GIVE TIL IT HURTS!

Adapt and conquer

I seem to be saying this more and more lately, and it’s perfectly true: we live in an age of miracles.

21-year-old student from Pune and the curious case of her changing hands
Globally, less than 200 hand transplants have been conducted, and no scientific evidence exists to record changes in skin tone or shape of the hand. Doctors say this is the first such case, perhaps.

“Sometimes good things fall apart so that better things can fall together,” was the first sentence Shreya Siddanagowder wrote in her notebook a year after her hand transplant.

Today, her handwriting almost matches her original, but what has left doctors surprised is how the colour of Shreya’s hands, which once belonged to a 20-year-old man from Kerala until his death in August 2017, had changed to match the rest of her skin tone.

“I don’t know how the transformation occurred. But it feels like my own hands now. The skin colour was very dark after the transplant, not that it was ever my concern, but now it matches my tone,” says 21-year-old Shreya, who underwent Asia’s first inter-gender hand transplant.

Back in Kochi, where she underwent the double-hand transplant at Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences (AIMS), surgeons are researching whether female hormones could hold the key to such changes.

“We are hoping to publish two cases of hand transplant in a scientific journal. It will take time. We are recording the colour change in (Shreya’s) case, but we need more evidence to understand the change in shape of the fingers and hands. An Afghan soldier, who received a double-hand transplant from a male donor here, had also noticed a slight change in skin tone but he died in Afghanistan last week. We could not document much,” says Dr Subramania Iyer, head of plastic and reconstructive surgery at Amrita Institute.

Yes, there are pics documenting the change in both size/shape and skin color, and they’re nothing short of remarkable—as if having near-fully-functional transplanted hands wasn’t remarkable enough to begin with. The article is paywalled, but good ol’ 12ft Ladder worked just fine for me. I have a few other handy-dandy de-paywalling links which I really need to put up over in the sidebar, I’m thinking, although there’s always the option of just disabling Javascript temporarily in your web browser too.

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Turncoat turns back again?

Gotta admit, I did NOT see this coming.

Bill Barr says he’s backing Trump 2024 because ‘far left’ is a greater threat: ‘Heavy-handed bunch of thugs’
Former Attorney General Bill Barr is backing his old boss in the November election despite their very public fallout — because he believes the “far left” is an even greater threat to the US.

Barr, 73, disputed the notion that former President Donald Trump will be worse for democracy than President Biden, and warned about the rise of the “far left.”

“The Biden administration is in fact the greater threat to democracy,” Barr told Fox News’ “Cavuto Live” on Saturday.

“I think that they have a totalitarian temper. They have bought into the progressive movement. And they’re trying to squelch opposition and freedom of speech.”

“It’s a heavy-handed bunch of thugs in my opinion, and that’s where the threat is,” Barr said at another point about the far-left.

Meh, can’t say I give much of a shit about this development, anymore than I do about the 24 “elections” generally. That said, Barr is right as rain about the Goosesteppin’ Left, however surprising it may be to hear the likes of him saying it. In the final analysis, though, the real “threat to democracy” isn’t the Biden marionette or his White House junta; it’s the sinister, shadowy FederalGovCo Grey Men behind the curtain.

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Words of wisdom

Okay, this is great stuff rat cheer.

One of the hats I wore before I retired was that of resident conscience. I had a whiteboard. I started recording bits of wisdom when I started the job. I took a photo when I left. My boss used to bring people in to read the wisdom contained thereon.

I have taken the time to transcribe the contents in case the picture is hard to read:

All of the carefully thought out and intelligent plans in the world from the beginning of time to the present day tremble in the presence of ONE motivated idiot.

There are three kinds of people in the world, those who can count and those who can’t.

You should really do some research instead of just listening to the voices in your head.

BOGSAT (Bunch of guys sitting around a table)

In a just universe, stupid should hurt. IT often does, and it hurts the wrong people

Exhaustipated – too tired to give a shit.

Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver.

We have enough ‘youth’. How about a fountain of ‘smart’?

Roman Engineer’s Law: The engineer must sleep under the bridge he designed.

I’ve got to stop saying “How stupid can you be?” Too many people are taking it as a challenge.

Lots more at the link, of which you should read the all.

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“A devastatin’ blow to our antiquated systems”

One of the all-time greatest scenes in the history of the cinematic art.

A blazing campfire way out in the boonies; a handheld camera shooting from the back seat of a scarlet 68 Chevy Impala ragtop purchased specifically for the purpose, rolling along at no more than 25mph so as not to jostle the cameraman overmuch; gorgeous, gleaming, one-of-a-kind Harley Panhead choppers; joints with actual, no-shit weed in ‘em for purposes of artistic verisimilitude; three immensely talented, daring actors improvising the dialogue in real-time, as they went, unscripted and unrehearsed.

Folks, it just don’t get much better than this.

The Captain America and Billy bikes were designed and built by the somewhat unlikely team of Cliff Vaughs and Ben Hardy, which is a great story in its own right.

When The Easy Rider concept was quickly made into form, Peter Fonda set out to get him a couple of bikes for the movie. There’s lots of controversy about who built these bikes. Some say Dan Haggerty, who was in the movie. The guy who painted the bikes, his son says it was him (his dad, that is). Some say it was Peter Fonda.

But the guy who built them was a guy named Ben Hardy. Ben was an African american man who knew Harleys, and knew what he was doing. When Cliff Vaughs was asked by Fonda to oversee the building of the bikes, Vaugh’s turned to Hardy who was well known (if you were black) in Los Angeles as the go to guy to build a killer bike, and do it right.

Peter had only one thing he wanted on the bike. He wanted Captain America to have a flag on his gas tank. Beyond that, the design was left to Vaughs. I gotta think tho…Peter was an experienced rider, and Dennis hopper wasn’t. That had to have come up in the conversation somewhere, because the Billy bike was a much easier bike to ride. I had a fat boy that was really close to the same configuration, and my brother has a friend with a Billy Bike replica. They’re easy bikes to ride. The captain America bike? Cut that steering head off and rake that bitch out like it is, throw in those long forks with no front brake and see how you fare. You don’t give that kind of bike to a beginner.

It was Cliff who actually first offered the name “Easy Rider” to Fonda. It was a term he used in the day. Whats an Easy Rider? that depends on who you ask. In the 1900s it meant a freeloader. A guy who mooched off you. To Dennis hopper, it meant a man who lived off the money of a whore. He got it from an old Mae West movie. Whatever cliff meant by it, I’m not sure. All I know is he redefined the word. To this day I think it is associated to Harley riders. Maybe because of cliff, but most definitely because of the movie. When you say Easy Rider, I think of the movie. I think of Harley’s.

Vaugh’s quickly took the idea to Ben Hardy. Peter bought four 1950’s panhead police bikes from auction, and got them to Hardy and Vaughs. Jim Buchanan fabricated the frames, the engines were built by Hardy, Dean Lanza did the paint (his son is adamant he built the entire bikes). 2 bikes were for filming, 2 were for the final sequence of the movie, which I’m fucking assuming you know about, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this. Hardy went to work, and the rest is history.

It is at that, it surely is, and not just biker history alone. A pic of Hardy, and of his LA shop.

Ben hardy Easy Rider Bike.

Ben hardy shop-1.

The shop is still there as of the writing of the above article (mid-2012, that would be), in the same location, albeit with a new name and under different ownership, seeing as how the great Ben Hardy passed away in 1994. Betcha didn’t see all that coming, now did ya? And I truly hope you didn’t think for a moment I’d leave out one last cultural lodestone immortalized in the film.

For whatever it’s worth, I always dug the minimalistic, cut-down lines of the Billy-bike bobjob way more than the near-parodically stretched, raked, and extended 60s chopper archetype represented by the Captain America machine. Two beautiful bikes, two completely different stylistic approaches, brought together in one unforgettable movie masterpiece. Taken for all in all, Easy Rider is as 100% all-American as apple pie, hot dogs, and hog-leg Colt .45 wheelguns; it could never have happened in any other time or place.

Nitpicking update! One decidedly trivial flub-up from the early part of the movie that has always irked me disproportionately is when Billy chides Captain America for being incautious about gassing up his bike, saying “Man, all the money we have is riding inside that peanut tank.” No, gawddammit, it is NOT a “peanut tank,” Billy boy. That’s the nickname for the original Sportster gas tanks, like thus:

As any fool can see without half trying, the American-flagged receptacle adorning Wyatt’s bike is actually a Mustang tank, to wit:

The Mustang tank is so-monikered because of its origin—namely, on the pioneering Mustang mini-motorcycle, a cute li’l thang that went the way of the dodo back in 1965 after a tragically abbreviated nineteen-year run during which it somehow never found its market niche, despite a plethora of innovative technical advances such as being the first American motorcycle of any size or type to feature the now-ubiquitous telescopic-fork front suspension.

The noble Mustang name lives on in its beautifully understated fuel tank, an unforeseen legacy that’s still available for most makes of big bikes from various aftermarket companies today. It’s been a go-to favorite with more discriminating and tasteful Harley customizers since the 60s. Myself, I’ve run a Mustang tank on every Sporty I’ve owned except for the first and last ones—what is that, three of ’em, four? Whatever, I absolutely adore the things, have ever since I first got hipped to their existence by an ad in the once-glorious Easyriders magazine.

For one thing, the Mustang has a much higher capacity than the stock Sporty “peanut” go-juice tank, which holds a measly gallon or so—some .9, others 1.3, depending on the year. That translates to no more than ninety miles or so before you have to make a stop for a refill. Which, actually, was just jake with me, since an hour and a half of having your teeth rattled and your bones jarred by those old Ironheads on a daylong putt with your local wolfpack was quite enough for anybody, thanks. By the time you’d gone through your peanut tank’s capacity and switched the petcock (Pingel Power-Flo, of course; no shoddy stock PoS will suffice) over to reserve (14-15 more miles at best), you were good and READY to climb off and unkink your aching legs and back a little.

Yeah, while you glided to the nearest pump sucking fumes the Big Twin ironbutts’ unwieldy 5-gallon fatbobs would still be well over half full, so you could count on catching the usual ration of good-natured shit for your “dirt bike” or “woman’s” bike’s short legs from them. But who the hell cares what those Geezer Glide pricks think anyway? Let ‘em snigger, let ‘em chortle to their hearts’ content; their ol’ ladies will be pestering you at the bar later on for a leg-wettin’ thrill-hop packing on the p-pad (“p” for pillion, although some mischievous wags swear it actually stands for pussy, and as all Sportster riders know, neither side is entirely wrong) of your fleet little speed-demon, and everybody knows it too. When some horny, sexy biker bitch is reaching around from behind you to fondle your throbbing erection through the thin fabric of your worn, grease-stained jeans as you rip down a lonely back road, the last laugh will be yours.

Ask me how I know. Never mind, don’t, I ain’t gonna tell ya.

For another, the Mustang tank’s curvaceous good looks simultaneously offset and complement the rest of the Sportster’s no-frills, bareknuckle-brawler savagery, making what was for me a perfectly irresistible aesthetic combination. Plus, back when I bolted on my very first prized Mustang the tanks had fallen so far out of contemporary vogue as to be downright rare; almost nobody who saw mine in those days—be they old-school scooter trash or cake-eating-civilian cager—even knew what the hell it was, although they all liked it. Or they said they did, at any rate, which was good enough to suit me. I certainly did, and as the builder, owner, and rider, my opinion was the only one that mattered.

It still is, I still do, and if I had a Sporty today there would almost certainly be a Mustang tank, in flat-black rattlecan sprayed on by yrs trly etc, perched saucily on the upper frame rail between the top triple-clamp and the stiff, uncomfortable nut-buster of a seat. Or there soon would be, you betcher. Even though I’m too old for that sort of thing nowadays, hey, that’s just how I roll, people.

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Yeah, NO

Oh, I freely concede there’s some killing needs to be done right enough. Plenty and to spare of it, in fact. But not the kind that’s done with any silly switch, by God.

The Kill Switch
Soon the government might shut down your car.

President Joe Biden’s new infrastructure gives bureaucrats that power.

You probably didn’t hear about that because when media covered it, few mentioned the requirement that by 2026, every American car must “monitor” the driver, determine if he is impaired and, if so, “limit vehicle operation.”

Rep. Thomas Massie objected, complaining that the law makes government “judge, jury and executioner on such a fundamental right!”

Congress approved the law anyway.

A USA Today “fact check” told readers, don’t worry, “There’s no kill switch in Biden’s bill.”

“They didn’t read it, because it’s there!” says automotive engineer and former vintage race car driver Lauren Fix in my new video. The clause is buried under Section 24220 of the law.

USA Today’s “fact” check didn’t lie, exactly. It acknowledged that the law requires “new cars to have technology that identifies if a driver is impaired and prevents operation.” Apparently, they just didn’t like the term “kill switch.”

No, they wouldn’t, would they? But a kill switch by any other name is still a kill switch, and I say it’s the bunk.

The kill switch is just one of several ways the government proposes to control how we drive.

California lawmakers want new cars to have a speed governor that prevents you from going more than 10 miles per hour over the speed limit.

That would reduce speeding. But not being able to speed is dangerous, too, says Fix. If “something’s coming at you, you have to make an adjustment.”

New cars will have a special button on the dash. If you suddenly need to speed and manage to find the button when trying to drive out of some bad situation, and it lets you speed for 15 seconds.

For all these new safety devices to work, cars need to spy on drivers. Before I researched this, I didn’t realize that they already do.

The Mozilla Foundation reports that car makers “Collect things like your age, gender, ethnicity, driver’s license number, your purchase history and tendencies.” Nissan and Kia “collect information about your sex life.”

How? Cars aim video cameras at passengers. Other devices listen to conversations and intercept text messages.

Then, says Mozilla, 76% of the car companies “sell your data.”

Finally, Biden’s infrastructure bill also includes a pilot program to tax you based on how far we drive.

 “A mileage charge seems fair,” I say to Fix. “You pay for your damage to the road.”

Oh sure, “fair”—as long as you leave the road-use taxes FederalGovCo (and states as well) rakes in on every gallon of gasoline you buy out of your calculations. Jackass.

One thing you can be sure of: if our Masters are letting the word get around about these supposedly “new” spy-snitch-and-control devices get around, then they’re already in place and functioning, likely have been for a good-ish while now.

Speaking strictly for myself, I’d never even dream of buying, owning, or operating a new(er) car. Not that I could afford to anyhow, natch. But still. At present, the Hendrix automotive stable consists of

1) An extremely rare 2012 Focus SE hatchback skinned in Blaze Yellow Metallic* with some minor performance mods to the peppy little 2.0L i4 under the hood, which mill I’ve personally clocked at an honest 39 mpg. Low-slung, stable, almost shockingly responsive and nimble, the Focus corners like it was on rails, betraying its race-car design heritage at every least twitch of the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The schweet little Focus has never failed to leave a huge grin on my face every time I’ve driven her, she’s hands-down the most just plain fun automobile I’ve ever owned; and

2) A battered, raggedy but dead-reliable old 1994 Burick Century and a Half** Grampamobile for backup

Both of which cars, to the best of my knowledge, predate all that goobermint jiggery-pokery. I’ll stick with my two strugglebuggies until I find out otherwise, thanks, at which juncture I’ma have to either get cracking on some serious uninstalling, or unload ‘em for something older and less personally intrusive.

From my cold, dead hands, you perfidious bastards.

* Factory paint color, 2012 model year only, obtainable exclusively via custom-order through a duly-licensed Ford dealership. I have it from an impeccable authority that there were just over 400 Focus hatchbacks in that color with the also custom-order-only 17 inch alloy wheels delivered across the entire Southeastern US that year. Who knows how many are still on the road or in driveable condition today; a great many Focii get converted into race cars and run on the flourishing, popular Compact-class circuit. So yeah, rare as hen’s teeth. Unfortunately, it’s still only a Ford Focus, of which type there’s a blue million out there, so not all that valuable or collectible, then

** Equipped with the rock-solid Burick L82 3.1L v6 renowned among mechanics as “the Indestructible Six,” and for very good reason; a smidge over 155k on the odometer, which is damned low for a car that age. The two previous owners are close, close friends and/or family, so the Burick’s entire history is known to me, which is always nice. That said, though, the piss-poor 17-18 mpg the big battlewagon clocks in at is a bona fide lifestyle-changer, sadly enough, especially at these vampiric Bidenflated petrol prices…which, cushy, plush, and mechanically solid though the car is, fortunate as I’ve been to have the use of it while the Focus has been down for extensive repair/refurbishment, nonetheless explains why I’ll always think of it as the backup ride

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BURNED

Stephen says, “I’m trying to think of a bad decision she missed but I’m coming up short. The implied supposition that the car dealer has the shopper’s best interest at heart might be the biggest though.” Agreed, one hunnerd percent.

Mom, 28, forced to sell her dream car after forking out $40,000 in INTEREST alone over three years – as America’s auto debt spirals to $1.6 TRILLION
Three years ago, 28-year-old Blaisey Arnold entered a local auto dealership and came away with the keys to an $84,000 Chevy Tahoe.

Despite paying $1,400 a month in payments totaling more than $50,000, she still owes a balance of $74,000 to her lender – GM Financial.

Not only did she not make a down payment, she said she traded in a previous car on which she had fallen into negative equity.

Negative equity occurs when a driver owes more on their car loan than the vehicle is now worth. Sometimes, a dealer or lender can offer to roll the balance of an existing auto loan onto a new one, making it more expensive.

While rolling over debt into a new loan can seem convenient, it can be very dangerous and dealers have been known to not properly inform buyers that they will still be responsible for the remaining balance.

‘Honestly, it blows my mind that I have paid $50,000 into this car and only paid off $10,000,’ Arnold said. 

She told DailyMail.com the loan was issued to her on the very day she visited the dealer – and that had an APR of 10.2 percent.

‘I did not go with my husband and as a female I feel they took advantage of me. They knew I really wanted the car and that I was by myself,’ she said.

Oh believe me, Bimbelina, they didn’t take advantage of you “as a female.” Not at all. They took advantage of you as a goddamn dumbass, is what they did. I strongly suspect that your husband isn’t any smarter than you clearly are—otherwise, how could he stand being married to you?—and the dealership would have given him the exact same reaming you got.

All car salesmen LIVE to see people like you walk into the showroom; as artillerymen have long described troops in the open, you’re their meat—a wet dream come true.

Some of us always say that stupidity should be painful, and know what? Sometimes, it actually is.

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John Cougar Melonhead upbraids concert audience, hilarity ensues

Just in case y’all were wondering what a dick with ears looks like, here ya go.


What a pissy, smug bitch the little runt is. Jack and Diane, my chapped ass. Whether they know it or not, he did the audience a favor by walking off in a snit, sparing them from having to endure any more of his shitty music.

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New car club

The Wylde Blogger Wrecking Crew CC, perhaps?

I turned eight in 1954, but I was no different than Randy Honkala, (and is that a mid-western car kid’s name or what?) maddened like every other boy I knew (except for the suspicious weirdos), breathlessly counting the days before the sheets covering the main windows of the major local car dealerships came down in the fall to reveal their glittering trove of chrome and jewel-painted treasure.

I never really got over it, either, and by the middle 1960s my lust for the splendors roaring out from Detroit reached an apotheosis just about simultaneously with Detroit’s own steel climax. You might say we came and went together.

Ten years later, all was rust and ruin, shitbox VeeDubs and Jappo tinfoil cars ruled the American roads, and guys my age were more concerned with whether we’d make it through until Nixon extracted us from Vietnam (the Ukraine meat grinder of its day, although not a patch on our current slavic murderfest).

But those cars. Most of my most beloved vehicles were built in the period from the early 1960s to the mid-1970s. And like Randy, I too Have A List, although not nearly as extensive as his.

Well as I’ve known my old friend and colleague Bill Quick, for as many years as I have, I’ve never really thought of him as a car nut. His taste in lead sleds is impeccable, starting with this shot of a 1959 Impala like the 58 he owned in his misspent youth:

Now as y’all know, I’m a diehard Ford man from a long line of Ford men on my dad’s side. That said, the 59 Impala is one of a handful of exemplary Chevy iron I always really dug, others being the 58 Bel-Air:

And basically, every model of Corvette ever made, up to and including the criminally underappreciated early-mid 80s body styles, known to automotive historians as the Third and Fourth Generation ‘Vettes. Shown below: the breathtaking 1954 Corvette C1.

Ahh, those swooping, curvy lines; the vivid paint in some other color besides nondescript gray, silver, or charcoal; that toothy chrome grill, the stainless body trim! Folks, they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore, and that’s a crying shame if you ask me.

What with anonymous plastic eggmobiles and graceless, chunky SUVs ruling the road nowadays, no wonder America’s long love affair with their automobiles has finally guttered out, except among a steadily dwindling number of mulishly unevolved fans of the vintage Detroit steel who still bitterly cling to the old ways. No esthetics; no gut appeal to anything besides pure utilitarian practicality; no soul, no spark, no romance: seriously, who could possibly fall in love with and take pride in such uninspiring machines as are on offer these days?

Bill’s post moved me to leave one of my infrequent comments in response, to wit:

Gawd DAMN, but that Impala is gorgeous! One of the small handful of Bowties I do actually like. The death of the car culture—premeditated murder, more like—has robbed American youth of a hell of a lot of cross-generational tradition, joie de vivre, and good, old-fashioned fun.

I’ve lamented that grievous loss here before more than once or twice, so no need to belabor the point further right now, I don’t think. To be perfectly honest, I just wanted an excuse to run a few cool car pics, really. My thanks to Bill for providing me with one.

Update! Man, I’m thinking in my munificent spare time I might just try to Gimp up a patch design for our notional blogger CC cutoff, maybe. We’ll see about that; I know at least Bill and Phil over at Bustednuckles would find such a project interesting, if nobody else did. Too bad Randy Herring is gone; if he was still with us, I could get him to draw me a really good ‘un up in a heartbeat. In fact, knowing Randy he very well might’ve done one on his own hook a long time ago, without ever being asked.

Updated update! For Barry, whose comment-section contribution brought it to mind.

Great tune, great cars, even if they are fuckin’ Bowties.

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Boeing: What happened?

From a half-century as one of the world’s premier, most respected aircraft manufacturers to…well…

Meme purloined from the awesome Ken Lane. Now to the who, what, how, and why of it.

Suicide Mission
What Boeing did to all the guys who remember how to build a plane

John Barnett had one of those bosses who seemed to spend most of his waking hours scheming to inflict humiliation upon him. He mocked him in weekly meetings whenever he dared contribute a thought, assigned a fellow manager to spy on him and spread rumors that he did not play nicely with others, and disciplined him for things like “using email to communicate” and pushing for flaws he found on planes to be fixed.

“John is very knowledgeable almost to a fault, as it gets in the way at times when issues arise,” the boss wrote in one of his withering performance reviews, downgrading Barnett’s rating from a 40 all the way to a 15 in an assessment that cast the 26-year quality manager, who was known as “Swampy” for his easy Louisiana drawl, as an anal-retentive prick whose pedantry was antagonizing his colleagues. The truth, by contrast, was self-evident to anyone who spent five minutes in his presence: John Barnett, who raced cars in his spare time and seemed “high on life” according to one former colleague, was a “great, fun boss that loved Boeing and was willing to share his knowledge with everyone,” as one of his former quality technicians would later recall.

But Swampy was mired in an institution that was in a perpetual state of unlearning all the lessons it had absorbed over a 90-year ascent to the pinnacle of global manufacturing. Like most neoliberal institutions, Boeing had come under the spell of a seductive new theory of “knowledge” that essentially reduced the whole concept to a combination of intellectual property, trade secrets, and data, discarding “thought” and “understanding” and “complex reasoning” possessed by a skilled and experienced workforce as essentially not worth the increased health care costs. CEO Jim McNerney, who joined Boeing in 2005, had last helmed 3M, where management as he saw it had “overvalued experience and undervalued leadership” before he purged the veterans into early retirement.

“Prince Jim”—as some long-timers used to call him—repeatedly invoked a slur for longtime engineers and skilled machinists in the obligatory vanity “leadership” book he co-wrote. Those who cared too much about the integrity of the planes and not enough about the stock price were “phenomenally talented assholes,” and he encouraged his deputies to ostracize them into leaving the company. He initially refused to let nearly any of these talented assholes work on the 787 Dreamliner, instead outsourcing the vast majority of the development and engineering design of the brand-new, revolutionary wide-body jet to suppliers, many of which lacked engineering departments. The plan would save money while busting unions, a win-win, he promised investors. Instead, McNerney’s plan burned some $50 billion in excess of its budget and went three and a half years behind schedule.

Swampy belonged to one of the cleanup crews that Boeing detailed to McNerney’s disaster area. The supplier to which Boeing had outsourced part of the 787 fuselage had in turn outsourced the design to an Israeli firm that had botched the job, leaving the supplier strapped for cash in the midst of a global credit crunch. Boeing would have to bail out—and buy out—the private equity firm that controlled the supplier. In 2009, Boeing began recruiting managers from Washington state to move east to the supplier’s non-union plant in Charleston, South Carolina, to train the workforce to properly put together a plane.

That move, also, didn’t work out so well for the now-floundering aerospace company. The story details a toxic mish-mash of Wokesterism, the rise of a know-nothing MBA class, and a creeping, not-my-problem/not-my-fault corporate blame-shifting culture that replaced the former all-American can-do, git-er-done spirit which may well prove fatal to the once-mighty Boeing…and probably should, frankly.

It’s a sign o’ the times in Amerika v2.0, by no means unique but an increasingly commonplace story—and an extremely sad one.

(Via Ed Driscoll)

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Drool-drool-drooling on Guitar Heaven’s floor

I couldn’t help myself, I simply HAD to save this image from my daily Guitar Center email, if only for posterity’s sake.

Row after row after row of sundry Les Pauls, SGs, and Strats (plus what looks to be a random Guild Brian May model at lower right), all dangling succulently in front of a ceiling-high wall o’ Marshalls. I ask you: what’s not to fall hopelessly in love with here? I answer: not a single damned thing, that’s what. That right there is what people mean when they speak of “an embarrassment of riches,” folks.

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Crime control ain’t no joke

She appears to be serious, as incredible as it seems.

Black Mayors’ Coalition on Crime wraps up first set of meetings
MEMPHIS, Tenn. (WMC) – All eyes are on Memphis as leaders from states across the country meet in the Bluff City for the first-ever Black Mayors’ Coalition on Crime.

That coalition, created by Memphis Mayor Paul Young in partnership with the African American Mayors Association, is looking for discussion and solutions around public safety.

“We are solidified and resolved in the fact that we are stronger together. The national crime data may show some decreases in overall crime stats, but what we discussed today is that if people don’t feel safe, then the statistics don’t matter,” said Mayor Young.

Whether you’re walking the streets of Memphis and Shelby County, pumping gas, or just sitting in your home, you deserve to feel safe wherever you go.

St. Louis Mayor Tishaura Jones says she’s taking back strategies used in Atlanta for nightclub owners and eyeing ways to reduce crimes around convenience stores.

“We have a lot of violence around convenience stores and gas stations,” said St. Louis Mayor Tishaura Jones. “So how can we hold those business owners accountable and also bring down crime? Some of the things are already doing, we’re finding other mayors are doing as well.”

Bold mine, and completely batshit insane. “Hold business owners accountable”…for WHAT, exactly? “Accountable” for being victimized by ghetto ferals with their pants down around their ankles

  • Robbing them and/or their customers
  • Vandalizing their premises
  • Terrorizing every white woman within leering distance—regardless of age, physical attractiveness, or attitude—via sexually-explicit taunts, bodily gyrations, direct threats, and overtly aggressive behavior
  • Loitering outside the store in large groups chugging quarts of OE, huffing cheeba, tossing the wrappers of their shoplifted food, spent roaches, and/or empty malt-liquor bottles on the parking lot
  • Generally menacing said customers to the point they’re actually afraid to so much as pull into the lot, sensibly opting instead to just drive on by to another store possessed of a bit less “urban” ambience and inner-city “charm”

Years ago, there was a convenience store just like this near my house. My wife would happily drive miles out of her way to avoid passing the place late at night, and I couldn’t blame her either. I wasn’t any too comfortable driving by the horrible place late my own self, honestly; the coppery funk of predation, chaos, and imminent danger fairly wafted off the place in great waves. Bayou Peter puts it to ‘em straight, no chaser.

If you’re going to go after business owners for crimes committed by others, pretty soon you won’t have any business owners within your city limits. Then your citizens won’t be able to buy food, get their vehicles serviced, or do anything else that requires a business to provide the service. Then where will your precious city be???

I repeatedly think that we’ve plumbed the absolute depths of human stupidity…only to be proved wrong again and again by doofi such as Mayor Jones.

Nah, not quite yet we haven’t. That doesn’t truly kick in until the selfsame pig-ign’ant NICs (Niggers In Charge) start in bitching, pissing, and moaning about “food deserts” and such-like affronts. “Food deserts” which, mind, they created themselves, the inevitable by-product of their own rank stupidity.

Well, that, and RAYCISSISMS ’n’ sheeit, natch.

One last incredible no-joke factoid from the above-cited article: The Mayor of Jackson, Mississippi, appears to be named (checks notes, checks again, shakes head in awe-struck disbelief) Chokwe Antar Lumumba. No, seriously, I swear I am NOT making this up.

Wait, you mean to tell me it’s NOT made of green cheese?

Q: Is Sheila Jackass Lee (Dumbass, TX) the stupidest Congresscritter EVAR?

A: Probably, yes.

Democrat congresswoman incorrectly tells schoolchildren that moon is “made up mostly of gases”
During an eclipse event at Booker T. Washington High School in Houston, Texas Monday, Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee made puzzling remarks about the moon’s composition, incorrectly suggesting it was “made up mostly of gases.” This statement diverged sharply from established astronomical facts, sparking both amusement and concern over public understanding of basic space science.

Key Details:

  • The comments were made as Jackson Lee participated in a community event focused on Monday’s eclipse, aiming to engage and educate attendees about astronomical phenomena.
  • Lee, a former member of the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology, described the moon as a “complete rounded circle, which is made up mostly of gases,” a description that inaccurately represents the moon’s solid, rocky nature.
  • The incident underscores the importance of accurate scientific communication, especially by public figures, in educational settings where misconceptions can significantly impact public understanding and interest in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM).

Another Q that springs immediately to mind: How is it that this chowderhead isn’t doing a job she’s better suited for: cleaning hotel rooms, say, or manning a drive-thru window?

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Bar: LOWERED

Did somebody just mention “a new low” the other day? Because, just that fast, we get dragged down to another one.

So, the Left Is Now Defending Joe Biden’s Showering With His Daughter
Some things you just have to see to believe because they’re just that crazy.

This week, we learned that the Department of Justice is seeking a harsher penalty for the person who reportedly stole the diary of Ashley Biden — the daughter of Joe Biden.

Prosecutors for the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York said in a letter to a judge that Aimee Harris had “abused the administration of justice” by repeatedly providing inadequate excuses to the court that have caused her sentencing hearing to be rescheduled 12 times. They said the behavior warranted a harsher penalty.

Harris’s hearing has most recently been rescheduled for next week, and Judge Laura Swain has grown stricter with the defendant, warning last week that she could authorize a warrant for Harris’s arrest should she fail to appear. Harris is awaiting the sentence for her efforts to sell the diary of the president’s daughter ahead of the 2020 election.

Of course, in light of this story, the infamous diary and its contents have once again become a topic of discussion. As you likely remember, Ashley wrote in her diary that her father used to take showers with her at a young age that were “probably not appropriate.”

The diary also revealed that she thinks she may have been molested but can’t remember.

Naturally, left-wing journalist Ed Krassenstein came roaring to Biden’s defense this week regarding the diary.

Of course, what Krassenstein likely forgot is that Ashley Biden has confirmed the authenticity of the diary, and so far has made no claims that anything was manipulated. But, then he covers himself by saying, essentially, that, even if Joe Biden did shower with his young daughter, this was completely normal.

Do you know any fathers who shower with their young daughters? Have you ever known a pediatrician or child psychologist who has ever given this their stamp of approval? I get that this is an election year, but how is it possible that Krassenstein could possibly make this argument? Is the left so desperate to defend Biden that they’d downplay blatantly predatory behavior? Apparently, that’s where we’re at now.

WHOA, big fella, not so fast there. That’s where they’re at. Not “we,” not “us”—THEM.

Nota bene that Ashley’s diary wasn’t really “stolen” at all, despite Harris having pled guilty to the putative “theft” not quite two years ago, assumedly under tremendous pressure.

Harris first discovered the diary in the Florida home formerly occupied by Biden, according to the federal indictment. She and Kurlander later took the diary and other unidentified items belonging to Biden to a campaign official for former President Donald Trump, although the Trump campaign declined to purchase the items. The official instead recommended that Harris and Kurlander bring them to the FBI, according to the indictment.

Instead, Harris and Kurlander contacted Project Veritas, who flew them to New York and purchased the diary and other items for $40,000. However, both defendants expected Project Veritas to pay more for Biden’s property.

Bold mine. “Discovered,” unnerstand. Not purloined, not absconded with, not swiped, not jacked. “DISCOVERED.” Try as we might sometimes to avoid facing up to it, words still do mean things.

So in truth, Ashley Biden carelessly left her diary behind when she moved house—abandoning various personal possessions when doing the speed-skedaddle from one dingy ghetto flop to the next being a tack indigent, crackbrained drug addicts tend to take whenever they get three or more months behind on the rent—whereupon Harris moved in and

  • Found the “pResidential”-pR0n journal lying around
  • Scoped Ashley’s jarring first-person account of incestuous sexual abuse at the hands of a kid-sniffing creep with a long-established rep for predatory peccadillos and an insatiable yen for jailbait
  • Recognized the bombshell nature of the diary which, through no fault of her own, she suddenly had on her hands
  • Foolishly conjured she might easily glom herself a lifestyle-improving wad of whip-out in exchange for the horrid thing, at little to no inconvenience and/or cost to herself

Given the kind of petty, spiteful lowlifes the Biden Crime Family are known far and wide to be (with the possible exception of Beau, which might help to explain Pedo Jaux’s prideful obsession with him, repeatedly concocting garbled, ever more fanciful versions of his life and/or death, on the increasingly rare occasions he can remember Beau The Good Son ever even existed anywhere other than the interior of his own thick, empty skull), Ms Harris really should’ve known better.

Holding onto the diary with intentions of selling to the highest bidder rather than just attempting to return the blighted thing to its rightful owner was the culmination of a series of piss-poor decisions which wound up coming back to bite the person of apparently dubious character who made them—ie, Ms Harris—on the ass, HARD. Indecorous? Sure. Ill-considered? Indubitably. Greedy, self-serving, reckless, short-sighted? Check, check, check, and check. None of which is actually, y’know, against the law.

The whole mess is repulsive right down to the nth detail, leaving any halfway decent sort in need of a long, soul-cleansing shower to scrub away the Biden family filth. Certainly, Harris herself is neither angel nor folk hero. That said, though…stealing it? Not by any definition of the word I ever heard tell of, she didn’t.

Everyone involved in this putrid little melodrama is besmirched and befouled by his/her association therewith. So what, then, are we to make of a Lefty-hack “journalist” who is so sorely lacking in professional integrity, honor, and self-respect he would stoop to defending it, entirely for partisan political purposes? Worse yet, assuming he has a wife/lover/paramour/whatevs (I neither know nor care, who the hell knows), what kind of woman would be willing to wake up every morning beside such a foul, greasy piece of dung as he? The mind, it reels.

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1

Perfection vs good enough

Re: this comment, from Barry, attached to last night’s “Bee speech” post:

For every knock on Musk I read there is this, and it covers every bit of any uncertainty.

And also this followup comment, from SteveF:

I’m not interested in purity tests. “Is he better than the realistic alternatives?” “Is he the best available now?” By this standard, both Musk and Trump win by a landslide.

I hereby submit this, for your consideration and delectation:

Musk Lifts Restrictions on X Accounts in Brazil in Challenge to Courts
(Bloomberg) — Billionaire Elon Musk said he will lift restrictions imposed on some X accounts in Brazil, even if the move leads to the closing of the social media platform in the country.

X, the social media platform formerly known as Twitter, said in a post late Saturday that court decisions “forced” the site to block “certain popular accounts” in Brazil, without specifying the reasons or which posts allegedly violated the law. Shortly after, Musk wrote on the platform that he was defying the court’s ruling.

“We are lifting all restrictions. This judge has applied massive fines, threatened to arrest our employees and cut off access to X in Brazil,” Musk said in a social media post. He added that the move would probably cause X to lose all its revenue in the country and shut its office there.

While neither X nor Musk identified the judge that issued the ruling, the site’s billionaire owner was responding to another post that accused Brazil’s Supreme Court head Alexandre de Moraes of cracking down on free speech. Moraes didn’t reply to requests for comment late Saturday.

The spat comes as courts widen a fight against so-called fake news and hate speech online. In a recent decision, the country’s Superior Electoral Court approved a resolution requiring social media networks to limit the spread of fake news during elections.

Musk can think of himself as a liberal all he likes, but as far as I’m concerned he’s making all the right enemies. And the enemy of my enemy will always be my friend.

As for Brazil, I have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t be too much longer before Brazilians come to deeply rue dumping Bolsonaro for the Brazilian socialist Flavor Of The Month. Was Bolsonaro perfect? No, of course he wasn’t; nobody is. But when we let the perfect be the enemy of the good—or the good enough—we play a mug’s game, and can never profit by it.

1
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Tabloid hijinks

Proving once and for all that the New York Post remains the greatest newspaper EVAR.

Heh. Not quite up to the lofty standard established by the NYP’s immortal “HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR” screamin’ splash, perhaps, but still damned good. In my long-past days as a NYC resident, the Post was the only paper I bothered to buy…and it, I tried not to miss.

(Via Joe Jackson)

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