in part to a sleep feature called Doze) is nothing short of astonishing. There are other new features I haven’t played with much yet, and not being a smartphone guru by any stretch I probably won’t get around to exploring some of them at all. I have fooled about a little with the split-screen dealie, which is a neat little confection but maybe not all that useful to anybody but a true power-user—which, as I already admitted, I sure ain’t. But the jump in speed and battery life alone are enough to make it well worth installing.

If it’s of any interest to anybody, I’m on a Moto X Pure which I’ve had for about a year now, and just love to little bitty pieces. They were discontinued towards the end of last year, if I remember right, which made me glad I’d gotten mine under the wire, and for an almost unbelievably cheap price* too. Now, with this update breathing new life into the old girl, I’ll be happily hanging onto her for a goodish while yet, or so I hope.

Yep, you whippersnappers can have your damned Dick Tracy wrist teewees and your Star Trek communicators a-beeping and a-blatting at you and all. Me, I’m gonna stick to ol’ Princess over here. It’s got a great big bright ol’ screen that I can actually read—and at my age that ain’t optional**, nosirree. And with this update, it looks to stay current enough for my purposes for a long, long while yet, unless I drop it in a toilet or lay it on the floor and then forget and step on it or put it in the microwave for no damned reason or something.

Now get off my damn lawn, you kids.

Den Beste would probably have been annoyed with me for not having an iPhone, if only because it would leave us with one less thing to joust over. Probably he wouldn’t have ever openly admitted to giving a damn, and would have been all ready with an elegant, eloquent, and well-reasoned two thousand word treatise on why he didn’t. But as one curmudgeon surely knows another, I bet I’m right. I can just tell.

Truthfully, though, I just never did get too excited about the iPhones, although I do still love my Macs. I don’t know why. Maybe my gravitating to Android over iOS was an early symptom of latent codgerhood. Maybe my disinterest in the iPhone was my last gasping breath of the adolescent rebellion and nonconformity that was like oxygen to me my whole life. Maybe they’re just too freakin’ expensive, and I can’t afford one, and I resented it subconsciously.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a PC someday just for the hell of it, and get Steven spinning in his grave for reals. Just because.

Damn, but I do miss that boy. If you got the time, I strongly recommend that you click the link above to the archives of his old USS Clueless site and poke around a bit. You won’t be sorry, I promise; he was one of the very best of us OG warbloggers, and it’d be a shame for you noobs not to hip yourselves to him. It was an honor and a thrill to be linked and excerpted by him now and then, and I got all happy every time he did—even when he was deftly demolishing one of my arguments, jackhammering it to rubble bit by pitiful bit until there was nothing left of it but a slight whiff of failure wafting gently away into nothingness. Which I admit he did, once or twice. The Mac/PC stuff excepted; he was just dead fucking wrong about all that, of course.

Ahem.

From Den Beste to Droid to Den Beste in one mid-length, mostly-coherent post; don’t know how that happened, but I assure you you won’t find such toothsome noodling about anyplace else but right here, folks. Which, y’know, might not be the ringing endorsement I think it is, now that I consider it. The mostly-coherent part is no mean feat either, when you’re high on Metamucil and Geritol, wear a pair of readers around your neck full-time, haven’t bothered to pick up your hairbrush in weeks because what the hell’s the point, and have enough laxatives bouncing around in your belly to break down three miles of I-85 into a fine powder.

So yeah, go getcha some Android 7.0 Nougat, y’all. Do it for Steven.

*Does a whopping 200 bucks for a brand-new smartphone—delivered to my door direct from Motorola, highly customized and without any of the bloatware installed by the big service providers to clog things up—that only a couple months before had been the flagship of the line and thus went for 700 sound like a bargain, or what? I mean, COME ON, people.

**One of the new features I haven’t fooled with yet is the ability to increase the size of everything on the entire screen, icons, text, and all. I probably won’t be bothering with it, actually. Despite all my joshing and jesting above, I ain’t quite that far gone just yet, thankyouverymuch.

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Scrooged!

That’s right, folks, it’s time once again for good ol’ Scrooge Picard to make his traditional holiday appearance. I’m actually putting him up a little earlier this year than I have in the past, y’all CF lifers may note. I admit to having done my share of obligatory complaining to friends and family about how the stores are jumping the gun on Christmas more and more each year, so much so that the season this year seemed to get cranking more or the less the day after Halloween.

But if I’m honest with myself, I’m really not all that bothered by it. I’ve always just loved the Christmas season: the festive lights and decorations; the houses decked out and twinkling; the small-town Main Streets all tinseled and garlanded; even the cheesy holiday displays in the stores—these things all combine to make the very air itself seem fresher and more cheery, and I find myself going well out of my way to pause and enjoy them.

I was just talking to a friend of mine, something of a Scrooge himself, who maintained that Christmas as we know it now was wholly invented by commercial interests looking only to make a buck. I said that may or may not be entirely true, but if so it amounted to not an “inventing” but a hijacking, and that Christmas was and would always be a lot bigger than that. I refuse to allow my own conception of Christmas to be bounded by such. I look at it in much the same way as I do the Confederate battle flag: these symbols belong to those who reverence them, if they’re bold enough to claim them. And I will no more let ill-intentioned or self-serving usurpers get away with misappropriating the one than I will the other.

So, y’know, here we all are. You’re likely to see an increase in posting frequency (if not quality) for a while, only because I enjoy this theme so much I’ll be making more time to hang around here just to look at it. I’d also bet there’s a handful of younger CF readers out there who don’t know who either Scrooge or Picard are, and find themselves baffled by this whole thing, and…well, I ain’t getting into all that. You guys will just have to look it up for yourselves. As for the rest of you: enjoy. I know I will.

Update! I will under NO circumstances be wishing anybody “happy holidays,” this or any other year. I’m sure you all knew that already, or at least suspected it. But still. Ahem.

Updated update! For those of you whose only experience of Stewart as Scrooge is the TV movie (and this website), here’s some info on the real deal. I was fortunate enough to see the final performance of its 1992 NYC run, and it was simply incredible. Apart from my firm preference for TNG over all other Treks, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for Patrick Stewart just for this alone.

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Welcome aboard

Please note that we have a new advertiser here: AmmoMan, whose banner is perusable and clickable near the top of the sidebar over there to the left. I hope you shooters out there will check these fine folks out; as with everybody toiling away in the business of firearms in whatever capacity, they’re fighting the good fight in a time when that can be tough, if not outright risky as hell given the penchant on the Left for wanton, lunatic violence against those whose opinions they disagree with, whose rights they don’t feel obliged to respect or honor.

They’ve also offered me the opportunity to snag a few cases gratis for review purposes here, which offer I will be taking advantage of as soon as I can consult with my brother on a date to get down to his place way out in the middle of nowhere for some serious plinking, and what calibers we’re gonna want to try out. Look for that here before long; I’m by no means an ammo expert, but hey, I know what I like, and I ain’t afraid to bend y’all’s ears about it, neither.

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“Before I can teach you how to reason, I must first teach you how to rid yourself of unreason”

Ground rules.

Reasoning requires you to understand truth claims, even truth claims that you think are false or bad or just icky. Most of you have been taught to label things with various “isms” which prevent you from understanding claims you find uncomfortable or difficult.

Reasoning requires correct judgment. Judgment involves making distinctions, discriminating. Most of you have been taught how to avoid critical, evaluative judgments by appealing to simplistic terms such as “diversity” and “equality.”

Reasoning requires you to understand the difference between true and false. And reasoning requires coherence and logic. Most of you have been taught to embrace incoherence and illogic. You have learned to associate truth with your subjective feelings, which are neither true nor false but only yours, and which are constantly changeful.

We will have to pull out all of the weeds in your mind as we come across them. Unfortunately, your mind is full of weeds, and this will be a very painful experience. But it is strictly necessary if anything useful, good, and fruitful is to be planted in your head.

One of the falsehoods that has been stuffed into your brain and pounded into place is that moral knowledge progresses inevitably, such that later generations are morally and intellectually superior to earlier generations, and that the older the source the more morally suspect that source is. There is a term for that. It is called chronological snobbery. Or, to use a term that you might understand more easily, “ageism.”

Second, you have been taught to resort to two moral values above all others, diversity and equality. These are important values if properly understood. But the way most of you have been taught to understand them makes you irrational, unreasoning. For you have been taught that we must have as much diversity as possible and that equality means that everyone must be made equal. But equal simply means the same. To say that 2+2 equals 4 is to say that 2+2 is numerically the same as four. And diversity simply means difference. So when you say that we should have diversity and equality you are saying we should have difference and sameness. That is incoherent, by itself. Two things cannot be different and the same at the same time in the same way.

Furthermore, diversity and equality are not the most important values. In fact, neither diversity nor equality is valuable at all in its own right. Some diversity is bad. For example, if slavery is inherently wrong, as I suspect we all think it is, then a diversity of views about the morality of slavery is worse than complete agreement that slavery is wrong.

Similarly, equality is not to be desired for its own sake. Nobody is equal in all respects. We are all different, which is to say that we are all not the same, which is to say that we are unequal in many ways. And that is generally a good thing. But it is not always a good thing (see the previous remarks about diversity).

Related to this:  You do you not know what the word “fair” means.

Look for this brilliant professor to be reprimanded at the very least, if not fired outright, in the wake of this. Read all of it; the man is just starting out in this excerpt from the prefatory portion above, and it just gets better from there. I especially like his third rule, and believe it should be enforced not just in his class but throughout the whole of our faltering society. At gunpoint, if necessary, and on pain of flogging.

Via Steyn, who adds: “My admiration for this professor’s manifesto is mitigated only by the melancholy reflection that two generations ago every single thing he said would have gone without saying.” Sure enough.

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Well, there’s no unseeing THIS

Um. Uhh. Errr, uhh…

Ugh.

Ever since the tiny elites who cluster together in tiny swaths of America’s coasts appointed themselves the moral arbiters of an entire nation that they deem to be teeming with inbred Christofascist moral lepers who deserve to be tortured and mocked into extinction, it has been our sincerest wish to see these sheltered pervs unmasked as the corrupt and predatory hypocrites we always knew they were.

For generations now we’ve been forced to endure endlessly pious chest-thumping and relentlessly condescending lectures from HIV-positive waste cases who, if they had a scrap of decency, would have publicly immolated themselves on a glowing funeral pyre made of melted crack pipes.

At the moment the entertainment industry is cannibalizing itself as a result of the sort of entitled arrogance that comes from not realizing that the endless witch hunts whose flames they’ve fanned for decades would eventually burn them at the stake, too.

For this week at least, our greatest pleasure comes in seeing comedian Louis C.K.—the lumpy and physically appalling “conscience of the comedy scene”—unmasked as a fat bald twerp who gets his jollies from masturbating to completion in front of horrified female coworkers.

I repeat: ugh. Also, ick.

Rumors of C.K.’s masturbatory proclivities have circulated for years but were mostly swept under the rug, because the entertainment industry loves few things more than a comedian who can sell out Madison Square Garden while getting everyone to laugh about white degradation and displacement.

However, that pimple finally popped last week when The New York Times ran an article in which five women—only one of them anonymous—accused the physiognomically disadvantaged comic of whipping it out and jerking it while they either watched in stunned horror or listened on the phone with extreme discomfort. During one encounter in a motel room, two accusers say his penis spat forth a quarter-billion ugly little Louis C.K. tadpoles all over his ample belly as they watched in horror.

I always liked Louis C.K. I mean, sure, he’s a garden-variety showbiz liberal and all, but he’s funny, and he seemed like a sincerely committed father who loved his kids—not that this means he doesn’t, of course. He never came off like someone I would have instantly assumed to be afflicted with the same diseased proclivities as the usual round of Hollywood pervs, freaks, and creeps, I’ll say that much. Oh well, so much for all that. By way of (very) minor mitigation, though, there IS this:

Rather than deflecting and denying like so many others, Louis admitted that the accusations were accurate.

Three groans and a half-hearted hat tip to him for owning up right away, I guess. It has the advantage of being both the right thing to do and the smart thing to do; giving the media scandal-vampires the chance to keep the squalid circus staggering along as they bay for blood in proportion to the increasing flaccidity of each successive denial and retraction only prolongs the agony—for all of us, most especially those of us who would just as soon these twisted horndogs keep their kinks to themselves.

And with this latest roll in the Hollywood hogwallow, let’s all hope that the recent spate of distasteful TMI will soon be drawing to a most welcome close. I for one have heard more than I really needed to about all of these people by now; as I said the other day, I don’t find any of it surprising in the least, and I fervently hope that there aren’t going to be any stomach-churning public “scandals” involving, say, Roseanne Barr or Ernest Borgnine forthcoming.

Or, may merciful God forbid, Sandra Bernhard (shudder).

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The Weinstein-Progressivist axis

So I mentioned in one of last night’s posts that I was having a discussion with CF lifer Sam that I’d be bringing up and expanding on in a later post, at his request. His proposition is basically that L’Affaire Weinstein is nothing more nor less than, in his words, “Progressivism writ large.” To wit:

I have been thinking lately about the parallels between progressivism as a whole and the Harvey Weinstein saga. For example most normal thinking people know that the core elements of progressivism are nonsense, yet they go along with it to save jobs, relationships, etc, etc. People are so afraid of the twin howler monkeys of political correctness and leftist dogma. Much the same as the Weinstein stuff was an open secret in Hollywood but the people in the business shielded him to protect themselves from his ability to destroy their jobs and relationships. The Harvey Weinstein saga is progressivism writ large.

On a personal note, I having been greatly enjoying watching all of the sanctimonious bastards in Hollywood be forced to live by their own rules.

I was wondering what your eloquently profane take is on this.

His point is well-taken and damned nigh inarguable on even cursory reflection, but it puts me in mind of another one I’ve been considering ever since the story broke. Actually, for longer than that—ever since every Lefty luminary feigned shock and horror over the Bill Cosby Sleazapalooza “revelations.”

I mentioned at the start of the Weinstein cesspool-dunk that the Hollywood casting couch is hardly some new and startling revelation; it’s been my contention for years that rattling in the closets of any and every successful actor or (especially) actress blessed with even slight physical attractiveness are tawdry skeletons consisting of everything from cheesy nude photos right up to full-on homemade porn flicks, shot right in the offices of producers, directors, and other wielders of Tinseltown power as something of an introductory job interview.

I’ve known quite a few actors over the years, even dated a couple or three—no names you would recognize, other than Marisa Tomei, with whom I had a wee bit more than a nodding acquaintance for a minute there; call it a very casual, occasional, and superficial friendship, and that will be close enough. I have had tiny speaking parts in a couple of movies myself, and even floundered my way through an embarrassingly disastrous reading for the lead-bad-guy role in an indie horror production done by a friend of mine when I was living in NYC which was later picked up for distribution by Troma. With even that limited experience, I can tell you that the ongoing existence and importance of the casting couch to establishing a career in film or TV doesn’t even rise to the level of an open secret among those in the business or associated with it in some more peripheral way.

Here’s the thing, though: it’s not the fact of its existence but the acceptance of that fact that matters here. And despite the current handwringing, it IS accepted—not just by those who control it and enjoy its depraved privileges, but also by those lying back and thinking of England after being forced onto it. Continue reading “The Weinstein-Progressivist axis”

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No surprise here

The greatest baseball announcer of all time has seen enough, thanks.

Saturday night, former Dodgers announcer and Hall of Famer Vin Scully was at the Pasadena Civic Center for an event called “An Evening With Vin Scully.”

At some point during the event, Scully was asked about the NFL’s national anthem protests, in which players have taken a knee during the anthem to protest police brutality and racism. Scully said he “will never watch another NFL game” because of the protests.

Here is a full transcript of Scully’s comments, via Deadspin:

“I have only one personal thought, really. And I am so disappointed. And I used to love, during the fall and winter, to watch the NFL on Sunday. And it’s not that I’m some great patriot. I was in the Navy for a year — didn’t go anywhere, didn’t do anything. But I have overwhelming respect and admiration for anyone who puts on a uniform and goes to war. So the only thing I can do in my little way is not to preach. I will never watch another NFL game.”

God, I love the man. And I’m with him all the way on this, although I gave up on the Negro Felons League for good a long while before he did. For me, this latest nonsense merely served to reaffirm that long-ago decision, and cast it in concrete. But when a true giant of American sports like Scully—a bona fide living legend—throws up his hands in disgust like this, well, I’d say the writing is on the wall for the over-privileged dumbasses responsible for putting the finishing touch on the destruction of their staggering sport.

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Man bites dog!

For the most part, the news has been as predictable as the sunrise, and as uninteresting as a HILLARY!™ speech: Trump says something obviously true, the media goes apoplectic; Trump underlines a principle most of us hold dear, and the media and the Left (but I repeat myself) descends into apoplexy over the OUTRAGE! of it all; some disaster or Moslem atrocity occurs, and Trump is blamed for it. So a genuine shocker like this is pretty rare.

He’s NOT dead, Jim?

The hero Mandalay Bay security guard who vanished hours before he was due to give interviews with major TV networks will now break his silence on the Ellen DeGeneres Show.

Jesus Campos, who was shot and wounded in the Las Vegas massacre, disappeared from the public eye last week ahead of several TV interviews, including with Fox News’ Sean Hannity.

But DeGeneres has now confirmed that the security guard sat down with her for a pre-taped interview that is set to air on Wednesday.

‘Tomorrow, the first people to encounter the Las Vegas shooter are here – security guard Jesus Campos and building engineer Stephen Schuck,’ DeGeneres tweeted late Tuesday night.  

Well, how about that. Guess he didn’t offend the Clinton Machine badly enough for them to hire out one of their Death Squads to be sent after him. I do note, however, that they don’t mention exactly when this “taped interview” was actually conducted, just that it airs tonight. Doesn’t mean anything, I’m sure. But this still does:

His disappearance came just hours after MGM Resorts International disputed the official timeline of the shooting.

They rejected any suggestion that hotel staff delayed calling 911 for six minutes after Paddock opened fire.

The latest chronology raised a series of questions about whether officers were given information quickly enough to possibly have a chance to take out the gunman before he could carry out the bloodshed.

But according to resort officials, it was no more than 40 seconds between the time Campos used his walkie talkie to call for help and Paddock opening fire on the crowd from two windows in his suite.

Yep, still stinkin’.

(Via Ironbear)

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"America is at that awkward stage. It's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards." – Claire Wolfe, 101 Things to Do 'Til the Revolution

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