Sunday, April 26. 2009
 A friend highly recommends Monty Roberts' Shy Boy.
Saturday, April 25. 2009
 New Canaan, CT, is known for the residential architecture of "the Harvard 5." Video.
Photo: The Bridge House
Friday, April 24. 2009
Our shrink friend Nathan, who has completed Aliyah in Israel, sends this reminiscence of his days working for the Indian Health Service, doing general practice including surgery and obstetrics - and anything else that was needed. Old-timey medicine.
Before replacing the sloughed skin on Mrs. R's arm, I had to find out why her forearm was raw to the muscle. New here among the Sioux, I am surprised to learn that my colleagues (and one ancient Roman Catholic always fiddling with her rosary) hadn't checked this elderly, chunky widow's blood sugar: diabetic, sure enough, never diagnosed. So, first things first: stabilize her blood sugars, treat the diabetes, and give proper antibiotics (for anaerobes and aerobes -- they missed this too), then when you see the shiny, glimmer of healthy tissue margins, go for a skin flap transplant.
The pharmacist was my surgical assistant; he was the brightest of the bunch, from N'orlins, La before the Flood, he couldn't get into med school, he said, but he was smart, hard-working and pleased to assist. He also ordered special hickory chips from N'orlins, La. to barbecue and made his own roux. It was then that I learned I loathed ochra, that slimy matrix it exudes.
Then how to unskin a lady was not to be straightforward as it was at the University hospital where I studied. The surgical suite -- well-endowed -- had not been used for years; surgery was sent eighty-miles up-road to Mobridge to the White hospital; none done here, except deliveries (which too often evolved into C-sections who had to be sent, ambulance screaming, up to Mobridge. One trip, the eternally-soused obstetrician kept his fist in the mother's vagina to keep the baby from popping out.
To unskin a forearm means to find a donor site from the inner thigh. Anesthesia needed for this and there was no anestheiologist, no nurse-anesthetist, even in the 1970's. I do double duty. First, a lumbar block to numb the donor site; second, a brachial plexus block -- in the armpit -- to numb the recipient, the naked forearm. Lumbars I had done many of: babies with possible meningitis; Southside Chicago girls in active labor, with no prenatal care and needing an urgent C-section. But, brachial plexus block was a never-done for me; remembered the anatomy, the complex twistings and routings within that armpit, like some noodling of telephone wires beneath the city streets, but never stuck a needle there. The night before surgery, I bone-up on my Netter's anatomy and hit the spot square-on the next day in the O.R.
Before hitting the OR, I had done several days debriding of the sloughed wound: fresh it must be to transplant the sod of skin. In the OR, flipped on her side, I slid into the vertebral space between L4 and 5; a bit lordotic pull by the nurses and I had a clear tunnel in. Then, flapped on her back, Mrs R. was ready. The thigh well scrubbed, Betadined, aproned, an oval hole isolating the site. Instruments we had. The strange loopy-scalpel to slice just-thick-enough epidermis and a touch if dermis to both "take" to the new site, yet leaving some dermis to heal-over the thigh; something like a large cheese knife the instrument looked. Forearm next. Her arm flung up like some lop-sided angel wing, I probed left-handed with two gloved fingers, then slid the massively long needle --- like from the cartoons -- in between the stretch of skin. Wait. Wait. Numbness without paralysis in the arm. First, a touch on the skin (for sensitive fibers); then a pinch with a forceps (for the pain C-fibers) and success.
 Laying the layers onto the site is much like laying sod; carefully, side by side, the edges trimmed to the wound shape. The "root" growing will take on its own, a pressure bandage holding the skin sod in place. A fine lawn it will hopefully be; like sodding around a putting hole -- it should look good and cover the ground. And after five or six days of brief peeks, it looks darn good.
But, Mrs. R. wants a pass to leave early. There will be a Sundance ceremony with several initiants, including, I learn later, Russel Means, wanted by the FBI for shooting three men on Rosebed reservation, down south. I explain, I plead in fact, that she can't rotate the arm; she must stay in hospital a week or so until we know healing has happened. Mrs. R. has donated two buffalo for eats at the ceremony and insists, politely, quietly, firmly, that she is going. Wakantanka, the Sioux god whose voice one hears shushing through the Black Hills, will protect her. She invites me.
Being invited was one thing; getting in another. I and Debby were the only washichus, white men, attending. While this was a Lakota Sioux ceremony, it had become politicized; other tribes, mostly the more militant ones, as far away as the Navajo, had sent "guards": thick-armed toughs with long, greasy black hair and their image of mean on their faces. The fellow who greeted us -- we had the red Fiat 128 in South Dakota -- commanded us out. A face like a slab of steak with two eyes embedded, he frisked me; looking for drugs and guns, he said. His compatriots searched the tiny Fiat's baggage, checked under the carriage, beneath the seats, glove compartment. When he turned to frisk Debby, I told him firmly, no way: I would turn around and he could explain to Mrs. R. why I was not admitted. Her name was a key to the lock that was his harshness. We were passed through.
I did not expect to be the only Washichu; thought other docs would be invited; learned later that my do-gooder colleagues who come to save the Indians are not so welcome. Already, I had dispensed with making morning rounds with them, as I tired and was irritated at the "religion" they spouted at bedside; told them I needed to round earlier.
We formed a large circle. Formed is not quite right. A circle was somehow formed by the few hundred there, centered by the cottonwood from which leather strops hung. Each strop was anchored with a bone hook -- from what animal I don't recall, perhaps antelope. The six piercees entered; I'm told by Mrs. R. that they had purified themselves in the wild for several days with fasting and water. The hooks are pierced into the pectoral muscle, not the skin, to hold more firmly; one on each side. as the men leaned back against the leather thongs, faces skyward, Cubist, uptilting tits were formed: this manly ceremony giving rise to a touch of woman. A moaning or humming was emitted by them by these men; also those in the circle, as the men stomped sidewise about, a dance they called it, in a hypnotic slowness. A timeless quality it felt.
Near the end, several men appear with massive shallow wooden bowls, face us in the circle and pass around the dried buffalo donated by Mrs. R.
She is called to near the center. A peace pipe is to be given to her for her generosity. As some chiefly type raises the pipe, his arms extended, palms upward, I realize, a touch shocked, that she will now rotate her arms upward to receive the peace pipe with both hands. I feel a belly clutch: will she tear the stitches?
Mrs. R. looks back at me afterwards; tosses a smile of reassurance. Thanks to Wakantanka the skin is fine, she explains.
One weekend, we go to the Black Hills, find a cabin, rest outside beneath a sky filled with more stars than I have ever imagined. I feel a sense of annoyance as I hear the rush of what sounds like highway traffic just beyond the ridge. Ridge top I look: no highway; it is Wakantanka speaking through the black pine.
It was the only time He has ever spoken around me.
Top photo: Sioux war party, 1870s?
Middle photo: Sioux warrior
Lower photo: Sioux village
 Does your town do recycling? If so, do you know where that stuff ends up? I mean where your junk really ends up.
I challenge any curious readers to find out what ultimately happens to the paper, plastics, beer cans, and glass that are put out so dutifully and virtuously for the garbagemen or recycling pick-ups in your town.
Two or three phone calls ought to do it. "It gets recycled" is not an adequate answer.
For extra credit: Try to find out what you or your town pays for this service, and who profits, if anyone, from your thoughtful donations of your precious garbage. And for your effort spent, as Roger says, "going through your garbage like a raccoon."
The subject picqued my interest because I have noticed that our garbagemen for the past year have been throwing the "recyling" paper and newspapers into their regular garbage truck. My guess is that most "recycled" stuff in the US ends up in landfills, but I do not know for sure. I do know that recycling glass is an economic absurdity, and that recycling plastics is too expensive to be worthwhile: it is just made from a 1/10 teaspoon of oil.
Thursday, April 23. 2009
Geez, Bird Dog. You kids these days with your newfangled Greek lyre and pan-flute noise music. I kick it old school -- Phoenecian, baby! 3400 years ago, the oldest known written melody was scratched out in cuneiform.
The text consists of: "Akkadian terms written in a Hurrianized manner and enscribed in Ugaritic Cuneiform script." (Big deal. According to our current Treasury Secretary, so are the instructions to TurboTax) You can read all about the tablet and the people that read Hurrian well enough to decipher it here. In the meantime, some robo-dweeb hep cat has tightened up his funky lyre and banged out that paean to Nikkal, the Moon Goddess:
Man-o-man, you're L7 if you didn't tap a toe to that one. Hurr Hurr Hurrian, baybee!
Wednesday, April 22. 2009
Our blog pal AVI noticed a fascinating piece at Steve Sailer about the relative popularity of art posters.
Is it all about color-coordination? Decor? An important artist whose posters do not sell, Max Ernst's Europe After the Rain (1940):
I had lunch yesterday with a friend who runs a fund at Fidelity in Boston. She mentioned how many friends and acquaintances she has who had been - or had felt - wealthy but are now in desperate straits.
They had overpaid for grand houses in Cambridge and Chestnut Hill, and then did million-dollar renovations and extensions. They overpaid and leveraged themselves further by buying weekend houses in Maine, Nantucket, Westport or Marion. They bought expensive cars, and paid $300,000 on interior decorating. Wherever they travelled, they stayed at the Four Seasons unless they were golfing in Ireland or Scotland. They had had the sort of blind optimism that led them to believe that $1.5 million bonuses would continue forever. They saved next to nothing. And these are not stupid people: these are bright folks, Ivy League MBAs who know math - but unwise.
She told me about somebody like that in their late 30s whose family has had to move into her parents' house in Natick, and who has their two homes on the market.
We spoke of the time-honored and traditionally-admired Yankee virtue of not living within your means, but below your means. We spoke about the Yankee virtues of "making do," "going without," and giving to others. We spoke about ostentatiousness and conspicuous consumption. We pontificated about whether getting and spending represented an emotional or spiritual emptiness, or a hollowness in a part of American culture. We reflected on whether the childish "I want..." had replaced more durable and mature motives and life guidelines. We touched on what God wants from us, as we always do when we are together. We remembered the old-time Yankee pride in driving old, beat-up station wagons to the tattered old WASPy yacht club in Marblehead. We remembered the old-time Yankee pride in owing nothing, and the pride and freedom that confers: owning your life.
Then, after an excellent no-carb lunch and with a couple of chardonnays under our belts, we went shopping.
Photo: Simple but charming living quarters from Sipp's snarky piece on homes: I'm going to say somethng rude now.
"Ancient," to me, means before 1000 BC. After that, it's historic, more or less.
These are old pots. I stumbled on the Metropolitan Museum of Art's site with their collection of Athenian 6-4th Century BC red and black containers while searching for an illo for last Saturday's Saturday Verse. I am sure you have looked at their like before. These decorated containers were surely not for everyday use.
Here are a few of them:
Amphora, c. 530 BC
Amphora with chariot and soldiers, c. 540 BC
Bell-krater (wine mixing bowl) with three women, one playing lyre. c. 460 BC. I would assume that she is singing too.
Hydria (water jug), c. 500 BC
Ain't these intertubes cool?
Tuesday, April 21. 2009
There are things we can touch and perceive, or perceive with technology. Some things cannot be touched but can be easily perceived, such as the charming young lassies above. Or mental life: ideas, emotions, etc. And spiritual life.
For some reason, it's Greek Week at Maggie's and, while looking for something else, I found this bit somewhere at Wiki:
Socrates is contemptuous of people who think that something has to be graspable in the hands to be real. In the Theaetetus, he says such people are "eu a-mousoi", an expression that means literally, "happily without the muses" (Theaetetus 156a). In other words, such people live without the divine inspiration that gives him, and people like him, access to higher insights about reality.
 Socrates's idea that reality is unavailable to those who use their senses is what puts him at odds with the common man, and with common sense. Socrates says that he who sees with his eyes is blind, and this idea is most famously captured in his allegory of the cave, and more explicitly in his description of the divided line. The allegory of the cave (begins Republic 7.514a) is a paradoxical analogy wherein Socrates argues that the invisible world is the most intelligible ("noeton") and that the visible world ("(h)oraton") is the least knowable, and the most obscure.
It is certain that many are indifferent to the invisible world - practical, earth-bound types who are happily without the muses' gift - or burden - of reflecting on the "higher realities" and the hidden realities which seem to try to connect the human heart with the cosmic. The meta-physical or trancendent realm of thought and experience which many of us seek to grasp and hold. More:
The word metaphysics derives from the fact that Aristotle's musings about divine reality came after ("meta") his lecture notes on his treatise on nature ("physics"). The term is in fact applied to Aristotle's own teacher, and Plato's "metaphysics" is understood as Socrates' division of reality into the warring and irreconcilable domains of the material and the spiritual. The theory has been of incalculable influence in the history of Western philosophy and religion.
Indeed we are all Greeks - especially those of us who are Christians (the Greek Paul thoroughly Greekified the Christ Cult, thus translating it into a world religion). "Psyche," the soul, was a combination of the psych-ological (mental) and the spiritual/divine aspects of reality as we experience it, until academics in modern times separated psychology out as a topic of study in the Aristotelian slicing-and-dicing way. Being sober sorts, they did not want to call Psychologists "soul students," nor did Psychiatrists want to call themselves "soul physicians." So they put it in Greek, same as most of the other -ologists and -iatrists.
Photo on top of a few untouchable Muses borrowed from Egotastic.
Image below: Bust of Socrates, Louvre
Monday, April 20. 2009
Georgia born-and-raised, and CT resident Flannery O'Connor died of lupus at 39 in 1964.
A collection of her occasional pieces, Mystery and Manners, was assembled by her friend the translator and poet Robert Fitzgerald. In that collection is a gem of an essay, "Total Effect and the Eighth Grade."
Caitlin Flanagan in his WSJ piece The High Cost of Coddling (h/t, Viking) commented:
In my teaching days, no single document shaped my thinking as much  as Flannery O'Connor's 1963 essay called "Total Effect and the Eighth Grade." It concerned neither guns nor violence, neither cliques nor experimental approaches to the treatment of adolescent depression. It was about . . . books. In defending the teaching of the great works of the Western canon rather than those of the modern day (which kids far preferred), she said something wise, the sort of thing an adult might say. She said that the whims and preferences of children should always, always be sublimated to the sense and judgment of their elders.
"And what if the student finds this is not to his taste?" O'Connor asked. "Well that is regrettable. Most regrettable. His taste should not be consulted; it is being formed."
The full O'Connor quote (via Book of Joe) is:
In other ages the attention of children was held by Homer and Virgil, among others, but, by the reverse evolutionary process, that is no longer possible; our children are too stupid now to enter the past imaginatively. No one asks the student if algebra pleases him or if he finds it satisfactory that some French verbs are irregular, but if he prefers Hersey to Hawthorne, his taste must prevail.
No child needs to be assigned Hersey or Steinbeck until he is familiar with a certain amount of the best work of Cooper, Hawthorne, Melville, the early James, and Crane [we can quibble with the names; I certainly quibble with Cooper’s inclusion], and he does not need to be assigned these until he has been introduced to some of the better English novelists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
The fact that these works do not present him with the realities of his own time is all to the good. He is surrounded by the realities of his own time, and he has no perspective whatever from which to view them. Like the college student who wrote in her paper on Lincoln that he went to the movies and got shot, many students go to college unaware that the world was not made yesterday; their studies began with the present and dipped backward occasionally when it seemed necessary or unavoidable.
The high-school English teacher will be fulfilling his responsibility if he furnishes the student a guided opportunity, through the best writing of the past, to come, in time, to an understanding of the best writing of the present. He will teach literature, not social studies or little lessons in democracy or the customs of many lands.
And if the student finds that this is not to his taste? Well, that is regrettable. Most regrettable. His taste should not be consulted; it is being formed.
Saturday, April 18. 2009
A nice Spring walk this morning on CT's "Gold Coast" waterfront:
Thanks to Gerard for posting this 1999 YouTube (audio only) of Susan with Cry Me a River.
More from Gerard on Susan. Yes, she is an icon for something.
Friday, April 17. 2009
A quote from Overcoming Bias a while ago on the meaning of life and the future and all that:
But then won't people be bored?
No; they can play computer games - not like our games, of course, but much more advanced and entertaining.
Yet wait! If you buy a modern computer game, you'll find that it contains some tasks that are - there's no kind word for this - effortful. (I would even say "difficult", with the understanding that we're talking about something that takes 10 minutes, not 10 years.)
So in the future, we'll have programs that help you play the game - taking over if you get stuck on the game, or just bored; or so that you can play games that would otherwise be too advanced for you.
But isn't there some wasted effort, here? Why have one programmer working to make the game harder, and another programmer to working to make the game easier? Why not just make the game easier to start with? Since you play the game to get gold and experience points, making the game easier will let you get more gold per unit time: the game will become more fun.
So this is the ultimate end of the prophecy of technological progress - just staring at a screen that says "YOU WIN", forever.
And maybe we'll build a robot that does that, too.
Then what?
 A serious marathoner friend recently told me that she had leased one of these to train for the Boston Marathon (on Monday). She does 2/3 of her running on the road, and 1/3 on the G.
60 miles/week, plus pool running and swimming a mile every other day. Yes, she is slim and ripped, but prone to shin splints over 40-50 miles/week on the road. She tends to come in right behind "the elites," as runners term them.
She complains that her job interferes with her training. Luckily, her husband and 3 kids are jocks and thus good supporters.
The G was designed as a rehab machine. It's about effort without injury. Review of the anti-gravity treadmill here.
Pool running is cheaper. These things cost $75,000.
Thursday, April 16. 2009
The Grateful Dead always performed on Persian carpets. Rug Rag takes a look at what The Dead, as they are now known, walk around on.
And speaking of rugs, here's a 5X6 Bakhtiari "flower bed" design I like. I now must brace myself for the rug expert readers to inform me of everything that is wrong with it...Our rug expert readers must understand that our rugs get rough treatment. They are subject to ice-melting salt, dogs, driveway gravel, work boots, mud, and the occasional spilled glass of red wine. Truly special antique rugs would a shame to use and abuse as we do. New-made rugs? Wouldn't touch 'em. Vulgar, garish-looking junk, most of it, with all the character of a Woolworth's velvet kitten picture.
In an interview by Paul Bradshaw with Rick Warren, Rick said:
"People ask me, What is the purpose of life? And I respond: In a nutshell, life is preparation for eternity. We were not made to last forever, and God wants us to be with him in heaven. One day my heart is going to stop, and that will be the end of my body - but not the end of me. I may live 60 to 100 years on earth, but I am going to spend trillions of years in eternity.
This is the warm-up act - the dress rehearsal. God wants us to practice on earth what we will do forever in eternity. We were made by God and for God, and until you figure that out, life isn't going to make sense. Life is a series of problems: either you are in one now, you're just coming out of one, or you're getting ready to go into another one.
The reason for this is that God is more interested in your character than your comfort; God is more interested in making your life holy than He is in making your life happy. We can be reasonably happy here on earth, but that's not the goal of life. The goal is to grow in Christ-likeness.
This past year of my life has been the greatest year of my life, but also the toughest with my wife, Kay, getting cancer. I used to think that life was hills and valleys - you go through a dark time, then you go to the mountain, back and forth. I don't believe that anymore.
Rather than life being hills and valleys, I believe that it's kind of like two rails on a railroad track, and at all times you have something good and something bad in your life. No matter how good things are in your life, there is always something bad that needs to be worked on. And no matter how bad things are in your life, there is always something good you can thank God for.
You can focus on your purposes, or you can focus on your problems. If you focus on your problems, you're going into self-centeredness: my problems, my issues, my pain. But one of the easiest ways to get rid of pain is to get your focus off yourself and onto God and others. We discovered quickly that in spite of the prayers of hundreds of thousands of people, God was not going to heal Kay or to make it easy for her. It has been very difficult for her, and yet God has strengthened her character, given her a ministry of helping other people, given her a testimony, drawn her closer to Him and to people.
You have to learn to deal with both the good and the bad of life. Actually, sometimes learning to deal with the good is harder. For instance, this past year, all of a sudden, when the book sold 15 million copies, it made me instantly very wealthy. It also brought a lot of notoriety that I never had to deal with before. I don't think God gives you money or notoriety for your own ego or for you to live a life of ease.
So I began to ask God what He wanted me to do with this money, this notoriety, this influence. He gave me two different passages that helped me decide what to do, ll Corintians 9 and Psalm 72. First, in spite of all the money coming in, we would not change our life style one bit. We made no major purchases. Second, about midway through last year, I stopped taking a salary from the church. Third, we set up foundations to fund an initiative we call The Peace Plan to plant churches, equip leaders, assist the poor, care for the sick, and educate the next generation. Fourth, I added up all that the church had paid me in the 24 years since I had started the church, and paid it all back. It was liberating to me to serve God for free.
We need to ask ourselves: Am I going to live for possessions? Popularity? Am I going to be driven by pressures? Guilt? Bitterness? Materialism? Or am I going to be driven by God's purposes?
When I get up in the morning, I sit on the side of my bed and say God, if I don't get anything else done today, I want to know You more and love You better. God didn't put me on earth to fulfill a to-do list. He's more interested in what I am than what I do."
-  Everybody ought to know this stuff too, which we linked last night: Class: A Guide Through the American Status System. Essential reading for social climbers and social descenders. Not necessary for others.
- Corporate and financial jargon and slang, via Latham & Watkins. Everybody should know these terms. (h/t, Tiger)
- Men and women: The things you do wrong. Villainous. Guys: Go out and kill some meat for her, and you will be rewarded - more likely to get lucky. (But did you know that marriage is now termed "opposite-sex couples"? It makes it sound perverted somehow.)
- Another take on Strunk & White, which is at least worth considering. 50 years of stupid grammar advice
Wednesday, April 15. 2009
 The note I wrote in my son’s 9th birthday card today says, “Character is everything,” and I listed the many traits of sound character he has of which I am proud. I’m even proud of his hijinks at school for which he gets in trouble. He immediately takes responsibility, his punishment, and does not lie, evade or implicate others.
After he left for school this morning, I turned to my coffee and local newspaper. The frontpage carried a New York Times article about how Disney is trying to discover what TV shows will appeal to boys, “a group that Disney used to own way back in the days of ‘Davy Crockett’ but that has wandered in the age of more girl-friendly Disney fare such as ‘Hannah Montana.’ “ Disney’s consultant focuses on Black Sabbath T-shirts and such as their key.
Instead, Disney should refocus on Davy Crockett. Disney, and other children’s programmers, used to present tales of heroism and character. Beaver Cleaver and his big brother were to be emulated and not the worse than Eddie Haskells that are the lead characters today on Disney and Nickolodean. Parents were guardians and guides, not dolts.
I looked back at when the change started in the late ‘60’s, the chronological root of many of today’s cultural ills. By the 1980’s, when I had risen high in corporate life, I saw the ramifications as the up-through-the-ranks World War II generation who were my mentors began to retire or be pushed aside by a new breed with big degrees but relatively little experience and even less earned character. They measured themselves and others by smooth talk, quick tricks and personal profit, over the hard truths, diligent effort and contribution to all’s success that their predecessors emphasized and demanded. The new scorecard was perverted.
The current economic fallout is a direct result of this replacement of character with selfish and reckless aggrandizement.
Excellence requires that we provide consistent value, not cut-throat abandon of values.
Investment produces lasting benefits to many, while speculation chases the fastest – and usually elusive -- buck.
Simple, straightforward information delivers meaning, while mumbo-jumbo complexity hides empty promises.
Reasonable, factual expectations leads toward tangible accomplishments, while “irrational exuberance” and greed lead toward being a willing target for schemers.
Looking to honestly satisfy others’ needs creates bonds of lasting trust, while exploiting others’ fears and ignorance creates temporary dupes.
Competing to be best and to earn trust creates standards of worthy behavior, while unearned honorifics and facile words and actions breaks down society’s bonds and future.
Making a positive difference in society and in others’ lives leaves a legacy, while hollow charisma leaves a vacuum.
You can’t have too much character. Character is life’s scorecard.
 Like you care, right? The purpose is really to highlight a novel, Brothers, by Da Chen.
I seem to read novels as 1/3 of what I read, but I will read whatever is put in front of me, and whatever serendipity provides me with. Nothing on TV engages me. I always bear in mind that somebody worked darn hard to write that book.
Da Chen is an American author, raised in China during the Cultural Revolution. Besides being a compelling story, the book offers lots of insight into how China really operates - especially inside the political aristocracy.
One thing you learn right away is that in most Socialist and Communist nations, power and money and chicks and perks and mansions with military guards and vacation homes and the best food and drink and fancy cars accrue to the pols and their kin instead of to the productive. They create their own ingrown, inbred aristocracy with the power of the money, the government, the bureaucracy and the military to support and maintain it. They re-create Feudalism with the Mandarins and the "masses." We, dear readers, are supposed to be "the grateful masses."
(At the time that he writes about, 80% of China's adults were government employees. Not any more, happily. Canada is now up to 20%, last I heard, and headed up. Government employees are easy to control - and very easy to tax.)
Monday, April 13. 2009
Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys. P.J. O'Rourke
 The Martini Parties are a spontaneous grassroot national movement of the comfortable, but far from rich, edge of the American middle class.
We believe that all working Americans should pay income taxes, and not just the upper 50%. We're the folks who pay the bulk of the American taxes - lawyers, doctors, dentists, engineers, accountants and financial planners, small businessmen, managers, architects, pilots, ship captains, small-town stockbrokers, insurance agents, corporate VPs, B-school profs, consultants, medium-sized farmers, entrepreneurs, contractors, etc., etc. (The very highly-paid need not join and, of course, most household incomes of over $250 include two working adults.)
Our plan, designed over Easter brunch, is to figure out how to get our taxable incomes under Obama's $250,000 tax increase. It's a contest and a game. Since we already pay most of America's bills, we figure we are already doing our part and paying our fair share of the dues.
So our Yankee-based Movement is this: Get a group of friends together and hire some planners and accountants, and figure out a way to get yourself below the bar - even if it means donating more than 10% of your income to your charities (although they are trying to eliminate those deductions too), increasing your mortgage (although they are trying to reduce that loophole too), putting money in trusts, reducing one's charges for loyal clients - or plain old working less.
Let's all of us prosperous non-wealthy do the Limbo Rock and get under the bar - even if it means that we work less and play more like the lazy Europeans - more boating, golf, tennis, fishin', hangin' out in cafes drinkin', and shootin' and huntin' - and more vacation time with less expensive vacations.
I ain't slaving for 36-43 cents on the dollar (which is where I would end up after Fed taxes, CT income taxes in which the marginal rate covers all income if you make over 250, and property taxes. I am patriotic, but not stupid. I do not want to be a victim of plunder. I also tithe to church and charities, but that doesn't count: it's voluntary.
And if I end up poor, no doubt the government will take good care of me.
Sunday, April 12. 2009
At first, I thought this was a Monty Python-esque spoof. It's not. I hope the weapons were unloaded.
And just a thought - how about getting the SEALs to sneak some of this stuff into the water supplies of Wherizzitistan? Might make those Taliban happy and spiritual.
The comments he put on these old found pictures are hilarious. h/t, Insty
Wednesday, April 8. 2009
1. Chicago Cubs outfielder Andre Dawson on being a role model: "I wan' all dem kids to do what I do, to look up to me. I wan' all the kids to copulate me."
2. New Orleans Saint RB George Rogers when asked about the upcoming season: "I want to rush for 1,000 or 1,500 yards, whichever comes first."
3. And, upon hearing Joe Jacobi of the 'Skins say: "I'd run over my own mother to win the Super Bowl," Matt Millen of the Raiders said: "To win, I'd run over Joe's Mom, too."
4. Torrin Polk, University of Houston receiver, on his coach, John Jenkins: "He treats us like men. He lets us wear earrings."
5. Football commentator and former player Joe Theismann, 1996: "Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."
6. Senior basketball player at the University of Pittsburgh : "I'm going to graduate on time, no matter how long it takes."
7. Bill Peterson, a Florida State football coach: "You guys line up alphabetically by height." And, "You guys pair up in groups of three, and then line up in a circle."
8. Boxing promoter Dan Duva on Mike Tyson going to prison: "Why would anyone expect him to come out smarter? He went to prison for three years, not Princeton."
9. Stu Grimson, Chicago Blackhawks left wing, explaining why he keeps a color photo of himself above his locker: "That's so when I forget how to spell my name, I can still find my clothes."
10. Lou Duva, veteran boxing trainer, on the Spartan training regime of heavyweight Andrew Golota: "He's a guy who gets up at six o'clock in the morning, regardless of what time it is."
11. Chuck Nevitt, North Carolina State basketball player, explaining to Coach Jim Valvano why he appeared nervous at practice: "My sister's expecting a baby, and I don't know if I'm going to be an uncle or an aunt."
12. Frank Layden, Utah Jazz president, on a former player: "I told him, 'Son, what is it with you? Is it ignorance or apathy?' He said, 'Coach, I don't know and I don't care.'"
13. Shelby Metcalf, basketball coach at Texas A&M, recounting what he told a player who received four F's and one D: "Son, looks to me like you're spending too much time on one subject."
14. Amarillo High School and Oiler coach Bum Phillips when asked by Bob Costas why he takes his wife on all the road trips, Phillips responded: "Because she is too damn ugly to kiss good-bye."
15. Bobby Bowden, Florida States football coach, when ask why he didn't invest in condos, Bobby said, I am too old to use them now.
This link can save everybody a lot of trouble in life. It's actually titled Fifty Things every 18 year-old Should Know. (h/t, SDA)
I sent it to everybody in my family.
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