Flotsam and/or Jetsam

Is Hillary Clinton now running Boeing or something?

Posted on March 25, 2024March 25, 2024 by Mike

Well. Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well, WELL.

Another day, another suspicious ‘suicide’
With each high-profile “suicide” that looks like anything but, I get these suspicions (apologies to Eddie Rabbit). It’s always the same basic story: obvious murder motive; hard-to-believe coincidences; a revisionist coroner who says it was suicide despite evidence to the contrary; the police who say they will leave no stone unturned but after the attention dies down say it was indeed a suicide; relatives and friends say the deceased had a zest for life and told them shortly before his untimely demise that if anything happens to him, it was not suicide.

The latest is Boeing whistleblower John Barnett, who, seven years after retiring from Boeing, where he had worked for 32 years as a quality control manager, was in the middle of giving a deposition in a retaliation lawsuit exposing serious safety problems with the 787 Dreamliner. From Newsmax:

“We understand the global attention this case has garnered, and it is our priority to ensure that the investigation is not influenced by speculation but is led by facts and evidence,” police said in a statement.

A coroner’s report said Barnett, 62, died from a “self-inflicted” wound, though a close family friend of Barnett’s told WCIV-TV, “I know he did not commit suicide.”

“He wasn’t concerned about safety because I asked him,” the friend said. “I said, ‘Aren’t you scared?’ And he said, ‘No, I ain’t scared, but if anything happens to me, it’s not suicide.’”

The person added: “I know that he did not commit suicide. There’s no way. He loved life too much. He loved his family too much. He loved his brothers too much to put them through what they’re going through right now.”

Follows, a non-comprehensive list of super-hinky supposed self-offings.

Does any sentient human being really believe that Jeffrey Epstein, who could have brought down not only many rich and famous people, but also many important politicians, committed suicide shortly after saying he wouldn’t; when the night he died, the prison guards were AWOL and the cameras aimed at his cell door just happened not to work; the damage to his neck was not compatible with self-hanging, etc.? What about Seth Rich, the one who likely released the DNC emails, who had a wallet full of cash on him despite his death allegedly being a robbery (later called “botched”); the two mysterious figures caught on video who killed him being given about as much attention by the authorities as the one who planted the fake pipe bombs around the Capitol; the FBI denied having files on him but then later had to admit it did even at the time it said it didn’t (i.e., lied); etc.? What about Mark Middleton, affiliated with both the Clintons and Epstein, who committed double-suicide: a gun blast through his chest while hanging from a tree by his neck with an electric cord around it, with no gun found in proximity to the body? In the above link you can read the deputy sheriff’s report, which doesn’t address the obvious problems. If you question even this suicide, you’re a conspiracy theorist.

There are many more “suicides” where these came from.

Because of COURSE there are.

Squatters rights

Posted on March 21, 2024March 21, 2024 by Mike

“Vigilantes”? Hardly, seems to me.

‘Vigilantes’ try to evict squatters at $1M Queens house after homeowner who confronted them is arrested in tense standoff
A pair of vigilantes allegedly tried to forcefully evict three alleged squatters from a million-dollar Queens home after the homeowner was arrested when she changed the locks and tried to remove them.

Two unidentified men driving a black pickup truck pulled into the driveway of the Flushing home searching for the tenants Tuesday afternoon, according to the Daily Mail.

“We are looking to get this guy out,” one of the men allegedly said, a neighbor told the outlet. “I am here to talk to him. I want to see why he is here.”

Adele Andaloro, 47, was in the process of selling the property when the group shadily took refuge in the home last month.

Andaloro inherited the $1 million property from her parents after they died.

She confronted the trio and changed the locks in hopes they would not be able to re-enter if they left.

However, a male inside the home called the police on Andaloro, who was later arrested.

Neighbors have noticed some concerning activity from the house since the alleged squatters snaked their way into the home.

Residents of tight-knit Queens Street, which many have called home for over 30 years, expressed that they’re ready to do as much as possible to get the alleged intruders out. Some have even floated the idea of starting a petition in hopes that it will help, according to the Daily Mail.

A beloved community member, Andaloro put the two-story home on the market, but that’s when the tenants got in and brazenly replaced the entire front door and locks.

Before her arrest on Feb. 29 — which was captured by ABC’s “Eyewitness News” — Andaloro faced off with the group in a tense standoff.

The police were eventually called and escorted two people off the property.

With at least three apparent residents still inside, cops told Andaloro she had to sort the saga out in housing court because it was considered a “landlord-tenant issue” before she was arrested.

Utterly, utterly pathetic. Unless and until the nabe gets itself some serious vigilantes willing to adopt measures a bit more forceful than “talking” and petitions, Queens Street will just have to live with their new “neighbors” whether they like it or not.

I lived on the top floor of a five-floor walkup on 13th between 1st and 2nd in Manhattan for a year (ask me how much I love stairs!). In one of the two ground-floor-front apartments was a woman who’d lived there rent-free for over ten years; she had sued the landlord over some piffling dispute or other, and they’d been tangled up in court ever since, resulting in her refusal to pay another dime of rent. She fully expected to continue living there without paying rent indefinitely, and is probably there still.

Artist Joe Coleman lived in the apartment directly under mine; I used to run into him all the time in the stairwells or just sitting out on the front stoop, one of my favorite things to do on my days off work, weather permitting. Old Joe was what used to be politely referred to as “a real character,” had lived in the building for years himself. And Lord, the horror stories he used to tell me about that old building!

I’d never thought much about it until Joe commended it to my attention, but in the quieter watches of the night you’d hear this strange sound as of sand sifting down between and behind the walls—which, according to Joe, is exactly what it was. The plaster was crumbling, the joists and interior timbers eroding, the whole mess slooooowly slip-sliding away into the basement all night and day. There were only three months left on our lease when Joe related this to me; me and the gf decided we would NOT be re-upping.

One night, our power went out during a bad thunderstorm. I grabbed my trusty Maglite and hurried downstairs to see if I could find a breaker to reset or a fuse in need of replacing, wherever the damned box turned out to be; I had no idea about that, all I knew for sure was that there wasn’t one in our apartment. On the ground floor I ran into the building super on his way to the basement, a friendly, avuncular sort who I’d come to know a little, and who seemed quite glad to see me…or my flashlight, more like.

He led me through the basement to the main fuse box, where I replaced three blown fuses with new ones he handed me from his pocket. On our way back out, he pointed out two rows, stacked three high, of plywood cubicles along either side of our path: cramped, stuffy holes containing bedding, items of clothing, miscellaneous unidentifiable bric-a-brac. These cubicles were almost hilariously poorly-built and flimsy-looking, as if they’d been designed and constructed by a little kid using the Fisher-Price Jr Carpentry Set Santy Claus had left under the tree last Christmas.

The odor wafting from this subterranean jungle—stale sweat, dirty linens and/or clothes, unwashed bodies, rotting fruit, human piss—was literally eye-watering.

The super explained to me with a conspiratorial grin what I was looking at: here in this dark, dank 13th St basement were the living quarters for about thirty or forty Chinese illegals, who exchanged a measly rent every Monday for the right to coop a few hours a day in these squalid, nightmarish little rats’ nests, spending the other 18 to 20 hours working in garment-district sweatshops; shared-storage waterfront warehouses or outer-borough factories; Chinatown restaurants, or whatever other sketchy employment an illegal alien could scrounge to bring in coolie wages he could kite to his Honorable Family back home.

I had heard of such arrangements before, of course—what New Yorker hasn’t? Same-same could be found under any number of non-luxury buildings all over the Lower East Side, I knew. Trust me, though, it’s one thing to know intellectually that these things, these people, exist; it’s quite another to see it in front of your very eyes, under your very nose. I was neither naif enough to be shocked, nor jaded enough to just shrug it off and forget about it. In fact, I never have.

Rent control, squatters rights, property owners who are paid more by the city to keep their residential buildings vacant than they could hope to make renting them—NYC’s real estate regulations are a jumbled, incomprehensible maze of payola, corruption, and backscratching that neither tenants, property managers, or owners are at all happy with; that artificially keep rents at insanely-inflated levels; that keep dangerously decrepit buildings in desperate need of repair neglected; and that leave entire city neighborhoods unstable, unprofitable, unaffordable, and unsafe.

The losing tradition

Posted on March 21, 2024March 21, 2024 by Mike

David Solway examines some evidence that Real Americans are mired up to the axles in one.

Why Do We Almost Always Lose?
One of the besetting vices of the conservative disposition is the tendency to regard potential or likely victories in contested situations as inevitable. The conservative mind is not happy with the reality principle. It prefers not to see that menacing and intractable elements often lie beneath the cover of apparent failure. Such tranced insensibility is always quick to snatch fantasy from reality, proof that conservative analysis is often unreliable and prone to underestimating the cleverness and determination of the Left. This seems to be one reason (there are others) that conservatives have trouble winning.

Let’s consider three current examples of this unfortunate tropism.

1) Arizona candidate for governor Kari Lake’s case against Katie Hobbs on grounds of electoral impropriety and mismanagement, citing compelling evidence that had many commentators confident of courtroom success, was predictably tossed by the presiding judge, Peter A. Thompson. I say “predictably” by which I mean “utterly obvious to anyone with eyes to see.” As I wrote in a earlier article for PJM, the belief that Kari Lake’s evidence-based lawsuit against electoral fraud would bear fruit — “Kari Lake Just Ended Katie Hobbs” is the title of one conservative video — is another indication of wishful thinking rather than sober insight. The evidence of electoral malfeasance was dispositive but, given the state of the judiciary in a heavily left-oriented county, there was never any possibility of a fair judgment. Kari Lake had truth and justice on her side, which, in the ideological universe of the Left, meant she didn’t have a chance. Any astute observer would have seen that.

2) Among conservative sites like Turley Talks, The Five, and others, the general jubilating consensus in the Fani Willis travesty was that Willis would surely be cited for various forms of obvious misconduct, possibly disbarred, and certainly would not be permitted to proceed with her election interference prosecution of Donald Trump. The list of misdemeanors was so absurdly extensive as to read like a plot by the ancient Greek playwright Aristophanes, that is, like a comedy trying hard not to be a tragedy. Watching these programs and interviews, my wife and I were struck by the debilitating naivety of the various commentators. We knew well before the fact, and for a fact, that the presiding Fulton County Superior Court Judge Scott McAfee would effectively punt the case, despite the overwhelming evidence that there was an actual conflict of interest, violation of ethical rules, perjury, and unprofessional conduct on the part of Willis. Alan Dershowitz and Victoria Taft have eviscerated the judge’s ruling, but it should have been plain from the get-go that the verdict was pre-ordained. We note also that McAfee will be facing a black primary challenger in in a Democrat-run, largely black county. Just saying.

3) Most significantly, many commentators have wondered why the Democrat Party would run an obviously senile, incompetent, corrupt, and half-demented failed president as a candidate for re-election against a hale and vigorous challenger. Following his clearly medically amped-up State of the Union Address, writes Matt Margolis, “we’ve seen Biden return to his usual low-energy, gaffe-prone self,” which does not augur well for his electoral prospects. Indeed, many of the pundits and talking heads representing the Republican side of the political divide are exulting in a sure victory, a decisive sweep of the electoral college, a favorable march of battleground states, and are perhaps even more exuberant than they were in 2020 and 2022 when victory was also presumably assured. They did not allow for a massive game of three-card monte then and, while acknowledging that the Democrats are up to their old tricks now, believe that Trump is sufficiently popular to effortlessly clear the margin of fraud.

Wrong again. The Democrats can run a doddering and decrepit excuse for a functioning politician and a demonstrably nasty human being because they are convinced that they will win again. We recall that Katie Hobbs did not bother to debate her immensely popular gubernatorial opponent Kari Lake, no doubt because she knew beforehand that, as Secretary of State presiding over the official certification, and with a compliant judiciary, friendly media sumpters, and biddable tabulators, she had the election won. Similarly, the federal Democrats are supremely confident that they have the election already in their pocket via a strategy of relentless lawfare and financial extortion against Trump, weaponized justice and policing agencies, a suborned media apparatus, digital collaborators, a degenerate university system, ballot harvesting tactics, a crew of vote counters, an army of mules to carry out their instructions, and, as Ben Bartee at PJM points out, the very real possibility of unleashing a COVID 2.0 pandemic “if and when they believe it will be politically expedient, potentially even existential, for them.” The Democrats are not to be underestimated. They could run a mummified cadaver and still win handily.

As Jeffrey Tucker points out, “this president is plunging us straight into lawlessness and dictatorship,” his dimwitted and narcoleptic condition notwithstanding. But enough of the dictatorial machine is already in place to plausibly guarantee a resounding triumph, since most of the votes will be Monopoly votes, no doubt deposited under cover of darkness as in 2020.

A-yup—as we shall soon see yet again, then refuse to learn from…yet again. One of my biggest gripes about Rush Limbaugh over the years was his mulish insistence that the FUSA was “a conservative-majority nation,” when that manifestly was, and is, NOT the case.

It’s doubtful in the extreme that seriously liberty-minded individuals have ever constituted more than a tiny minority in ANY nation, throughout human history. In this one, where even among self-proclaimed “staunch conservatives” the instantaneous reaction to any problem, conundrum, or conflict is always to tub-thump for more government involvement as the “solution”? Gedouddaheah, ya makin’ me laugh wid dat shit /end Brooklyn accent.

Blarney

Posted on March 17, 2024 by Mike

Aesop says, “And speaking of thieving, only an Irishman could steal every scene he was in, in a movie about a famous Scot.” He ain’t wrong about that, in my half-Scots/Irish estimation.

In your FACE, Normie!

Posted on March 14, 2024March 15, 2024 by Mike

Stridently, obnoxiously “queer” online newsragazine Them whines like a little bitch.

Lady Gaga Stands Up for Dylan Mulvaney: “Hatred Is Violence”

And so, right out of the gate we know how utterly full of horseshit of the purest ray serene they are. Wanna learn how stark the difference is between “hatred” and violence is, fucktards? Go on Fucking Around as you are and you’ll surely Find Out sooner or later. Get the hell out of our faces, on the other hand, and we’ll be perfectly happy to stay out of yours.

On Monday, March 11, Gaga shared a post of her own featuring a photo of herself and Mulvaney, writing, “It’s appalling to me that a post about National Women’s Day by Dylan Mulvaney and me would be met with such vitriol and hatred.”

“When I see a newspaper reporting on hatred but calling it ‘backlash’ I feel it is important to clarify that hatred is hatred, and this kind of hatred is violence,” the singer-songwriter continued. “‘Backlash’ would imply that people who love or respect Dylan and me didn’t like something we did. This is not backlash. This is hatred.”

Gaga noted that while this response is unfortunately “not surprising,” she feels protective of Mulvaney and the larger trans community “who continues to lead the way with their endless grace and inspiration in the face of constant degradation, intolerance, and physical, verbal, and mental violence.”

“May we all come together and be loving, accepting, warm, welcoming,” she added. “May we all stand together and honor the complexity and challenge of trans life — that we do not know, but can seek to understand and have compassion for. I love people too much to allow hatred to be referred to as ‘backlash.’ People deserve better.”

Anybody else besides me good and goddamned sick of being endlessly lectured about what hard-core Leftists think they “deserve”? Of their intentional, casual distortion of the sun-bright distinctions between “hatred,” “violence,” and “genocide”? Divemedic spells it out clearly and concisely, in such a fashion as permits no misunderstanding whatever.

So if a man says he is a woman, and you use objective reality to disagree with him, you have just committed violence against him. Why are they saying this?

So they can justify the actual violence that they are about to use in eliminating you. Make no mistake, this is the attitude that they will use to come after you, to unperson you, deny you services, and place you into reeducation camps. You will deserve it in their minds, because you called Dylan Mulvaney a ‘he’ instead of a ‘she’ while not allowing him to celebrate being a woman.

Annnnnd bingo, there you have it. Jump back and get over yourselves, you stupid, lying sissymarys. Scree scree scree as you will about what you do and do not “deserve”; we see through your silly game, and aren’t gonna dance to your shrill, rancid tune anymore. Period, full stop, end of fucking story. You, along with every other hoomon on Earth, “deserve” exactly, precisely nothing whatsoever you haven’t worked hard to earn, and that’s flat.

If you don’t believe it, try this little experiment: shag your sorry ass on out to the middle of the Gobi desert, sit down on a dune, and wait for a benevolent, caring universe to present you with all those wonderful things you insist you “deserve” thanks purely to being another useless eater and little or nothing else besides. Assuming you survive—PRO TIP: you won’t—you’ll emerge from the experience knowing at long last all about what you “deserve”—a real FAFO lesson you won’t soon forget.

Update! In his magisterial Starship Troopers, the peerless Robert Anson Heinlein explicates the basic principle at issue here far above my poor power to add or detract. From Chapter Eight’s recounting of the course of classroom instruction under the redoubtable, unforgettable COL DuBois:

“The basis of all morality is duty, a concept with the same relation to group that self-interest has to individual. Nobody preached duty to these kids in a way they could understand — that is, with a spanking. But the society they were in told them endlessly about their ‘rights.’

“The results should have been predictable, since a human being has no natural rights of any nature.”

Mr. Dubois had paused. Somebody took the bait. “Sir? How about ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’?”

“Ah, yes, the ‘unalienable rights.’ Each year someone quotes that magnificent poetry. Life? What ‘right’ to life has a man who is drowning in the Pacific? The ocean will not hearken to his cries. What ‘right’ to life has a man who must die if he is to save his children? If he chooses to save his own life, does he do so as a matter of ‘right’? If two men are starving and cannibalism is the only alternative to death, which man’s right is ‘unalienable’? And is it ‘right’? As to liberty, the heroes who signed that great document pledged themselves to buy liberty with their lives. Liberty is never unalienable; it must be redeemed regularly with the blood of patriots or it always vanishes. Of all the so-called ‘natural human rights’ that have ever been invented, liberty is least likely to be cheap and is never free of cost.

“The third ‘right’? — the ‘pursuit of happiness’? It is indeed unalienable but it is not a right; it is simply a universal condition which tyrants cannot take away nor patriots restore. Cast me into a dungeon, burn me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can ‘pursue happiness’ as long as my brain lives — but neither gods nor saints, wise men nor subtle drugs, can insure that I will catch it.”

Far as I’m concerned, nobody’s ever said it better, either before or since. Yet another reason I’ve always maintained that anybody who hasn’t read and closely considered Heinlein’s stuff really, really needs to.

Updated update! Since they bear such uncanny relevance to our situation today, it would be grossly remiss of me not to include Chapter Eight’s penultimate ‘graphs.

“Mr. Dubois then turned to me. “I told you that ‘juvenile delinquent’ is a contradiction in terms.

“‘Delinquent’ means ‘failing in duty.’ But duty is an adult virtue — indeed a juvenile becomes an adult when, and only when, he acquires a knowledge of duty and embraces it as dearer than the self-love he was born with. There never was, there cannot be a ‘juvenile delinquent.’ But for every juvenile criminal there are always one or more adult delinquents — people of mature years who either do not know their duty, or who, knowing it, fail.

“And that was the soft spot which destroyed what was in many ways an admirable culture. The junior hoodlums who roamed their streets were symptoms of a greater sickness; their citizens (all of them counted as such) glorified their mythology of ‘rights’…and lost track of their duties. No nation, so constituted, can endure.”

And so, unsurprisingly to Heinlein devotees, it hasn’t.

Big Boeing trouble

Posted on March 13, 2024March 13, 2024 by Mike

Well, THIS certainly doesn’t stink to high Heaven or anything, now does it?

Boeing Whistleblower Found Dead of ‘Self-Inflicted’ Gunshot, 787 Suffers Another Mishap
Former Boeing Quality Manager John Barnett was found dead in a Charleston, S.C., parking lot on Saturday from a “self-inflicted gunshot wound,” according to local police — opening up yet another bizarre chapter in the troubled aircraft maker’s recent history.

Barnett had given “stark warnings” about quality control issues on two models of Boeing passenger jets, including substandard parts and using Dawn dishwashing soap as a lubricant. The 62-year-old had also claimed that Boeing executives were hiding the company’s safety issues rather than addressing them.

“My concerns are with the 737 and 787 because those programs have really embraced the theory that quality is overhead and non-value-added,” Barnett told TMZ after the infamous Jan. 5 incident when a door plug blew off an Alaska Air 737 MAX 9 that depressured the cabin and exposed passengers to open air shortly after takeoff.

Brian Knowles was Barnett’s attorney and described in an email to Corporate Crime Reporter what happened in the days leading up to Barnett’s death:

John had been back and forth for quite some time getting prepared. The defense examined him for their allowed seven hours under the rules on Thursday. I cross-examined him all day yesterday (Friday) and did not finish. We agreed to continue this morning at 10 a.m. (co-counsel) Rob (Turkewitz) kept calling this morning and his (Barnett’s) phone would go to voicemail. We then asked the hotel to check on him. They found him in his truck dead from an ‘alleged’ self-inflicted gunshot. We drove to the hotel and spoke with the police and the coroner.

If you’re thinking the whole thing stinks, we’re in agreement.

Oh, pish-tosh; don’t be ridiculous, you paranoid, cynical old grumpy Gus. I mean, just ’cause the poor guy shot himself six times in the back of the head with a bolt-action rifle, then hung himself, then ran himself over with his own car, then set himself on fire and swallowed a gallon of Drano, there you go getting all suspicious and untrusting-like.

Why, I have it on very good authority that Hillary Clinton was nowhere NEAR Charleston that night, for starters.

Update! Problem: SOLVED.

Boeing Proudly Announces It Has Fixed Malfunctioning Whistleblower
ARLINGTON, VA — In response to mounting public criticism of its quality standards, aerospace corporation Boeing proudly announced it has fixed its malfunctioning whistleblower.

The longtime industry leader in commercial aircraft manufacturing had been in hot water following a string of highly publicized malfunctions and accidents involving its planes, leaving the company desperate to find a solution to its problems.

“That should take care of everything,” a Boeing spokesman said. “After extensive investigation into the recent engineering and design quality issues, we determined that many of these problems could be traced back to this whistleblower. We are proud to announce that we have, in fact, fixed the whistleblower. Permanently.”

Following the decisive action taken to resolve its whistleblower issue, Boeing expressed confidence that it will be smooth sailing moving forward. “We don’t foresee any more problems,” the spokesman said. “Everyone here at Boeing feels much safer now.”

When asked how fixing the whistleblower would solve ongoing issues with the design and assembly of the aircraft, the spokesman offered the following response: “There aren’t any more problems. Got it? If you disagree, you can take it up with our newest board member, Hillary Clinton.”

Heh. Her Herness© DOES seem to keep popping up whenever one of these “fixes” is needed, doesn’t she? I mean, this makes twice just in this post alone. HMMMMM…

The incomparable Grace Kelly

Posted on March 11, 2024March 11, 2024 by Mike

A few little-known facts about one of the hottest babes EVAR.

3 of 7 A Failed Screen Test Fueled Her Later Success
Sometime between 1950 and 1952 (sources differ on the year), Kelly auditioned for the part of a desperate Irish woman in a New York City-based drama called Taxi (1953). She was passed over for the role, but her screen test eventually found its way to celebrated director John Ford, who lobbied for the little-known actress to be included in his high-profile adventure film Mogambo (1953). Separately, Alfred Hitchcock also saw something intriguing in the same Taxi screen test, leading to Kelly’s first true starring role, in Dial M for Murder (1954).

4 of 7 She Enjoyed a Running Gag With Alec Guinness
As told in Spoto’s High Society, Kelly and Alec Guinness engaged in a running gag that lasted more than two decades after their time together on the prank-filled set of The Swan (1956). After Kelly relentlessly teased her co-star about an overzealous fan, Guinness retaliated by having a concierge slip a tomahawk into her hotel bed. A few years later, Guinness was surprised to return to his London home and discover the same tomahawk nestled between his bedsheets. He later enlisted English actor John Westbrook to redeliver the item while Kelly and Westbrook toured the U.S. for a poetry reading during the 1970s, but her highness got the last laugh when Guinness again found the tomahawk in his Beverly Hills hotel bed in 1979.

5 of 7 Her Romance With Prince Rainier Got Off to a Rocky Start
Per High Society, Kelly was in France to attend the 1955 Cannes Film Festival when she agreed to travel to Monaco to meet Prince Rainier III (part of a scheme put together by the magazine Paris-Match for a photo story). However, the prince was delayed by a commitment elsewhere, and by the time he rushed back to his palace an hour late, his fed-up guest was ready to leave. When Rainier asked if she wanted to tour the palace, Kelly coolly replied that she’d already done so while waiting. They subsequently relaxed while walking through the palace garden, their brief meeting giving rise to an epistolary friendship that turned romantic, and eventually led to their “wedding of the century” in April 1956.

I like Kelly enough to have cobbled myself together a custom desktop pic of her juxtaposed against the NYC skyline many years ago, complete with P-shopped-in lightning bolt, which is still proudly in use to this very day. To wit:

Lasses just don’t come much lovelier and more winsome than Grace Kelly, the likes of which they just aren’t making nowadays, more’s the pity.

Update! Might’s well throw in the two other GK desktops I made at the same time as the above one, these two complete with pithy, apt quotes.

My God, as can be seen in Numero the Second, even Grace’s feet were flawlessly beautiful. And just like that, it occurs to me that I really need to set up the iMac’s desktop-pic-switching automagickal function to alternate randomly between these three. If you can’t squint hard enough to read the two quotes, the first is from Mark Twain: ”What would men be without women? Scarce, sir, mighty scarce.”

The bottom words of eternal wisdom come from Farrah Fawcett (!!): “God gave women intuition and femininity. Used properly, the combination easily jumbles the brain of any man I’ve ever met.” True brilliance and insight from what many would consider a most unlikely source, eh?

No, I am NOT a robot

Posted on March 11, 2024 by Mike

Not that those CAPTCHA tests they force you to click on really care. That, after all, isn’t what they’re really all about. Of course, and as usual.

This is what clicking that ‘I’m Not A Robot’ button REALLY does — and it’s probably not what you’re thinking
This security method is known as a CAPTCHA, which stands for Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart. The Turing Test, originally named the Imitation Game, was created by British computer scientist Alan Turing in the 1950s and is designed to put Artificial Intelligence to the test and determine whether it’s indistinguishable from a human mind.

So, is Google simply checking whether AI is smart enough to know to click on the “I’m Not A Robot” button? Not quite.

As revealed by the researchers from BBC’s QI in an episode that first aired in 2020, ticking the box allows Google to trawl your internet browsing history to determine whether you’re a real user or a bot trying to force entry.

QI host and comedian Sandi Toksvig explained: “Ticking the box is not the point. It’s how you behaved before you ticked the box that is analysed. To be honest, I can’t tell you all the details because they keep it secret because they don’t want people trying to cheat the test, but broadly speaking, you tick the box and it prompts the website to check your browsing history.

“For example, before you tick the box you watched a couple of cat videos and you liked a tweet about Greta Thunberg, you checked your Gmail account before you got down to work — all of that makes them think that you must be a human.”

Google, which is behind much of the CAPTCHA security tests you’ll come across online — usually under its reCAPTCHA brand name, can’t access your entire search history. Instead, it’s likely checking websites that it owns (Gmail, YouTube, searches on Google, Google Maps) or those where it has some visibility thanks to the “Sign-In With Google” buttons, analytics or advertising, or the CAPTCHA itself.

That’s a huge proportion of the internet.

So, there must be SOME way out of this—some way of safeguarding your personal privacy and security that doesn’t cost an arm, a leg, and a lot of hassle to protect yourself from yet another Goolag intrusion into what, in the end, is really none of their goddamned business, right? RIGHT?!?

No. No, there is not.

Unfortunately, if you think that using a private browsing mode in your web browser, like Incognito Mode in Google Chrome, keeps your data out of reach ― that’s not the case. In fact, Google was recently forced to add a new warning to its Incognito Mode feature to keep users in the loop about the risks.

The only way to keep your browsing history completely out-of-reach is to encrypt everything with a Virtual Private Network. NordVPN is an example of a VPN that keeps everything you do online locked away— so that even Google or your broadband provider is unable to see what you’re doing. Prices start from £3.19.

As well as trawling a slither of your recent internet history to work out whether you’re behaving like a real human being, there is another use for the CAPTCHA quizzes that you complete. Picking the correct image of a fire hydrant, zebra crossing, or school bus is actually helping to train Artificial Intelligence behind-the-scenes.

Not a single bit of which most if not all of us are interested in helping them out with, or so I’d bet. Bastards.

I must say, Tor looks better and better all the time.

(Via Stephen and Ed)

Is Woke broke?

Posted on March 8, 2024March 8, 2024 by Mike

I don’t really give a tinker’s damn about the two main topics at hand here—the Wokester incursion into comic books, and Gamergate, whatever the hell that was and/or is—being neither a reader of comic books nor a video game person—but I love the “Cancel Pig” epithet so much I’m running with it anyhoo.

The story: A Boston comic retailer complained that he could not sell a lot of the crap comics the industry was spamming out. (Obviously he is very sensitive to bad, unsaleable comics — they murder the retailers who are tricked into buying them, but then cannot sell them for full price, or even for half price. Comic books are not returnable.)

One major complaint he had was that the nitwit writers were not writing classic, very manly characters like Tony Stark or Steve Rogers in-character. Rather, they substitute their own femmy, Current Year concerns, phobias, and anxieties make man’s men parrot their own Twitter freak-outs.

The typical Cancel Police immediately attempted to cancel this man. They made fun of him for being, well, a comic book fan — he was overweight, older, not-too-stylish, and a bit awkward. One obese comic book writer attacked him for being fat.

A woke black comic book artist — well, a low-level artist — named Jerome Igle decided to brand him a racist, not based on anything he said (he did not mention race at all, nor did he allude to it), but based on the fact that he said this guy reminded him of a disgusting, dirty comic book shop owner he had known who was racist.

See, this guy reminded him of someone else, and that guy (he claims) was racist, so: Q.E.D.

Wow, Jerome — good to see your many, many accusations of racism are built upon a firm foundation.

The cancellation train was beginning to chug along and approaching top speed, when suddenly it ran into a problem: star comic book writer Mark Millar, writer of Kick-Ass, the Kingsmen, and a bunch of bestselling comics turned into movies and TV shows, stepped up and defended the comic shop owner, echoed his complaints about storied characters being written as if they were 25-year-old Twitter Addicts, and castigated people for attempting to cancel a man for merely offering his (unobjectionable) opinion.

Suddenly the comic book “pros” who were attempting to cancel him fell into retreat. The obese comic book writer who’d made fun of the comic shop owner for being overweight now clarified he didn’t mean to call him “fat” as an insult, no, not at all! He had merely called him fat to show that fat comic book nerds should stand in solidarity.

One by one, the would-be cancellers made excuses and softened their objections.

Then Millar coined a new term for then — he called them “Cancel Pigs,” which a pungent, memorable, and highly accurate term for these scumbags. That term, “Cancel Pigs,” has now exploded in popularity and is the most popular way to refer to these miserable fascists.

And rightly so, too. Well, except for the gratuitous insult to actual, y’know, pigs, of the four-legged, oink oink oink, rooting and wallowing in slop persuasion. They’ll just have to bear up under the strain somehow, poor dears. As to whether Woke is finally on the run or not, all I have to say about that is it’s about fucking time.

One step closer to Escape From New York

Posted on March 6, 2024March 6, 2024 by Mike

Somewhere, Snake Plissken is laughing his ass off.

New York Gov Hochul calls in National Guard, state police to help curb crime in NYC subways
New York Gov. Kathy Hochul is sending in the state National Guard to New York City to help police curb a surge in crime in the city’s subways.

Announcing a five-point plan on Wednesday, the Democratic governor said she was deploying 750 members of the National Guard to the subways to assist the New York Police Department with bag searches at entrances to busy train stations.

“For people who are thinking about bringing a gun or knife on the subway, at least this creates a deterrent effect. They might be thinking, ‘You know what, it just may just not be worth it because I listened to the mayor and I listened to the governor and they have a lot more people who are going to be checking my bags,'” Hochul said at a news conference in New York City.

The move came as part of a larger effort by the governor’s office to address crime in the subway, which included a legislative proposal to ban people from trains for three years if they are convicted of assaulting a subway passenger and the installation of cameras in conductor cabins to protect transit workers.

OOOOOOH, a three year ban? Yeah, I’m SURE that’ll do it. Those scofflaws and thugs are bound to respect that law, after having disdained so many other ones threatening much more serious consequences. It’s the same magical-thinking mindset that drives the “gun control” fantasy; shitlibs fervently insist just one more piece of legislation will end gun crime…after well over 20,000 others failed to turn the trick.

A kingly gift

Posted on March 5, 2024March 5, 2024 by Mike

SO, last night a close friend of mine bought a dang guitar for me, this lovely Mosrite Joe Maphis-model facsimile, a single-neck reimagining of the original double-neck body style, handcrafted by a young luthier fella out in Monterey, Cullyfornya who’s offering his wares el cheapo on eBay for purposes of getting his work out there and his name established.

Purty, ain’t she? All-mahogany construction, P90s, Bigsby tailpiece (or a clone thereof, probably made of Chinesium, I’d bet), 24-fret neck w/ real-deal abalone inlays, everything a growing boy needs in a guitar.

BACKSTORY: After initially declining, I finally knuckled under and agreed to give my friend’s young son Zachary guitar lessons, an every-Saturday course of instruction which cranked up just over a month ago. Zachary showed willing, revealing some natural aptitude right off, practicing diligently at home, retaining the simple riffs and smattering of music theory I showed him, eager and excited to come down for his weekly lessons instead of the whining, pouting, and foot-dragging you get from some kids.

This encouraging display of studiousness, unfeigned enthusiasm, and potential motivated dear old Dad—now fairly bursting with pride in his son—to buy a mini-Strat starter kit (complete with cable, strap, picks, and even a small amp) for him to use instead of the tired old acoustic student-guitar of mine he’d started out on. The relatively heavy bronze acoustic strings hurt the little guy’s fingers—which, as I warned from Day One, they will do. The lighter-gauge electric strings and slimmer neck-profile will be much easier on him.

Now as I believe I’ve recounted here before, I’ve taken in a good few students over the years, although I’ve never taught a beginner before. Two facts I painstakingly informed all the poor victims who badgered me into taking them on of, from the git-go: 1) I am a truly awful teacher, being a most impatient sort; and 2) I truly, truly HATE teaching. Right down to my very bones, I hate it, I just ain’t cut out for that shit. Hence my stern resistance to inflicting my piss-poor teaching qualities on my friend’s boy, a really sweet, good-natured kid who has known me his entire life as “Uncle Mike.”

Anyhoo, with the acquisition last week of Zachary’s mini-Strat, my bud Zach Sr decided I needed an electric guitar of my own, insisting that I scout around for one at a reasonable price. Z explained this unexpected guitar-buying spree by saying it really made his heart happy to see me re-engaged with playing as a side-effect of teaching his son. He just wouldn’t take my repeated “No!” for an answer, eventually pestering me into submission over the course of the past week.

So after unearthing the above pseudo-Mosrite on eBay, I bid on the thing and ended up winning, scoring what looks to be a really nice instrument for a mite over 200 simoleons with shipping. Supposed to be delivered anytime from this Saturday to next Thursday, and I have to confess I’m pretty excited about it. Don’t tell anybody, aiight?

There’s a crappy old Peavey Heritage amp here for me to play the Mosrite through owned by my friend Don, a VERY occasional player who swore up and down the damned boat-anchor was FUBAR’d, wouldn’t make a sound. After a bit of investigating I found it had a broken power tube, but the main issue seemed to be that the speaker cable had been disconnected at the head-section output, dangling all forlorn at the bottom of the amp unnoticed. Plugged it back in and replaced the catastrophically-blown tube with a new Sovtek 6L6, so it should be good to go now.

Next up, gonna have to look into getting my hands shut of the accursed DePuytren’s Contracture that forced me into retirement seven miserable years ago, robbing me of a lifetime’s self-identity and happiness, instilling much mental anguish, confustication, and despair in their place. There’s a new, non-surgical treatment for the affliction now which works pretty well, or so I’m given to understand.

Although Zach has sworn to keep after me about it until I give in again, there will be NO triumphant return to the stage pour moi, not ever. I’ve always held to certain standards and preconditions for performing onstage, and rolling up there as a wheelchair-bound object of pity is definitely not among ‘em. To my way of thinking, the elusive, indefinable quality known as “stage presence” is not just important, it’s absolutely indispensible; if you can’t swagger out there like you own that fucking stage, then you got no business being there at all. Performing onstage isn’t about being shy, modest, or self-effacing; it’s all about being bold, self-assured, and confident to the point of cockiness. A stage performer—ALL performers—must for the duration of their stage-time be larger than life, not some mumbling, diffident cipher. It’s the only way as far as I’m concerned, you’re just wasting everybody’s time otherwise.

So, not happening, then. I’ll content myself with torturing the cats and kicking out the jams in my living room, thenksveddymuch.

Juiced up

Posted on February 29, 2024March 1, 2024 by Mike

Wow. I mean, just, like…WOW.

Shocking phenomenon: Alabama man struck multiple times by lightning in his lifetime, then gravesite also destroyed by lightning
Childersburg, Alabama is known as the oldest continuously occupied settlement in America. The city, which sits just 37 miles southeast of Birmingham was settled in 1540.

Legends and lore have passed through generations over the years, but one story, in particular, is a bit shocking.

William Yeldell Cosper was struck by lightning at least five times. However, two of those times were after death.

Born to the Rev. James Berry Cosper and Sarah H. Dejournett Cosper in 1844, Cosper would live for over seven decades before succumbing to his fate.

Rumor has it that Cosper survived being struck by lighting the first time. He was sitting on his front porch at the time. He was injured and it took time for him to recover. According to gravesite records, his wife, Martha Carolina Butts Cosper, helped nurse him back to health.

However, he had already had a close call before. A month prior to the strike that hit him, he and Martha were sitting in the front room of their house, spinning wool. A lightning bolt struck the wool, setting it on fire.

Certified Broadcast Meteorologist JP Dice said when a person is struck by lightning, injuries can vary.

“You can see someone’s heart stop because of the disruption of the electrical signals that drive the heart,” Dice said. “They can be revived by CPR in some cases. Also, when they are struck by lightning, there can be severe burns. A bolt of lightning can be over 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s hotter than the surface of the sun.”

There are no details on what Cosper’s injuries were, but he is thought to have had a short recovery. Not long after recovering from the shocking event, Cosper was inside his home in Monroe, Ouachita Parish, Louisiana, when it happened again.

Historical accounts do not reveal exactly where Cosper was in the house but this time, he would not survive the lightning strike. According to death records, Cosper died in 1919. He was 74 or 75 years old.

Cosper’s body was brought back to where he was born and he was buried in the Childersburg Cemetery.

And that’s when things started getting REALLY weird. All in all, a perfect opportunity for two (2) appropriate Tune Damage embeds, I do believe.

(Via Irish)

Update! A fun little Behind The Music story the first vid reminded me of, which I just cannot resist sharing with y’all. I’ll tuck it below the fold, so as not to annoy the non-guitar amp geeks who aren’t interested in this sort of arcana.

Continue reading “Juiced up” →

From machine to bureaucracy: the hotrails to Hell

Posted on February 27, 2024February 28, 2024 by Mike

Riding at breakneck speed.

On the windowsill above the gas fire sits a surprisingly heavy square box. Its back is dirty, thick plastic; its battered and much-dented front is metallic, with rows of tiny ridges and microscopic holes creating a nubby texture if you run your hand across it. A leather strap is buckled into the top for ease of carry, in front of a retractable metal antenna. When the antenna is fully outstretched above the squat rectangle, it looks comical. In the top third of the box’s face, a vertical orange needle moves across the rows of numbers denoting frequency scales. You move the needle with a metal knob. There are four knobs in total, and a switch, and a few helpful legends: am/fm, volume, and, in neat, raised letters, general electric.

This is the family radio. It is at least fifty years old. My mother remembers her family listening to it after dinner; I remember sitting on the porch, hearing the Phillies playing in the background, summer after summer. The other night we turned it on again to catch the first game of the National League Championship Series. A few of the technologically savvy younger generation were home, and at first we tried to get the game on the big-screen Internet-enabled TV. Something was wrong with the pirating site, which is a tough situation for appropriately-directed complaint filing. You could get the game on the MLB app, but the app wants to know your cable provider, which precise lack was the reason we were on the app. Hulu was streaming it, apparently. We tried to sign up for a free trial that we could cancel before they’d get around to billing us. (This is not taking advantage of the free option, because we would have forgotten to cancel; if anything, Hulu is taking advantage of our rosy-eyed good intentions.) Of course it turned out that everyone had already at some point or other created a now-lapsed account; we would have to pay. No problem. We’re big like that. One of us tried to log in. None of us remembered our passwords. The message on the screen directed us to visit some variant of hulu.com/forgotpassword/idiot. We weren’t messing around with that. By now we were fifteen minutes past the start of the game.

Radio it would have to be. But at least we had our Internet-enabled big-screen TV speakers. We would listen to Internet radio and pipe the game through the whole downstairs. What was the name of the Philly station? How did the search function work? How long could painstakingly scrolling to and clicking on each requisite alphanumeric character with the touch-sensitive Apple remote possibly take? The answer to none of these questions mattered because, as it turned out, three increasingly incredulous searches later, Internet radio had never heard of our local broadcast station.

We pulled the long spindly antenna all the way up. We flicked the switch to FM. We twisted the volume knob as far as it would go. The warm familiar crackle — then Kyle Schwarber was in our living room, hitting a home run.

I cannot think of a single piece of personal technology that I expect to be able to give to my grandchildren in working order. Some cars fit this bill, because there is an expectation and infrastructure of ongoing repairs. But in terms of smaller items? Apple, to give the devil his due, is probably the closest. I ran my iPhone over with a car last year; a quick trip to the electronic repair store and it may last me ten years, if Apple does not sabotage me with operating systems updates or charger modifications. But there’s nothing like the GE radio, nothing that I can expect to use, day in and day out, for fifty years, without touching it.

Things used to work in this country. This is the stock complaint of the Baby Boomers, and if you are lucky enough to inherit a piece of their technology, you may find yourself agreeing. But when I say “things used to work,” the object of inherited nostalgia is not only manufacturing standards before planned obsolescence and offshoring. Things used to, literally, work. You turned a knob, and sound came on, because the knob controlled the mechanism that tuned the radio to the broadcast that the big metal radio towers dotting the landscape beamed at you. I am not a gearhead of any description and don’t care much about how the insides of electrical devices work, but I know exactly what I, personally, have to do to operate my end of the GE radio. There are no downloads, no platforms, no passwords, no little pull-down menus, no verifications or account recovery protocols. There is no streaming. Personal technology used to be a machine. Now it’s a bureaucracy.

Call her incompetent, call her a neo-Luddite, call her what you will, but there’s no denying she does have a point. For every technological advancement, there is something lost along with it, sweeping away at least some things probably worth keeping. Is the benefit worth the accompanying cost? In general terms I’d have to say yes, but I also have to wonder sometimes.

In certain quarters the current vogue is to bitch to high Heaven about modern smartphones, with some folks going so far as to foreswear their use altogether—a reflexive, pettifogging abhorrence usually announced with a braggadocious sneer, as if the speaker was extremely proud of his self-denial, iron-willed fortitude, and clear superiority over lesser mortals. It reminds me of my dad’s strenuous denunciation of VHS machines as instruments of Satan Himself back in the late 70s.

Me, I wouldn’t give up my smartphone for all the tea in China. No, my continued existence doesn’t depend on the thing by any stretch, nor does my life revolve around it. But life for me has for sure been enhanced by it.

I’ve taken what steps I know about to shut off its pocket-spy capabilities, although living as we do under the constant, sleepless gaze of the Surveillance State panopticon—its cameras peering down at us from every lamppost, building, and street sign 24/7/365—it’s doubtful at best how much that really amounts to. In that light, smartphones look like pretty small beer.

Taken for all in all, our phones ratting us out to Big Uncle is a fairly trivial issue in my estimation, scarcely worth any serious person getting his bloomers in a bunch over. Drag Queen Story Hour; the “transgender” intifada; nonexistent borders facilitating an invasion of hostile illegal aliens; economic collapse; worthless fiat currency; a central-government behemoth that has openly declared itself the enemy of We Duh Peepul—it ain’t as if we lack for more pressing and far worse concerns to cope with at the moment, after all.

The leopard polecat never changes his spots

Posted on February 24, 2024February 24, 2024 by Mike

Be it federal, state, or local, Government is a right bastard. You should never, ever trust it, it’s always a mistake.

Liquor Regulators Are Seeking Revenge on Bars That Broke Pandemic Rules
“The people who violated the governor’s mandates and orders should face some consequences,” a Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board member said in 2022.

During the height of the pandemic summer of 2020, the proprietors of the Burning Bridge Tavern worked with local officials in Wrightsville, Pennsylvania, to host a series of outdoor gatherings for the community.

For their trouble, the bar’s owners got slapped with a series of citations by the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board (PLCB), the government agency that oversees and manages the sale of alcohol in the state. The citations were ticky-tack offenses, according to Burning Bridge’s chief financial officer, Mike Butler. Twice, the bar was cited for noise violations because they’d allowed a band playing at the gathering to plug into the tavern’s electricity supply. Another offense occurred when the owners and some family members were drinking inside the tavern, which was closed to the public, during a period when indoor dining was prohibited.

A frustrating situation, but not the end of the world. Burning Bridge’s owners paid the fines associated with the citations and assumed that was that. But then the bar had to renew its liquor license.

Fines, be assured, that amounted to thousands of dollars— dollars already hard to come by in the best of times given the extremely thin profit margins all bars and restaurants struggle with in normal times, orders of magnitude moreso under the draconian and entirely contra-Constitutional FauxVid rules of play.

Not the end of the world, perhaps, but having worked in a good few of them over the years I can tell you with absolute certainty that in the bar/restaurant business there simply ain’t no such thing as “extra money.” But as if all that weren’t enough:

“They denied it. They said, ‘Oh, you’re the guys that got all those citations,'” Butler says. “It was a real gut punch.”

Turns out, over the past two years the PLCB has pushed dozens of Pennsylvania establishments that racked up pandemic-related citations to sign “conditional licensing agreements” to renew their liquor permits. In some cases, those agreements have forced the sale of licenses—but in most cases, as with Burning Bridge, they’ve added additional conditions to the license that could prevent a future renewal from being approved.

While the PLCB cannot revoke existing licenses, the board is empowered to object to the renewal of a license or to demand the license can only be renewed conditionally. “In extreme cases,” PLCB Press Secretary Shawn Kelly says, the PLCB can force the sale of a liquor license, though the board only pursues that option when “there is an operational and citation history that calls for such an agreement.”

Even though Burning Bridge’s owners weren’t forced to sell their license, Butler says signing the conditional licensing agreement has come with real costs: The bar’s insurance premium tripled as a result of being viewed as a greater risk.

Assuming BBT isn’t part of a bar/restaurant chain, the owners don’t by any stretch have what you might call deep pockets. So taken altogether, the bruising punishment inflicted by the state of Pennsylvania might NOT be “the end of the world” for them, no. But it could very well be the end of their sojourn in the bar biz.

As I always say, seems like there ought to be some way we could thank the “people” responsible adequately for it. I just can’t for the life of me imagine what it might be.

Update! Can’t leave out the closing ‘graph, which sums up the whole contretemps perfectly.

“The feeling was that our government really isn’t working to try and help us,” says Butler. “At this point, it feels like they’re coming after us.”

A-yup. That’s because they, y’know, ARE. You now, and eventually all the rest of us right along with you. Unpleasant as that is to get our heads around, as difficult as it can be for Real Americans naturally inclined to patriotism and faith in their institutions to choke down and accept, that’s the ugly reality nonetheless. The harder we resist admitting it to ourselves, the rougher it’s going to be when we do come around at last.

Which, sooner or later, one way or another, we’re all gonna have to, like it or not. Think of oversized, intrusive, all-powerful government as a sickness with only one effective treatment. It’s some bad, bad medicine—sure to leave a bitter taste that will linger for a long, long time—but before we can hope to be cured, the body politic fully restored to health, a full dose is going to have to be swallowed.

Q: Is EVERY liberal a liar?

Posted on February 22, 2024February 22, 2024 by Mike

A: Yes. Yes, they are. In fact, as I’ve long maintained, if it wasn’t for lies, they wouldn’t have anything whatsoever to say.

Which, you gotta admit, would be a most welcome change of pace.

Shocking never-before-seen documents from an ongoing trial concerning allegedly stolen Eagles lyrics shine new light on an infamous night in 1980 when Don Henley was arrested after a teen overdosed at his home.

Henley has always maintained that the overdose happened during a going-away party packed with crew members as the band began a lengthy post-’70s hiatus. Henley was charged with giving cocaine to a minor, but said he took the rap to protect the others. He also has maintained that he never had sex with the teen.

“There were roadies and guys in my house – we were having a farewell to the Eagles,” Henley told GQ in 1991. “I got all of them out of the house; I took complete blame for everything. I was stupid; I could have flushed ev erything down the toilet. I didn’t want this girl dying in my house. I wanted to get her medical at tention. I did what I thought was best, and I paid the price.”

A contemporary letter written by Henley to a Santa Monica probation officer, now introduced into evidence in the unrelated current trial, tells a very different story.

Oh, that’s putting it mildly, I’ll tell ya that much for nothing. Read on for the rest of the sorry, sordid story. Then go ahead and smash all your Eagles records to bits, and make a big bonfire with the shards. If you have any Eagles rekkids, that is; never could stand that band, except perhaps for “Witchy Woman,” which I haven’t heard in years and can’t honestly say I’’ve missed. So how best to dispose of my Eagles collection is not really a problem for moi.

Via Ace, who is every bit as disgusted as you and/or I.

As I read this story, I wondered if this scumbag pedophile — and he is a pedophile; there is no mistaking a fourteen year old girl for an adult — wrote “Dirty Laundry” as his “I’m the real victim here” cri de coeur.

Apparently, he did just that. The song is the whine of a pedophile who’s angry that he got caught.

He’s a dick with ears, that’s what, and always was.

Update! Now Joe Walsh, on the other hand…

Joe Walsh of The Eagles executed the greatest prank in the history of pranks.

The Eagles had just completed a concert in Oakland, California. ‘The Day on The Green’ was a yearly concert sponsored by promoter Bill Graham which was held at The Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum.

Following a night of boozing with the group, crew, and associates, Don Henley became unconscious and Joe Walsh tried to grant him a circumcision. The attempt was carried out badly, giving Henley scarred for the rest of his life and bending to the left.

“I don’t know what I was thinking” said Walsh, “I was out of my mind a lot back then. I had just finished super gluing all the furniture to the ceiling and I was feeling bored. It was about 4AM and it was just Me, Mick Jones of Foreigner and Steve Miller still awake. Henley was passed out naked on the floor. His junk looked like bazooka joe wearing a turtle neck so I figured I would help him out and remedy the situation. I got out my trusty old Swiss army knife and went to work on him. I got half way through and realized I had no idea what I was doing. The knife was old, dull and rusty. The knife got stuck and Steve Miller pulled the rest off with a pliers.”

The following morning Henley awakened squirming in discomfort with his crap swaddled in gauze and duct tape. “I had no idea what happened,” said Henley “then I heard Miller and Walsh giggling uncontrollably in the other room. I was rushed to the hospital and I am now scarred for life, but it was all good clean fun. I can pee around corners now. That Walsh is an interesting bunch of guys.”

Heh. Serves the old pedophile right.

Walsh, of course, has always been known for the many pranks he’s perpetrated on his bandmates and crew, including but not limited to the time he glued the heavy curtains shut in a hotel room shared by two of his road crew, endarkening the room so’s they’d sleep right through bus call the next morning, then calling them on the phone last minute and shrieking hysterically, demanding to know where the hell they were at and what the hell they thought they were doing, because dammit, this bus was fucking leaving!

Needless to say, the hapless roadies came scrambling downstairs to the lobby in utter panic—all disheveled and only semi-awake, trying to pull whatever clothes they could on as they raced out to the tour bus, swearing blood-curdling threats of vengeance while Walsh and the rest of the entourage collapsed in gales of raucous hilarity.

Always did like Walsh, going back to his days with the James Gang, although I must confess I wouldn’t much care to tour with the guy, in any capacity or role.

Man, dig them groovy threads!

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