Practical advice

Now THIS is news you can really use.

9 Ways To Scare Off Californians Looking To Move Into Your Neighborhood
Wait a minute, is that young couple looking for a home in your neighborhood from California? You better get them out of here pronto before they turn your beautiful state into a socialist cesspool! If you don’t, you’ll both have to look for a new state to move to in about ten years after they bring their California politics with them.

These are the absolute best ways to scare off a Californian:

  1. Smile and wave at them: Californians hate this! They might even be killed in the process.
  2. Offer them sweet tea: They will instantly become diabetic just by looking at a full pitcher of Southern-style Sweet Tea. As an added bonus, the polite gesture will also scare them (see above).
  3. Show off a cool gun you’re packing: They will freak out even though this is only one of the guns you are packing. The others aren’t as cool, sadly.
  4. Ask them where they are going to church immediately after meeting them for the first time: It’s normal to do that where you’re from, but this question is basically kryptonite to a Californian.
  5. Invite them to your church this Sunday: (Same as above)
  6. Show them your house and the several acres you live on: Their brains literally can not comprehend the idea that a family of four isn’t crammed into a tiny studio apartment. It will seem icky and wrong to them for it to be any other way.
  7. Point out how many houses in town have American flags: Once they notice this little detail, they will react like vampires to the sun coming up at dawn.
  8. Start talking about what they can expect when winter rolls around: They are only used to one season that lasts all year round and you may need to explain the concept of winter several times before the horror for them really sets in.
  9. Show off your Trump 2020 and 2024 bumper stickers: This is sure to send them back to California in absolute terror.

Helpful, effective, to the point, indisputably true and reliable—is it any wonder the shitlib “mainstream” media hates the Bee so much?



Man bites dog.

BLM Leader Stumps for Trump Because He Is the ‘Best Candidate We Have’

*Shakes head dazedly, rubs forehead in puzzlement, gulps audibly several times* Wait….whut…whut…WHAT THE ACTUAL FUUU…

The co-founder and former Senior Director of the Rhode Island chapter of BLM, Mark Fisher, is now on tour stumping for Donald Trump and advocating for the rights of the Jan. 6 protestors.

In an interview with political analyst Kim Iverson earlier this week, Fisher called the policies of Democrats anti-capitalist and disastrous for blacks. 

“We want to create wealth. We want to gain wealth, leave something for our children, you know.” Fisher also spoke out against abortion and liberal policies that promote it, saying that the act “goes against the laws of nature” and the “laws of procreation.”

Then, taking aim at the Democrats and whether or not they benefit the black community, he added, “I’m not here to judge anybody, or to hate on anybody. I’m just telling you what’s beneficial and what’s not for my community, and the Democratic Party is not.”

Fisher believes that black Americans have “been mental slaves” who have historically pledged universal loyalty to the Democratic Party. However, that party has not delivered results or tangible improvements in return.

He lamented that “we’ve been used and abused for so long by that party. They don’t value our vote. Their policies are basically racist policies, and I believe it’s a racist party that strikes at the heart of the black family and the nuclear family in general.”

Fisher’s comments come as the Biden campaign and Democrats in general face a crisis with black voters who are leaving the radical left in droves as illegals continue to flood urban areas. Inflation is unchecked and many in the black community feel abandoned and ignored by their representatives.

Turning his attention to Trump, Fisher had this to say:

“Well, you know, I like Trump, and I think right now who we have sitting in the Oval Office is just a deep disappointment, you know? I deeply have disdain for him, and I really dislike the Vice President as well.”

He then added, “And I believe Donald Trump, he’s the opposite. He’s gonna tell you how it is. He’s gonna give it to you straight. He’s not gonna be a hypocrite and stab you in the back like the Democratic Party loves to do.”

Fisher has also been outspoken in his defense of those being held for the events that took place on January 6, 2021. In an interview with the Epoch Times, he said:

“They’re lambs led to slaughter to be sacrificed as an example for all who might want to dissent in the future. This is what the government does to those who express independent thought and want to stand up for what they believe.”

Okay, I am forced to admit at this point that this is yet another thing I did not no way no how see coming. I seem to be saying that a hell of a lot lately, but then I guess that’s just the kind of world we live in nowadays. At any rate, welcome to the party, Mr Fisher. Whatever else it might be, it’s certainly one hell of a ride, and we’re most glad to have ya along.


Proud papa gloats a bit

Indulge me for a mo’, folks. I know this ain’t exactly the usual profane and objectionable fare you’ve come to expect here, and there’s really not much reason you should care, if any. But dang it, I’m busting here and just can’t help myself. Ladies and germs, kindly allow me to present to you the Bessemer City (NC) High School marching band!

Never so much as heard of Enka, NC before, but it appears to be located just outside the scenic, neohippie doofus-infested burg of Asheville. To avoid nettling those of you who might not be interested in reading further, I’ll tuck the rest of the story below the fold.

Continue reading “Proud papa gloats a bit”


Promise: BROKEN

Yes, yes, I know I said Tuesday that there would be no more H-ween posts this year. What can I tell ya, I lied. Or spoke too soon, anyway.

Heh. Too funny. Nice to see that the WRD folks have a sense of humor, and don’t take themselves too seriously; in this day and age, that’s a rare thing indeed. Thanks to KT for the steer.

For widest possible dissemination update! Another from KT’s Pet Thread, this one of no small importance to you outdoorsmen who enjoy taking the doggie(s) along when hiking in the woods.

On day 12 of searching for my dog in a heavily wooded area, distraught and hopeless, I ran into a couple of hunters. They said they lost the occasional dog on a hunt but always got them back. What they told me has helped many dogs and families be reunited. I’ve given their advice out a few times in the last couple days, so I thought if reddit has any lost dogs out there, this could help:

The dog owner(s) should take an article of clothing that has been worn at least all day, the longer the better, so the lost dog can pick up the scent.

Bring the article of clothing to the location where the dog was last seen and leave it there. Also, if the dog has a crate & familiar toy, you can bring those too (unless location undesirable for crate). You might also want to leave a note requesting item(s) not to be moved.

Leave a bowl of water there too, as the dog probably hasn’t had access to any. Do not bring food as this could attract other animals that the dog might avoid.

Come back the next day, or check intermittently if possible. Hopefully the dog will be waiting there.

I was skeptical and doubted my dog would be able to detect an article of clothing if he didn’t hear me calling his name as loud as possible all day for 12 days. But I returned the next day and sure enough found him sitting there!

I hope this helps someone out there who’s missing a best friend. Good luck

Excellent idea, and well worth remembering for any dog lovers out there. Hopefully you’ll never need to resort to this advice, but one never knows.

National laughingstock

Everybody was getting in on the act of mocking our moronic, shambolic pRetend pResident for Halloween, even the kids.

Beaucoup more examples at the link, all of them hilarious. No capo, consigliere, confrere, or co-conspirator of the Bribem Crime Familia is spared, and it’s good stuff.


Tricky treat

Never bothered too much about doing Halloween-specific posts before, but this year I thought it might be cool to gather up some photographic examples of the XTreem Punkin’ Carver’s art and post ‘em up here. It’s just amazing what these über-creative Jack O’ Lanterneers are capable of doing with, basically, a large orange squarsh. Out of all this gin-yoo-wine artistic genius, I gotta admit I like the last one best of all. What can I say, I’m a 60’s kid, and always will be. Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful, y’all.

HWeen 1

HWeen 2

HWeen 3

HWeen 4

HWeen 6

HWeen 7

It’s sad, the way they’ve all but killed off Halloween altogether over puffed-up “safety” concerns, almost all of them completely mythical, like the hoary old “razor blade in your apple” hoax. For years now, the only Trick or Treaters to be found in CLT have been in the more affluent neighborhoods. Just about anyplace else around town, forget it: no lights on in the windows; no glowing Jack O’ Lanterns on front porches illuminated by a candle within; no gaggles of costumed kids ringing doorbells and shouting with glee as they race across lawns or down sidewalks under the watchful scrutiny of their parental escort. No fun either, of any kind.

Be saaaafe!

In the neighborhood where I grew up, though, Halloween was a Big Honkin’ Deal—for us kids, our oh-so-jaded teenage siblings, and the grownups alike. Everybody, and I do mean EVERYBODY, got decked out in this year’s costume—spooky, funny, or completely off-the-wall, store-bought or homemade—made the candy-collection rounds, then gathered at Mayor Black’s house atop the hill midway along Cedar Lane for the annual Halloween Party. It started off small, strictly a neighborhood event, but pretty soon crashers started coming from all over Mount Holly for it, more and more each year as word got around. The last few years, there were more than a hundred of ‘em. Nobody minded provided the newcomers were respectful of the neighborhood and the family-friendly nature of our humble get-together; all were warmly welcomed by the original Cedar Lane Gang.

The Black’s attached garage was re-made into a Haunted House for the shindig, elaborately rigged with scary black lighting, the classic Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House LP piped over outside speakers, a narrow, twisty maze created by old bedsheets hung from the ceiling. After all interested parties had gotten their chance to be traumatized for life by a walk-through of this chamber of horrors, the annual Telling of the Ghost Story commenced.

The huge back patio/deck/whatever (Inline update: NOT a deck, in fact; this was many years before those came into vogue) would be decorated to the nines, an arduous all-day labor for several neighborhood volunteers. After the Garage of Ghastliness was closed down for the night, everyone sat knee-to-knee, Indian-style, on the patio pavement in a large circle. A king-size sheet was draped over our laps for concealment, and various scarifying objects were passed hand-to-hand underneath the sheet as they came into the tale. To wit: a small bowl with two peeled grapes representing the eyeballs torn by some fiend or other from the sockets of one hapless character; a large bowl full of ooey-gooey spaghetti noodles for a human brain eaten by the marauding zombie horde; a skinned section of carrot appropriately sized as a stand-in for a finger ripped by a blood-drunk werewolf from yet another victim’s hand, etc.

Every October 31st, affrighted shrieks, moans of dread, shouts of warning, and peal after peal of raucous laughter pierced the night of our ordinarily tranquil small-town community right on into the wee hours. Everybody you knew would be out and about; you were guaranteed to run into all of your friends sooner or later as the evening progressed, although depending on your confrere‘s level of costume-crafting acumen it could sometimes be almost impossible to ascertain who it was you might be talking to at any given moment. Once, when I was 14, my next-door neighbor Michelle seized me fiercely from behind this enormous hedge on the Black’s front lawn, yanked me in tight against her, and planted a long, passionate soul-kiss on my flabbergasted self without me having the slightest idea of who it was I’d just been so pleasantly molested by.

Then she pulled her crazy fright-wig off her head, rubbed the now-smeared Ghoul Girl makeup off her face with her sleeve, and grinned merrily at me. So naturally, once the identity of my mysterious assailant had been revealed, I avenged my stolen honor in full with some serious smooching-back of my own…among other unmentionable indecencies. Michelle was a year younger than me, and by then we had already been indulging in a great deal of similar sin and wickedness any time we could sneak off for a little private together-time.

These days, though? The local constabulary would have the handcuffs on my wrists and my young ass locked in the back of a black-and-white and whizzing off to the jug before I could so much as wipe her blood-red lipstick off my mouth. Next morning, I’d be hauled before a whey-faced judge to answer charges of

  • 1st Degree Sexual Harrassment of a Pyrrsnzz Of Vagina
  • Knowingly Disrespecting a Strong, Brave Wrymrynzzz With Malicious Intent
  • Multiple counts of Felonious Heterosexual Conduct Absent Proper Consent Documents, duly completed, signed, and registered in septuplicate with the County Magistrate
  • Getting Teenage Kicks Right Thru The Nite without the required license, tax stamp, and accreditation
  • Aggravated Subjugation by Male Gaze
  • Unlawful Mutual Attraction
  • Toxic Masculinity Causing Grievous Bodily Injury, Emotional Distress, and Fainting Dead Away to Authorized Nookie-Code Enforcement Officers

and a whole slew of other Hate Atrocities. Even worse, all our hubba-hubba heavy breathing as we rounded Second Base and slid spikes-up into Third introduced a serious surfeit of deadly CO2 emissions (The Silent Killer!!©) into our extremely fragile planetary atmosphere, irreparably scrambling Nature’s Perfect Harmonious Balance for the first time in Earth’s history and thereby helping to destroy poor Mother Gaia even worse than She otherwise would have been.

Sad? Hell, it’s downright pathetic.

Update! Almost forgot about one consistent H-Ween tradition here at Ye Aulde Colde Furye Blogge: the annual reposting of these Fright Night favorites. Whether you’re trick-or-treating, soaping windows, or rolling houses, these songs should be the soundtrack music.

You might think of Jumpin’ Gene Simmons as just another one-hit wonder, but t’ain’t necessarily so; in the RaB world, he’s well-known for quite a few other excellent selections.

Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s hilarious mugging and facial clowning throughout really brings this one to (undead) life nicely, don’tcha think?

Hey hey hey, it’s Screamin’ Jay—what more can you say? Actually, quite a lot: as with Simmons, there’s much more than meets the eye to this brilliant performer.

Jalacy J. “Screamin’ Jay” Hawkins (July 18, 1929 – February 12, 2000) was an American singer-songwriter, musician, actor, film producer, and boxer. Famed chiefly for his powerful, operatic vocal delivery and wildly theatrical performances of songs such as “I Put a Spell on You”, he sometimes used macabre props onstage, making him an early pioneer of shock rock. He received a nomination for the Independent Spirit Award for Best Supporting Male for his performance in the 1989 indie film Mystery Train.

Hawkins was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. At the age of 18 months, Hawkins was put up for adoption and shortly thereafter was adopted and raised by Blackfoot Confederacy. Hawkins studied classical piano as a child and learned guitar in his 20s. In a 1993 interview, Hawkins recounts telling his music tutor,

…to leave before I make your life miserable […] because with the type of music I want to play. The things I want to do with music and don’t want to do it the old conventional way that everybody knows. I want to come up with my own ideas. I’ve got all the information that I need to get from you to do what I want, now if you stick around, I’m going to make your life miserable.

He attended the Ohio Conservatory of Music, where he studied opera. His initial goal was to become an opera singer (Hawkins cited Paul Robeson as his musical idol in interviews), but when his initial ambitions failed, he began his career as a conventional blues singer and pianist. Other influences included Mario Lanza, Enrico Caruso, Lionel Hampton, Dizzy Gillespie, Charles Brown, Amos Milburn, Wynonie Harris, Nellie Lutcher, Roy Brown, Jimmy Witherspoon, Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson, Roy Milton, Elmore James, Lightnin’ Hopkins and H-Bomb Ferguson.

He joined the US Army with a forged birth certificate in 1942 (aged 13), and allegedly served in a combat role, with his fellow soldiers and higher-ups around him ignoring the fact he was substantially underage. During this time, he also entertained the troops as part of his service. In 1944, he enlisted in the Army Air Forces, being honorably discharged in 1952. Hawkins was an avid and formidable boxer during his years in the US Army (and later Air Force) boxing circuit. In 1949, he was the middleweight boxing champion of Alaska.

See what I mean? And even yet, that’s still but a small part of the much-larger story. This next vid backs my contention regarding the man’s creative genius impeccably, I think.

I repeat: see what I mean?

Movietime update! Don’t know how well or even if this will work, but it’s worth a try. A while back, my cousin/BPs drummer Mark gave me a flash drive on which were reformatted copies of some old Super-8 home movies his dad filmed way back when, which Mark had had converted to digital—including this footage from one of those wonderful Halloween parties chez Black. At just shy of 90 megs, the file might not play all that nicely with Ye Aulde CF Blogge, but I hope it does.

Yes, my younger self is sure to be in there somewhere, but I couldn’t begin to tell you exactly where.

Don’t know what year this was, so I don’t know whether to be looking for myself as a wee lad or a teen or tween or what. I was able pick out a few familiar faces though, including one pretty little girl I’m fairly sure was my friend Michelle, so that would tend to indicate that I woulda been just a young ‘un, and that the footage was taken around 66 or 67, maybe.

A LIGHT DAWNS update! Oh holy SHIT, the kid in the coonskin Dan’l Boon cap at 3:36 just about has to be my little brother Jeff; he’s there and gone again so fast it’s impossible to tell for certain. The replica blunderbuss he’s carrying Mark and I both also had, with matching flintlock-style pistols to complete the set, but I don’t recall any other among the neighborhood youths ever wearing a coonskin cap but my brother. And HIM, you could no way no how induce to take the darn thing off, he wore it constantly until it was nothing but a tattered, battered old rag.

So, y’know, there’s that. If it IS Jeff, from the looks of his likely age the movie would’ve been shot around 1970 or ‘71, probably. That would make me 10 or 11 years old at the time; Jeff would be 8 or 9, Michelle 9 or 10. Ah, the good ol’ days.

Further review update! Okay, at 1:22 you can DEFINITELY see Michelle’s baby brother Lee front and center, with what’s probably middle-sister Jackie bouncing up behind. So it can only be my dear little Michelle standing beside him there, as I’d thought. She looks to be chomping on a mouthful of bubblegum, which would have been just like her budding-wild-child self in those days. Then, suddenly, she grew a whole shirtful of fabulous knockers, and before you could say Bob’s your uncle it was off to the races for me and her.

Last time I spoke with Michelle ma belle, she was a semi-bigshot with Capitol Records out in LA and doing very well for her Born Bad self, thank you, after a cpl-three unsuccessful marriages followed by a brief but, ummm, intriguing experiment with lipstick-lesbianism—which she told me all about in knee-weakening, cheek-reddening detail, as had always been her wont. That conversation must’ve been, jeez, 25-30 years ago now. Like her mom Pat before her, she’d always been rebellious, rowdy, ferociously independent, and fond of saying and/or doing outrageous things for the shock value alone. It’s a real mystery why the two of us got along so famously right from the start. Can’t figure that one out. A-HENH!

Wonder what might have become of Mitchy (a nom she adopted after she left her mom’s place to strike out on her own at the tender age of 22) since that last chat we had. Hope she’s still hale and hearty, enjoying herself, drinking deeply of life in all its heady richness. I can’t imagine her doing anything else.


The fabulous Flatiron

A Big Apple architectural icon is getting a makeover.

Flatiron Building, Famous New York Landmark, to Be Converted to Condos
The triangular 22-story building, which has been vacant since 2019, may be among the highest profile office-to-residential conversions

New York City’s historic Flatiron Building is officially preparing for its new life as a home to condos. 

Following an auction of the property earlier this year, The Brodsky Organization has most recently bought a stake in the landmarked building — which is owned by GFP Real Estate. The investment confirms that the building, which sits at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, will be converted into condos.

Sources confirmed Brodsky’s stake, as well as the “likely” conversion, to The Messenger. The deal was first reported by The Real Deal.

The triangular 22-story landmark located at 175 Fifth Avenue has a typical floorplan of 10,600 square feet, with a total square footage of 255,000 square feet, according to materials by GFP. At the May auction, GFP Chairman Jeffrey Gural estimated that the building would cost $100 million to renovate, in addition to the $161 million he dropped on the winning bid. 

Sources involved in similar investment sales say that the conversion will be rather pricey. It’s estimated that the developer would have to charge about $1,600 per square foot to break even and closer to $3,000 a square foot to turn a profit. The triangular floor plan may also make for oddly shaped apartments.

After the gorgeous Chrysler building, I have to say the modestly mid-rise skyscraper once derided as Burnham’s Folly stands second on my personal most-beloved list. So much did I dig it, in fact, that on my frequent long afternoon strolls around Lower Manhattan I usually made sure to arrange the route so it would take me by the dear old Flatiron at least once. When I did, I always had to stop for a few minutes and just gaze up at the oddly-shaped old gal from across Fifth Ave, drinking in her unique grace and beauty from the ground floor entrance to the add-on penthouse floor at the tippy-top.

For reasons I don’t pretend to understand, though, I never did go in to check out the interior. Go figger. But just you have yourself a gander at this pic and then tell me she ain’t a bona fide masterpiece of the architect’s art.

Flatiron Building

Funny story about the Flatiron that isn’t all that well-known, related to me years ago by Chris Pfouts, who definitely knew a thing or two about a thing or two concerning the classic structures of two once-great American cities, New Orleans and NYC: it enjoys the singular distinction of being the only skyscraper anywhere that was actually, literally stolen.

See, during the era when the Flatiron was being built, the Mafia had a certain renown for stealing materials, tools, and various fixtures from any construction site their crews were hired to work on (which was all of ‘em) to be resold elsewhere. So brazen and out of control had this New York tradition become that, while the Flatiron site was being prepared, those Cosa Nostra crews started jacking every girder, beam, door, and tiedown bolt they got their hands on, just as soon as the stuff was delivered to the site for later assembly.

Some city official totted up the losses years later and determined that such a ridiculously large quantity of material had disappeared that, in effect, two (2) Flatiron buildings could have been built. Sadly, New York ended up with just the one.

I’m glad she’s coming back, if only as exorbitantly-priced condos. Even after having stood vacant for several years, tearing the Flatiron down to puke up yet another nondescript glass box in her place would be unthinkable. I’m thankful that the new owner has smarts and vision enough to realize that the old girl has life left in her still, and I hope he makes himself a swoon-inducing bundle from the undertaking. New York just wouldn’t be the same without her.


Steve McQueen followup

So since posting “American badass” yesterday, I have fallen DEEEEP down the rabbit hole of all things 70s dirt-bike. After another long, stimulating conversation with my friend Stan this evening on the subject, I’ve been Wiki-searching all the great old names: DeCoster, Jim Pomeroy, Malcom Smith, John Penton, Heikki Mikkola, et al. This serious sidetrackery led me to a couple of real finds.


Preach it, Steve! Next up: truer words were never, EVER spoken.


Heh. Anybody out there who grew up like me, Stan, and his brother Chipps did know exactly what it feels like. In our conversation earlier tonight, Stan brought up Chipps’s old Honda Mini Trail Z50—the bike Chipps taught me to ride on back when I was, oh, 11 or 12, which looked a little something like this:


As I recollect, the one Chipps had sported a slightly different paint/decal scheme on the tank, although it was certainly red as all getout. See the black plastic knobs down at the bottom of the bars, just above where the risers meet the top triple-clamp? Turning those counter-clockwise (lefty loosey!) would loosen each handlebar to fold down alongside the fork leg independently, making it easy-peasy to toss the little Z50 into the trunk of Dad’s car when a nice weekend camping trip up to the mountains was in order.

Can’t see very well in the pic, but the bars are supposed to have a bit of space between them. On Chipps’s Z50, however, they were bent so badly from innumerable falls, collisions, and other what-have-you that they actually touched in the middle, about halfway along the rise to the turnout where the grips, front brake lever, throttle, and kill switch (that red button thingie by the left grip) all live. It was funny to look at, kinda like a bunny with its ears all a-flop rather than sticking up straight.

Three-speed (or was it four?) auto-clutch tranny; chrome steel fenders front and rear; honkin’ big chrome heat shield over the upswept exhaust, which of course would be summarily removed and thrown into a remote corner of the garage for the duration, the oversize muffler drilled/hacksawed/gutted to replace the offensively meek, barely-audible “putt-putt-putt” sound with a more manly, throatier growl; cable-actuated drum brakes front and rear; cute little semi-knobby balloon-tires and mag wheels; in short, all the traditional styling, hardware, and running gear standard on the kid-size Hondas from that era.

That tiny little booger provided my first-ever experience with the indestructible nature of pretty much all Honda engines; like my beloved Ford 289s, they simply can’t be kilt, no matter how severely you abuse ‘em. Which of course we did. It’s long been my theory that you could’ve blown a few .50 caliber holes in that 49cc motor with a Ma Deuce and it still woulda cranked on the first kick and purred like a cat eating guts anyhow.

The seat had a latch on the side, allowing access to a small storage compartment underneath, among other things. On Chipps’s bike, the spring holding the latch closed was broken. This meant that whenever you jumped the thing, momentum would leave the seat flapping in the air—not such a big problem when you’re standing on the pegs and airborne, but a real nut-buster when you landed and went to sit back down again with the seat in the “open” position and stuffed into your crotch.

A more dire hazard than that top frame rail on our old Schwinn boys’ banana-bikes was, believe you me. Whoever wasn’t actually riding at the time and was off fooling around in the woods or catching tadpoles in the nearby crick always knew when the other guy had crested a hill and caught some air by the sudden profane shouts of pain at having been caught again by that $*&^$##@@#!!! loose seat.

Ahh, those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end.


American badass

That would be one Steve McQueen, as shown in this commercial for Honda’s all-time badass motocrosser, the almighty Elsinore CR250M.

Repops of that great orange and black Elsinore jersey McQueen sports in the vid can be had all day long for about 40-50 bucks, my lifelong friend and vintage-dirt-bike enthusiast Stan tells me. By contrast, Steve’s smoke-tinted helmet visor with the little rearview mirrors mounted on each side are rare as hens’ teeth, going for around 3-400 smacks when/if you’re fortunate enough to find one at all.

The video is a commercial McQueen made for Japanese TV, for which he got paid a cool million bucks. He actually ran the Elsinore Grand Prix (for which Honda’s first two-stroke MX bike was named) himself in 1970 under the hilarious nom de badass Harvey Mushman—no, really. Of that historic race, McQueen had this to say:

“When you’re runnin’ with the top ten, as I was, you’re really honkin’ on pretty good an’ what happpens is that with so many bikes choppin’ up the dirt the holes in the course get worse…deeper with each lap.

“I was comin’ out of a wash under a bridge with this road dip ahead and I just kinda took one of those big jumps where you’re sure you’re gonna make it but you don’t. And I didn’t. My bike nosed into the dip, which was, like, deep – and I went ass-over the bars into the crowd. Didn’t hurt anybody but me. My left foot was busted in six places.”

This wasn’t enough to stop him however, as he got back on the bike and finished the race, still finishing in the top ten!

What’d I tell ya? Badass!


In a nutshell

The tall but brilliant Diogenes Sarcastica sums the Mooselimb/Leftist alliance up.

The virulent anti-Israel protests across America and Europe throw a glaring light on the bizarre alliance, the odd combination of far left activist at universities and the anti-west, militant followers of muhammad that now threaten Jews in the street, and intimidates anyone brave enough to voice their dissent.

What makes the alliance so strange are the deep-seated differences between leftists and muslim fundamentalists over core beliefs. The left supports women’s rights and full equality. Militant muslims oppose them. The left supports gay rights and gay marriage. Militant muslims toss homos off buildings. The left supports abortion rights. Militant muslims oppose them. They need the children to hide behind. The left is indifferent to religious freedom, Militant muslims believe infidels should be executed. The left opposes the death penalty. Militant muslims endorse it and praise their governments for using it.

These beliefs are not marginal for either group. They are foundational, and they are profoundly opposed to each other.

But they deal with differences very simply – Hate.

That about covers it, yeah. And why not, really? A feral, perfervid hatred for all and any who dare to disagree with their rigid orthodoxy is the one thing they have in common. Our pal DS also has a truly excellent random-thoughts-type post up:

Late-night Musings From The Bathtub
I think the single most important thing a man can do to be an ally is give his lady friends permission to give persistent dudes at the bar his number so when they call he can angrily say that’s not funny because she died 15 years ago that very night.

Nervous of flying? Don’t be. As long as 2 million parts in a plane work perfectly while traveling at close to the speed of sound as sharp metal blades rotate at supersonic speeds in temperatures of -65 degrees 7 miles above the earth surface, you’ll be just fine. Enjoy the in flight movie…

Someone told me yesterday that they don’t eat tacos because they’re bad for you, and I’m starting to realize what my parents meant when they said I should be careful who I surround myself with.

Anyone who says their wedding was the best day of their lives has clearly never had 2 snickers bars fall down at once from a vending machine.

Heh. That’s some goooood squishy right there.


“The most perfect comedy of all time”

Blazing Saddles might like to have a word, perhaps, but me, I can’t argue with that assessment.

Here’s a peek into one recent discussion I had on our PJ Media Slack channel with my friend and boss Paula Bolyard, our editor-in-chief:

Chris Queen [9:15 AM]
Hey, I have an idea for a column.

paula [9:22 AM]
A column? What is it?

Chris Queen [9:24 AM]
It’s a collection of words that discusses a certain topic, but that’s not important right now.

Okay, so that didn’t actually happen, but the fact that you laughed at it — at least I hope you did — demonstrates the staying power of what I call the most perfect comedy of all time: 1980’s “Airplane!”

Earlier this month saw the release of a behind-the-scenes book telling the story of how “Airplane!” took flight. I don’t normally do book reviews, but I listened to the audiobook of “Surely You Can’t Be Serious: The True Story of Airplane!” and it was one of the funniest and most fascinating listening experiences I’ve ever had.

As wonderful as I imagine the print edition of the book being, nothing can compare to hearing Jim Abrahams, David Zucker, and Jerry Zucker telling the story of how they developed their love of comedy and filmmaking and how the two dovetailed together so perfectly with “Airplane!” Stories from cast and crew and studio executives, as well as appreciation from comedians and actors, make for a rich behind-the-scenes look at how a true film classic came together.

Could there possibly BE a more perfect opportunity to run a clip or three from the Zuckers’ magnum opus? I think NOT!

A bit heavy on the Rex Kramer, you may have noticed, only because Robert Stack’s Kramer would have to be my favorite character from the movie. I’ve seen Airplane! about a bazillion and one times over the years and can still hardly help but laugh every time he’s on screen, even if only for a few seconds. Back to the book review for our closer:

For years, I had heard some of the stories, such as how devout Christian Peter Graves was skittish about the creepiness of his character Capt. Oveur, but the directors talked him into going with it. “Surely You Can’t Be Serious” is loaded with fascinating and hilarious stories of how Abrahams and the Zuckers cast dramatic actors like Graves, Leslie Nielsen, Robert Stack, and Lloyd Bridges in these roles.

The directors’ advice to their stars to deliver lines as if their characters don’t realize they’re in a comedy is genius, and it’s a huge part of the appeal. The list of actors that studios or producers wanted to cast but who didn’t make it into the movie is fascinating. Barry Manilow? Dom DeLuise? Bruce Jenner? (Abrahams claims that Jenner offered to read for the roles of Ted Striker and Elaine Dickinson, but it’s hard to tell if he’s deadpan or serious in delivering that line.)

The influence of studio executives like Michael Eisner and Jeffrey Katzenberg and producers like Howard Koch helped the directors bring their comic vision to life on the big screen. It’s inspiring the way men like these went to bat for the team in order to bring “Airplane!” to life.

The way the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker team was able to get around plagiarizing “Zero Hour!,” the movie that served as the inspiration for “Airplane!,” was genius, as was the latitude they gave actors Norman Alexander Gibbs and Al White to develop the “jive” dialogue and train Barbara Billingsley in how to “speak jive.”

Music played an important role in making “Airplane!” so great. Composer Elmer Bernstein was responsible for many iconic “serious” movie scores, and he understood what the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker team was looking for. His score helps give “Airplane!” the drama and tension that makes it so effective as a comedy and as good storytelling.

More good schtuff yet to the article, of which any fan of Airplane! (and how on earth could anyone NOT be?) will want to read the all.

Update! And stop calling me Shirley.


Turnabout: fair play

Paleosimian dismayed to find shoe on other foot.


A fool for Richard Russo

That would be moi. I’ve been a huge Russo fan ever since I swiped a former Significant Other’s copy of Empire Falls and, after finishing it, proceeded to wolf down the rest of her library of Russo’s amazing work in one great gulp of binge-reading. This rave review of his latest release describes what’s in store for the Russo reader.

In an endnote, Russo says that he kept returning to North Bath because he liked the characters—and there is a lot to like. He kept hearing Sully’s voice in his head, and gradually, he acknowledges, that voice became Paul Newman’s, who so unforgettably portrayed Sully in the film of Nobody’s Fool. But another voice also stuck with him, that of the late actor Philip Seymour Hoffman, who turned a bit part in the film as the officious but hapless officer Douglas Raymer—whom Sully bests in a comic confrontation—into such a definitive portrayal that Russo made Raymer a major character in subsequent North Bath novels. In Somebody’s Fool, Raymer is now the retired chief of the former North Bath police department, called back into service to deal with a dead body and with corruption in the newly consolidated Schuyler Springs force—whose crooked cops have much do with Thomas’s near-death experience. While it’s not uncommon for authors to disdain or disown film adaptions of their work, Russo has said of the 1994 film, “You could examine it frame by frame and you’d learn just about everything you needed to know about adapting a book for film.” It’s not an exaggeration to say that the film helped bring Russo back to North Bath.

Even as Russo publishes Somebody’s Fool, another of his works has made it to the screen—in this case television—in an AMC miniseries adaption of Straight Man. This 1997 novel is Russo’s “university book,” but unlike those that Vidal disdained, Straight Man is a wickedly funny, harshly critical depiction of life in an English Department where ideology shapes professors’ research and writing, academics use petty politics to advance their careers, and the decline of the humanities has created a constant fear of budget cuts. Though the novel itself is 25 years old, it so accurately depicted where the humanities were headed that it doesn’t take much massaging to turn it into 2023 series with the ironic title of Lucky Hank—a reference to the bored, cranky English Department chair, William Henry Devereaux, Jr., who endlessly torments his deserving colleagues. Though quite different from Nobody’s Fool, Lucky Hank has garnered similar acclaim—in part because both sources benefit from Russo’s gift for creating comic characters with serious significance.

Russo supported himself in college by working the kinds of hard jobs at which many of his characters toil. There, he watched his father and his father’s friends use humor to get themselves through jobs, after which he’d join them at some local bar to help laugh away the day’s aches. It’s that kind of storytelling, in Russo’s hands, that makes his blue-collar novels so engaging and palatable, because oftentimes the circumstances of his characters are difficult at best, near-awful at worst. American fiction is better because Russo stuck with characters who he thought he was escaping when he went off to school. The arc of his career reminds me of the words of the narrator of Philip Roth’s Zuckerman Unbound, writing about himself in the third person, when he observes that all he wanted as a young student was to leave behind “all the shallow provincials” of his hometown “for the deep emancipating world of Art. As it turned out, he had taken them all with him.”

Russo has done the same, in the process taking many of his lucky readers along for the ride, too.

It’s a ride I very much look forward to taking, and highly recommend to everybody else out there too.

(Via John Tierney)

Update! Just for shits and giggles I had a look in on the IMDb page for the Empire Falls miniseries, which I remember greatly enjoying back in the days when I still watched TV now and then. Somehow, I’d forgotten that it was Paul Newman’s last acting performance. It’s one of the vanishingly rare exceptions to the rule that any film or TV project featuring a long list of A-list actors is guaranteed to suck big green donkey dick.


Jesus CHRIST, but this chick can RIDE!

Ahh, but let’s not forget the number of times she had to have busted her ass whilst learning how to do all this.

Amazing. The union between (wo)man and machine on display here is damned near total, and quite impressive. Take especial note of the scrupulously careful, almost gingerly way she places her feet on the rear pegs as she keeps the front wheel in the air throughout. Hats off to ya, ma’am.

Update! After re-watching it for about the tenth time, I realized there’s another party involved that deserves some kudos: whoever was behind the camera recording it. Always in focus and perfectly framed; steady-handed zoom-ins and -outs; never any shaking, wobbling, or losing track of the subject. This is some incredible stunt-riding and some top-notch lensmanship both, I’d say, a real two-fer.


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