We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
When we were kids, we played Army Man. In the evenings, we watched Vic Morrow keep his head in Combat, and Christopher George go dunebuggying in Rat Patrol. Entertainment like that was everywhere, and every retaining wall in every driveway had imaginary Guns of Navarone atop it the day after we saw the movie. We'd gather up all our military-ish toy swag, pick sides, and wander the neighborhood sneaking up on each other and arguing over who shot whom. Nothing we had shot any sort of projectile, so there was nothing to do but argue; but we all wanted to die and fall to the ground in histrionic ways and writhe around a bit, so the arguments were mostly about who was "throwing" the war too easily to suit the other side. There was a dirty little secret of all such suburban war games of the sixties. We all wanted to be the Germans.
The Germans were cool. Exotic. The Americans were just our dads in olive drab. German uniforms were like a circus outfit compared to a reform school tie. Germans had those nifty beer bottle hand grenades, tanks named after panthers and tigers instead of anonymous generals, and those awesome grease guns that went BBBRRRRRPPPP when you let them off the chain. And besides, if you were the Germans, you were expected to lose and die and writhe on the ground in your death throes over and over and have all the fun.
The actual American military seems to have understood that the Germans had all the sexy stuff, and worked hard to remind the American troops that outre weapons, gaudy uniforms with lots of lightning bolts and skulls, and Roman salutes don't win wars. The American army was boring compared to the German army. Boring like Joe Louis fighting Joel Grey would be, that is. Workmanlike. Here's an interesting example of the mundane but necessary propaganda that reminded American GIs that the boring stuff works just fine.
Isn't it time for the New York Times to run another 10,000 word essay about how any minute everyone is going to flee the suburbs and flock to the cities, because we all know the quality of life is so low out there in the sticks?
It's sort of amusing to consider that these are the Riot Police we're watching scurry away like rabbits. One can only imagine what regular old bobbies would do in that situation -- after they wet themselves, I mean.
Lots of websites, this website included, post videos instructing you not to talk to the police. Everyone runs into the street with a video camera, traffic stop and armed robbery alike, trying to catch a YouTube-able Rodney King moment to get their fifteen minutes of Internet fame by proxy. No one has to do that in England, there's a camera everywhere already.
This is what you get when the police know there's nothing but trouble in it for them to protect your homes and businesses, and ultimately, your lives. God help you if you don't sort your recyclables, though.
Every prognosticator on television news shows is proved wrong about everything within a week's time. Paul Krugman can't predict what's going to happen at dinnertime while he's having lunch. Newspapers can't even tell you what already happened. But a bunch of clowns in 1979 got it about right. Americathon:
They miscast a John Edwards lookalike as President Chet Roosevelt instead of an Obama clone, but they did predict that China would go capitalist, so we'll give them a pass. I wonder if we'll try going capitalist anytime soon? You know, after the telethon.
F-16, call sign Stroke 3, dodging 6 SAM launches during Desert Storm
As the package proceeded to the Iraqi border the weather become steadily worse until everyone was in the weather, unable to climb out into the clear. As planes got out of position, the package finally broke out into the clear just past the Iraqi border. At this time, a large calibre AAA gun began firing on the aircraft. The AAA consisted of extremely large airbursts that looked like big black rain clouds. The AAA, coupled with the confusion of sorting out the package formation, resulted in 25% of the package being sent home at that time. Meanwhile the package, now a 12-ship, pressed on to Baghdad.
As the flight approached the Baghdad IP, AAA began firing at tremendous rates. Most of the AAA was at 10-12,000ft (3,658m), but there were some very heavy, large calibre explosions up to 27,000ft (8,230m). Low altitude AAA became so thick it appeared to be an undercast. At this time, the 388th TFW F-16’s were hitting the Nuclear Research Centre outside of the city, and the Weasels had fired off all their HARMs in support of initial parts of the strike and warnings to the 614th F-16’s going further into downtown went unheard. The F-15’s also provided air cover and departed with the first part of the strike group. Again, a warning that went unheard. Without knowing it 614th TFS F-16’s were all pretty much alone in downtown Baghdad with no air cover and no electronic support assets.
A low overcast deck covered the northern portion of the city which extended south to the point where the AF Headquarters and the Republican Guard Headquarters were mostly obscured, and the package commander, Maj. John Nips Nichols, called a weather abort for those two targets. The southern portion of the city was clear, and the oil refinery was clearly visible to Crud and Stroke flights. As they approached the action point to roll in on the refinery, an SA-2 launch warning was received. The fighters turned to honour the threat missile launch warning, and some SAMs were seen in the air, but they were not an immediate threat. The remaining F-16’s each pinpoint bombed separate refectory towers on the site, and set the refinery ablaze. The destruction was so complete that the flames from the refinery were seen on Cable News Network (CNN) film for the next two weeks.
As the initial SA-2 launch warning faded however, Maj. ET Tullia, Stroke 3, received additional SA-2 and SA-3 acquisition warnings that went unheeded as he rolled in on the towers. The high angle diving delivery, combined with the on-board ECM pod delayed a full SAM missile system acquisition until he pulled off the target and turned south. As the missiles closed, ET's tape reveals the screams of the radar warning receiver into his headset of a missile launch. The missiles overshot and harmlessly detonated above his aircraft, and he turned back to the egress heading.
Multiple SAMs were launched at the package, some ballistic and unguided and some tracking with a full system lock-on. In spite of this, some members of the package refused to jettison their bombs until clear of the city to avoid possible damage to civilian non-combatants. One of the missiles guided toward Clap 4, piloted by Capt. Mike Cujo Roberts. A missile break warning sounded over the radio and Cujo saw the missile as it guided towards him. It passes behind his aircraft and detonates, and Cujo believes he is safe until his aircraft begins to pitch over and he loses control. As the jet approaches negative 1'g', Cujo ejected over downtown Baghdad. No one observed an ejection, nor saw a 'chute.
According to NBC, you're from Chicago, but they've already got a mayor that accosts men in the shower at the gym, so maybe you figure there's no upside for you there. But you can move to New York and run as a carpetbagger, dude! You've got what the Empire State demands in its elected officials: a wonky eye for the ladies.
It seems that, when I wasn't looking, secret Chinese agents replaced my trusted and faithful American bathroom mirrors with a mirror "Made in China." It is a hideous substitution and one that would go unnoticed except for the fact that from time to time I look in my mirror for this or that grooming ritual. When I do I know that the mirror has become a Chinese mirror because the effect is immediately and consistently horrifying. Briefly put, the person in the mirror is someone that does not resemble me at all. I don't know how he got in my mirror but he's got to go.
Vanderleun's a guy, so he's understandably unaware of the parable of age visiting a woman. Doorbell rings. Woman answers. "Hi, I'm age," the fellow at the doorstep says, then grabs both her breasts and yanks down on them as hard as he can. Unwisely, she turns around to run away, and, well...
The Washington Times has the straight skinny on the downstream effects of our porcine federal government's expenditures. There's the usual stuff about billion dollar toilet seats without holes in them and so forth, but there's one gem hidden among the awful offal that makes the annual three trillion spree worth it. Oh, yeah. Shrimp on a treadmill!
Well, that's cooler than a HUD block grant, I'll say that much for it. But I gather everything the government does isn't nearly as essential as that.
Is "jello wrestling at the South Pole" a euphemism for something actually naughty? Or is it just dull, useless, ugly people wrestling in jello at great expense, in between bouts of fudging statistics about how hot it is in the Antarctic because I drive a four-door car? I'm sorry, it's hard to keep up with these hipsters. Next thing you know, you're going to tell me Pabst Blue Ribbon is popular again.
All health care will be delivered by this method soon. Requests for chest X-rays will entail sending you an application to work at a Japanese power plant with a film shirt. Deafness will be treated by ordinances requiring that everyone yell at you -- not just the clerks at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Instead of glasses, those suffering from vision loss will be supplied with an even uglier spouse, because what difference will it make, anyway? At this point, with all our light fixtures filled with CFL bulbs, you can barely tell if you're living with a mammal, never mind a hottie. Good-looking spouses will be re-assigned to those with good eyesight, but who want Viagra, which doesn't grow on trees, you know.
Would you like to know more? Put in another quarter, and press pound. Your pound key generates all the electricity for your house, too, so press it a lot, really fast.
It's like a perfect distillation of every unpleasant mental, verbal and physical tic extant in the land, gleaned from all points on the cultural, racial, and class compass.
Children raised solely by the popular culture and the public schools are essentially feral, but somehow less noble than an actual feral person would be. That's a difficult thing to achieve. Must be why it costs so much property tax money and cable bill cash to accomplish.
Today's fun activity is called "Spot The Ukelele." A ukelele has been cleverly hidden in each of the following tableaus. See if you can spot them.
It's pretty tough, I know. It's as if the videographer was deliberately trying to make it hard for us. I think I missed a few. I'm going to try again. Good luck!
Every year in midsummer, Bird Dog invites all the Maggie's Farm contributors to gather under the shade of the old hanging tree for the company picnic. It's a veritable kaleidoscope of camaraderie, and Mrs. Bird Dog always has a big supply of road kill jerky and ouzo for everybody. Please note the prevalence of what we like to call Maggie's Farm Gun Safety. The Wikipedia entry for Maggie's Farm gun safety rhapsodizes:
Bird Dog always opens the ceremonies with a rousing "Let me hear your balalaikas (and your AKs) ringing out, come and use your guns free form!" This year, I'm bringing a bazooka, or a bouzouki, or both.
Looking forward to the solstice, Bird Dog. Until then, I'll keep the home sterno burning.
Someone apparently not at risk of ever touching a human female boob has constructed a replica of the 4077 M*A*S*H unit in their backyard, and submitted it to Home and Garden's Rate My Space. I thought all the comic convention types were dressing up as Klingons, not Klinger nowadays, but what do I know? Go Mudhens!
Thanks so much for sending along the handsome coaster. Please forgive us for taking so long to send our regards, but we'd really only been living here for a few weeks when it showed up, and we were a little unsure what to do with the thing.
I'm just an intern here, and new on the job, so I don't get to decide anything. But there was something spiffy-looking about the package the little gold candy dish -- or whatever it is supposed to be -- came in, and I couldn't help myself, and kept fishing it out of the trash no matter how many Czars came by my desk and round-filed it while yelling at me to get back to editing Rush Limbaugh's Wikipedia page.
I asked Adele, the girl that's been here the longest, what I should do with your merit badge, but she told me that anything that showed up for our first year here, whether it's an oil painting, a North Korean nuke, or a recession, should just get forwarded to the Texan fellow that used to live here, because nothing could be really addressed to us yet. Our new boss is still trying to finish up some work he had left over when he quit his job as a Chicago Alderman or something, and he's in Denmark at a trade show, still handing out his old business cards until they run out. Adele's old and still an intern, and the catty girls say she couldn't even get Clinton to grope her, so I just sort of brushed it off and kept the neato emblem thing here.
It says here there's some kind of money that goes with your disk with the picture of Andrew Sullivan on it, but that makes me sort of suspicious. 1.4 million dollars it says here, but maybe that's a typo and you guys meant yen or kronos or Canadian dollars or those big stone rings or whatever you guys use instead of real money with Presidents on it. I'm sorry, you sound like nice people, but it smacks of a "You May Already Be A Winner" letter that's addressed to: Occupant. My mom told me Ed McMahon is dead, and the days of a man showing up at your house with a big cardboard check for no reason are long past, and we should all be suspicious of anyone that promises you money for doing nothing. Besides, ever since we hired Acorn to do the census, we had to keep way more than that in small unmarked bills in my desk, and I don't want you sending me any more. There's barely room for my Carmex, Post-It notes, and all my Apple gear as it is.
Tell you what: why don't you split up the money and send a little to every person in America. None of us are good at math here, so I'm not sure how much that would be, exactly. I even asked my only friend here, little Timmy from Treasury, to figure it out, but he says carrying the zeros gets him every time. Timmy's nice and told me not to worry about the exact figure, somehow the President will end up with every penny of it eventually.
Well, it appears they closed down the manifestly un-American and unconstitutional flag@whitehouse.org. Don't worry, though, you can still get your Stasi jollies telling the executive branch hall monitors at whitehouse.gov/realitycheck that someone you don't like is chewing gum in class and is hiding a pack of smokes in their gym locker.
"The stubborn yet false rumor that President Obama’s health care proposals would create government-sponsored “death panels” to decide which patients were worthy of living seemed to arise from nowhere in recent weeks."
Boy, the world sure is a mysterious place to the New York Times.
If there's a more loathsome person in the news right now than Henry Louis Gates Junior, I've missed them. It's amazing the amount of attention you can get playing your one-note piano with your foot on all the pedals for the media and academia these days.
Listen to him for a minute and a half, and you can see he's a second-rate intellect with a third-rate sense of respect for his fellow man. Perfect for Hahvahd, now that I think of it. Just like the Widener-shunning alum Teddy Kennedy, only teaching instead of sleeping in class, and driving the affirmative action bus over a cliff instead of an Oldsmobile off a bridge. I can't advise riding with either of them. But then again, a policeman responding to a burglary call isn't in a position to skip talking to Skip. Being wrong at the top of your voice, and a jerk in the bargain, is the sum total of the prestige the Harvard nameplate offers, I guess.
Just when you think you've heard all the drivel you could imagine coming out of the guy's mouth or pen, you hear another topper. According to the AP, on his application to attend Yale, he wrote:
"As always, whitey now sits in judgment of me, preparing to cast my fate. It is your decision either to let me blow with the wind as a nonentity or to encourage the development of self. Allow me to prove myself."
It's really hard to be incoherent, obsequious, and imperious and insulting at the same time, but it appears he's been managing it his whole life. That approach is not without its charms, after all. It's the official foreign policy of the United States right now, for instance.
At about the same time Gates was playing passive aggressive with a Yale admissions office likely bending over backwards to let him in anyway, another man, a much more pleasant and charming man, and a snappier dresser, uttered the same sort of line, but without any malice. Hoping to burst the tension in the words by uttering them along with his fellow man, and he didn't discriminate about who his fellow man was. Viewing the words as an obstacle to get past, not a cow to be milked.
You can only utter half the line now. It's a testament to what Skip Gates and his ilk have accomplished in the intervening years. Everyone used to be able to say both words with impunity, but generally didn't, if for no other reason than it was the mark of bad manners. Now only the pallid portion of the words can be uttered with malice, and often are, thanks to the tireless efforts of Skip Gates et.al. It's still not enough. There will never be enough for the Convent of the Sisters of the Perpetually Afflicted they're running over at Harvard, and in many other, big, important white buildings all over this marvelous country.
The rarest thing on the Internet is an author thinking deeply and then writing simply and elegantly. So rare as to be practically non-existent. Practically, but not completely. Gerard at American Digest is such a person:
The History of your browser tells me where you have been and what you have seen, but your Bookmarks tell me who you are and what you believe.
Mark Twain remarked, "You tell me whar a man gits his corn pone, en I'll tell you what his 'pinions is." Bookmarks are the corn pone from which your 'pinions are baked, but if you have the kind of soul that has run "Clear History" on your life your 'pinions are not likely to have any foundation in the long history of Freedom, but only yearn towards a Utopian tomorrow that never knows.
Much of the current disunity seen in our politics arises between those who ran "Clear History" in November of 2000 and those who saw History return with a vengeance in September of 2001.
One group is determined to deny History expunge the Declaration and shred the Constitution in pursuit of a utopia that's buried in a global network of mass graves. Another group are those who believe in the American idea and are determined let this new birth of freedom work its way across the world. Absent a defining historical event of global significance, this twain shall not meet. There is, of course, a third group of people who want to merely get on with their happy world untroubled by History, either cleared or present as a clear and present danger.
It's three years old and rerun, so you know it's not 20/20 hindsight talking.
This following spreadsheet debacle tote board has earned a lot of Internet ink today. From BizzyBlog:
There's a lot of John Galt talk associated with it, including the title of the BizzyBlog blog entry. I don't care for it. What is understandable is not always commendable. What is predictable is not always to be aquiesced to.
It's crappy to talk with glee about other people's misery. It's all I see, everywhere, among the pundit class. People with sinecures, full of 20/20 hindsight advice for people who did their best to participate in American public life and got creamed. Can we have a care for those under the wheels of this bus, please?
Going John Galt deliberately is such a petty thing to claim. It's the battle cry of the effete, the sheltered, the shiftless. Poor people don't have the luxury of going Galt; they go hungry. It's an inapt title, anyway, for the undesired effect of strangling investment in the cradle. But instead of pointing out that the malefactors that have prima facie contempt for all commerce that doesn't involve the government are dismantling the entire edifice of honest pay for honest work in the private sector, you're claiming you're deliberately trying to hurt your fellow citizens -- to use their misery as a club to beat your political foes. That marks yourself for contempt. Would you deliberately hurt your fellow citizens to prove a point? I doubt it, really I do; why would you say you'd welcome a chance to do it? It is pure ego that makes you claim you're doing it on purpose. "I meant to do that" belongs in a comedy sketch.
Sensible people who are well-off are very cautious right now, and have been since that day John McCain, already the last turkey in the shop, announced he was suspending his campaign and going back to Washington to look for another camera to get in front of. That was the day everyone knew you were going to get Studs Urkel, San Fran Nan, and Dingy Harry running your affairs for four years. A three horned anti-capitalist bull was born that day, no later. But I'm not talking about being sensible here.
People not so well-off were sensible, too, and borrowed money to purchase a house whose value was determined by credible third parties, and got creamed. They purchased items on credit lent at 9 percent and suddenly collected at 29 percent. They worked hard at jobs that ceased to exist overnight. They navigated the shoals of everyday life using the only buoys of information at hand to determine how to proceed. Now I watch wealthy people mocking them by saying they got what they always deserved. Working people shouldn't have a decent standard of living just by bumping along and cooperating and trying, should they? Let's call their house sprawl and their children dullards and their food junk and their autos hogs and tell them to get back to the trailer park where they belong.
In a republican democracy, we elect officials in lieu of deciding everything in a mob all the time. But it's refreshing from time to time to petition these officials directly with our concerns. We must water the tree of liberty every once in a while, n'est-ce pas? They do in Santa Cruz, California, and they record it for our edification.
The one woman there assures us that she does not water the tree of liberty in public, though.
If there's a more loathsome person in the news right now than Henry Louis Gates Junior, I've missed them. It's amazing the amount of attention you can get playing your one-note piano with your foot on all the pedals for the media and academia these days. 
