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Before the Internet


“Before the Internet, you would just sit in an armchair with a book open on your lap, staring into space or staring at a decorative broom on the wall—kind of shifting back and forth between those two modes of being.

“Before the Internet, you might take it upon yourself to do a drawing. You’d quietly start sketching something in a notebook, not sure what it was, but you’d let inspiration guide you and then—woop!—turns out you’d drawn a squiggly alligator with a cockeyed approach.

“Before the Internet, you’d have yawning summer afternoons when you’d flop down on one couch, then flop down on another, then decide to craft a fake F.B.I. card. You’d get some paper from your dad’s office, copy the F.B.I. logo and your signature, laminate it with Scotch tape, put it in your wallet, take it out of your wallet, look at it, then put it back in your wallet with a secretive smile.

“It was a heady time!

“You’d be in some kind of arts center, wearing roomy overalls, looking at a tray of precious gems, and you’d say, “That’s cat’s-eye,” and your friend would say, “Nope. That’s opal.” And you’d say, “That’s definitely cat’s-eye.” And there would be no way to look it up, no way to prove who was right, except if someone had a little booklet. “Anyone got a little booklet?” you’d ask, looking around. “Is there a booklet on this shit?”

“Then you’d walk outside and squint at the sky, just you in your body, not tethered to any network, adrift by yourself in a world of strangers in the sunlight.”
RTWT at: Before the Internet | The New Yorker

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“The being that would one day be called the Invisible Plane began life as an alien “morphing crystal” circling a distant planet with its “family”, other morphing crystals who are collectively called the Ring. In their natural state, the Plane and its fellow members of the Ring resemble eggs made of semi transparent plastic. In time, it was separated from its family and was found by the Lansinarians, a blind subterranean race that lived underneath Antarctica. The Lansinarians could not react quickly enough to changes in their environment. Thus, they developed the morphing crystal they had found into a life support device that catered to their needs. These beings later bestow the device on Wonder Woman in gratitude for saving them. The plane, which possesses a sophisticated artificial intelligence, responds to Wonder Woman’s thoughts. It is able to render itself invisible as well as alter its shape, transforming into any form of vehicle its bearer desires, be it a jet, submarine, motorcycle, or horse-drawn chariot.

Wonder Woman, however, was initially unaware that her Invisible Plane was not only alive but was quite aware that it was being treated by its mistress as a lifeless tool.” RTWT at: Invisible plane – Wikipedia

Now on Display: Wonder Woman’s Invisible Jet at the National Air and Space Museum

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“He Wasn’t In His Right Mind” 

“All of the victims were shot in their heads
and all but McGowan were shot in their beds,”
Doyle said.

“The beds were undisturbed.
The house itself was undisturbed,”
Doyle said.

“There were no signs
of a break-in,”
Doyle said.
No Motive Found in California Murders

Above, the unintentional “found poetry” of a local murder in Garner Valley, California. Exceptional enough to be brought to the ever shortening attention span of the nation because the toll was unusually high: David, Father, age 42 — believed dead by his own hand; Chase, son, age 14; Paige, daughter, age 10; Raine, daughter, age 8; Karen, wife and mother, age 42; Karen’s mother, no name or age given in the report.

We learn that a “911 dispatcher didn’t hear any voices on the line, but was able to identify the sounds of the telephone hitting the wall and a gunshot.” We learn that the father’s body was found next to a handgun and a phone. We learn that “this community is in no danger. We are not at this time looking for a suspect.” We learn that the town is really quiet and that, “A lot could happen right next door and you wouldn’t even know it.”

We don’t learn if the standard spontaneous shrine of flowers, balloons, stuffed animals and children’s art and crayoned notes has been erected at the edge of the police tape in front of the home, but we know it will be, and it will remain until the rains wash away.

We won’t learn, unless we live in that small town, the “why” of it all.

We probably could know, in time, the why of it all if we became interested in this common killing, exceptional only for its body count. We could learn if we followed the ever-shrinking national news reports down to the local level. We could, we think, learn why if we followed the reports on through the inquest and into the six graves that wait after all the bodies are autopsied by the men who spend their lives
“Working on mysteries
Without any clues..”

We could know why, but we won’t bother to find out. No need really. We already think two things that keep us from needing to know. First, we think that we do know what happened in the house. Second, we know — because it happened in that house — it will never happen in our house.

We know it will never happen in our house because, as humans, we have an almost limitless ability to forget any hint of ‘could’ when it comes to horror. In those few moments when our forgetfulness fails us, we remain secure in our belief that we would never do such things to those we love. We know to an absolute certainty that anyone who could must not have been “in his right mind.”

That’s a common but still strange phrase — “not in his right mind.” Everyone uses it as shorthand for things people do that are, large or small, somehow far outside what we normally expect them to do. Nobody that I know of takes it to the other side of that common phrase and looks at what a person does when he’s “in his wrong mind.”

Our right mind doesn’t like to think it’s got a wrong mind. It doesn’t like to think it because it does indeed have one, and it is hardwired. Each of our right minds has a wrong mind and we are, with good reason, very, very frightened of it. So frightened that we don’t think of it because to even think of our wrong mind gives it power, and it has far too much of that already. It has so much power that, once the wrong mind starts to control us, it takes, as they say, “a power greater than ourselves to restore us to sanity.”

I grow increasingly uncertain about many things in this life, but of that one thing I once became, and today remain, certain of without a scintilla of smidgen of a doubt. Like most men, I tend to forget about that greater power when mucking about in the detritus of daily life. That really doesn’t matter. Sooner or later I am always given a miraculous moment on the small scale of ordinary life that lets me know in no uncertain terms that, for human beings, only “a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity.”

I know that this invisible power exists because I have seen it.
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Something Wonderful: The Painter 

“I keep my friends eternally.
We leave our tracks in the sound.
Some of them are with me now.
Some of them can’t be found.”

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Burma-Shave Signs in the Labyrinth

— MOTUS A.D.: Canadian Gun Porn Friday

If The Left Wins Their Soft Coup, Everyone Loses – But Mostly Them – Kurt Schlichter Here’s how this goes: If you end the rule of law, you begin the rule of power, and the rule of power means the folks with the most guns rule. Do they think the predominantly red state soldiers of our military are going to murder other Americans and risk their own lives to secure the unearned power of a bunch of Chardonnay-swilling liberals and their fakecon lackeys?

This is a cultural cold war that is in the process of turning hot. Trump supporter run down, stabbed after political rally – KTTV

Justice Gorsuch’s first opinions reveal a confident textualist – The Washington Post

The Inevitable War | Chateau Heartiste I unclipped my Benchmade 4.5″ Stryker knife when I felt him lean over me to look into the car and plunged the glinting tip of my shiv directly into his abdomen somewhere near his spleen.

Mueller’s Empire: Legions of Lawyers, Bottomless Budget, Limitless Jurisdiction – American Greatness

The New Senate Republican Bill Will Transform American Health Care

Liberty’s Torch: The Fear Weapon “Government shutdown” remains a scare-staple of the Establishment, particularly among Democrats. They want us to think that calamity of some sort will ensue should we dare to deny them what they demand. It just isn’t so. In reality, the fear runs in the opposite direction: The Establishment and its minions fear that we’ll discover that we don’t need them and in fact would do better without them.

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George Orwell: The Freedom of the Press

“Obviously it is not desirable that a government department should have any power of censorship (except security censorship, which no one objects to in war time) over books which are not officially sponsored. But the chief danger to freedom of thought and speech at this moment is not the direct interference of the MOI or any official body. If publishers and editors exert themselves to keep certain topics out of print, it is not because they are frightened of prosecution but because they are frightened of public opinion. In this country intellectual cowardice is the worst enemy a writer or journalist has to face, and that fact does not seem to me to have had the discussion it deserves.” RTWT at: George Orwell: The Freedom of the Press

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Breadcrumbs Blowing Through the Labyrinth


This cheap relic should have been torn down long ago of course. But with an endless flood of Third Worlders desperate to live in the lap of social democratic milk-and-honey, the local council thought it could slap on some cladding and hey presto, everybody gets a bourgeois, British lifestyle! The cladding was apparently an aluminum composite product with a polyethyene core. Polyethylene burns hot and beautifully, enough to melt the rebar inside of concrete. RTWT at: The Anti-Gnostic: Intersectionality

Highly educated people are more likely to get brain tumors.

The American people aren’t Donald Trump’s best buddy, but they want change and they want him to get it done. — House of Eratosthenes

The Roman lower classes, with whom Caesar was popular, became enraged that a small group of aristocrats had sacrificed Caesar. — neoneocon

Utopia, Inc.: If you would like to listen to the rest of this recorded message in a voice of a different gender, press eight. You will have 76 genders to choose from, including none. If you choose none, the voice you hear will be randomly chosen by a randomly-chosen computer built at our fully unionized, government owned COEXIST factory in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Because the cuticle is porous and never dry, woodlice are exceedingly difficult to mark with paint, which tends to flake off.” – Theodore Dalrymple

In a pair of affluent coastal California counties, the canary in the mineshaft has gotten splayed, spatchcocked and plated over a bed of unintended consequences, garnished with sprigs of locally sourced economic distortion and non-GMO, “What the heck were they thinking?” As the East Bay Times reported in January, at least 60 restaurants around the Bay Area had closed since September alone. RTWT at: What is $15 minimum wage doing to Bay Area restaurants? | The Fresno Bee

An industry long haunted by negative connotations and a lack of sound research finds new opportunities in sustainability. RTWT at: Organic Weed? Marijuana Growers Go Green

If you want to defeat mortal enemies, you have to learn to hate them. In this area, they are emotionally ahead of us. And this means they have ALWAYS hated us and have ALWAYS regarded us as mortal enemies. RTWT at: A Reminder From Sabo | Western Rifle Shooters Association

“Blue states and red states deal differently with some matters of health, education, welfare, and police. It does no good to insist that all do all things uniformly. Why shouldn’t each spend its money and legislate as it wishes? Regarding sanctuary cities, the federal government can, and should, withdraw whatever money such jurisdictions receive from the federal government for the functions in question. Indeed, as jurisdictions on the Left and Right effectively nullify some of the administrative state’s functions, fewer and fewer congressmen and senators will be inclined to maintain those functions. America’s founders had learned from the history of empires that keeping diverse peoples under the same roof requires interfering as little as possible with their views of themselves and of the good. Time to relearn federalism.”RTWT at: The Cold Civil War

Perhaps we should have these Members of Congress use their own personal funds when they hold hearings not related to the priorities of the American people. – Allen West

August 1940. “Extremely tall and excellent corn is also grown on the King and Anderson cotton plantation near Clarksdale. Mississippi Delta, Mississippi.”

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The eyes have it:

Cute animals and drawings have ridiculously large eyes, the better to determine motives and (lack of) guile; alternately, demons and monsters are often marked as “demonic” because they lack a sclera. It is uncomfortable to stare into a stranger’s eyes for too long because you know that they can guess at your motives; conversely, we show affection, trust, and care by holding the gaze of a loved one. Poker tells are traditionally in the eyes, and the same goes for martial arts; conversely, good boxers are said to have “shark eyes” when you can’t determine where exactly they’ll strike. RTWT at: – sam[ ]zdat

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Welcome to the New 15 Year American Digest

We’re still having some growing pains, notably with comments, but we should have those worked out in a day or so.

I’m off-base today as a Heat Wave refugee over on the Lost Coast of Northern California so correcting items here is a bit difficult since connectivity is a sometimes thing. Until then please scroll down for items new and old.

As for the comments

You can, if you wish, always send a note to vanderleun@gmail.com .

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Noted In Passing

Hillary R. Clinton, Will You Please Go Now? “Wonder Woman doesn’t need Hillary Clinton’s endorsement—it will make $250 million by the end of this week.

This summer’s most maddening pests are on the climate-crusading, Trump-hating, culture-censoring left If the Democrats push this much further, instead of getting Trump’s flamboyantly coiffed scalp, they will get Lynch, Comey, the Clintons and Obama before grand juries.

 Either Robert Mueller should resign, or we need two special counsels.

Baltimore has the nickname of “Bodymore, Murderville”: Currently the city is on pace for over 360 murders and we are just getting into peak killing season.

Modern science, delivered through the tabloids, will have the latest word. It delivers what was once detected only in the stars, or by casting straws.

Have you ever pondered a crust of bread? Or stopped to consider the ‘thickness’ of a bowl of soup? Have you thought about food in terms of ounces?

Where Personal Breakthroughs Really Come From Just recording the numbers—without striving to change anything about what you’re tracking—almost always creates a sustainable, healthy transition to a better way of doing things.

It is worth recalling that in days not really so long ago, there was collusion between the left and the Moscow. In fact, the collusion was so close that the left was willing to accept the Molotov-Von Ribbentrop Pact without skipping a beat.

Right now, the best way for a moderately intelligent person to get rich is to win a seat in Congress. Similarly the US government went to war with the mob, but is now embracing the same ethos as those long vanquished gangsters.

My life according to Marcus Aurelius “To the gods I am indebted for having good grandfathers, good parents, a good sister, good teachers, good associates, good kinsmen and friends, nearly everything good.

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The New American Digest Has Landed

Please check around your seat for any personal belief systems you may have brought on board with you, and please use caution when opening your overhead brainbin, as heavy articles may have shifted around during the flight.

If you require debraining assistance, please remain at your computer until all other users have deblogged. None of our crew members will then be pleased to assist you.

On behalf of the New American Digest, I’d like to thank you for joining us on this trip. We know you have a choice when you internet and we thank you for choosing our URL. We are looking forward to seeing you log on again in the near future. Have a nice /evening/night/day /stay!

[HT: Monty James]
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Humanity on its raft. The raft on the endless ocean. From his present dissatisfaction man reasons that there was some catastrophic wreck in the past, before which he was happy; some golden age, some Garden of Eden. He also reasons that somewhere ahead lies a promised land, a land without conflict. Meanwhile, he is miserably en passage; this myth lies deeper than religious faith. — JohnFowles, The Aristos

How fares the good ship America during this, the 241st year of our voyage? Many would say that with its new captain setting a new course it will weather the current tempests and sail on into fairer days and calmer waters . Many others  would say that we tack between Scylla and Charybdis with a more than fair chance of being driven onto a lee shore by the gusting headwinds. All would agree our present position was unforeseeable even two years ago and that our present passage is fraught with danger.

Dangerous passages are nothing new to the good ship America. She’s weathered many but never one quite so close run as that of 1860 to 1865 when a fire in American minds burned so hot they required the blood of 620,000 men to quench them. We did not sail into that maelstrom in a year or so. We were bound there, some would say, from the founding.

“Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.”

I think, however, that the Civil War first loomed on the horizon during the rise of Transcendentalism in New England. That period began in the early 19th century and flowered during the literary period of 1850 to 1855 that is known as the American Renaissance. Transcendentalism was the first secular Great Awakening and perhaps its most enduring. Emerson and Thoreau are the chief avatars of the movement as it is known today and much of contemporary American progressivism bears the marks of those two men.

I’m not interested in them at present. Once entrancing both Emerson and Thoreau have come to seem softer to me of late. Both have taken on the consistency of store-bought bread. Instead I’d like to look at the more rugged work of an outlier of transcendentalism, a prophet who came late to the dance, Herman Melville.

Melville was, unlike many other transcendentalists, the very opposite of an intellectual dilettante. He was an Abraham in a land of Lutherans. Melville was a man with a harsh experience with ships and how they fare upon stormy seas. Melville was a man with rough hands. Melville was a man that, having voyaged further out, did – for a few years at least – see deeper in. And in seeing deeper in and leaving behind a record of that vision in his masterwork, Melville still has something to say to us today about the state of America, the experimental nation.

Long sea voyages have strange effects on writers as the mystical and melancholy work of Conrad shows most clearly. The same effects, at first submerged, were to surface in the work of Melville in one gigantic book and then submerge again raising only ripples on the surface of his subsequent writing. Prophecy is a harsh task master and more often that not consumes the vessels through which it speaks. So it was, in the end, with Melville.

As a young man Melville stood many long watches on the long nights in the dark oceans in the early 19th century. Decades later, those voyages and night watches would haunt and inspire Melville as he struggled to finish the career-ending vision that had gripped him in transcendentalist New England in 1850. At first, his book was to be just another adventurous sea story like Typee or its sequel Omoo. In this case, however, the destination was not to be the exotic south sea islands, but a whale as big as an island. Indeed, Melville in contemporary correspondence doesn’t refer to his book as Moby Dick but The Whale. It was only in the last stages that the book’s title became Moby Dick, a variant of a monstrous real whale of the time Mocha Dick, for reasons that Melville never clarified. Perhaps he just liked the sound of it.

Melville’s first books had been successful and, I imagine, that at some point Melville imagined that The Whale would be as well. It was not to be. In his lifetime the book was to earn him only a bit over $500. Moby Dick was not a formula novel. It was not, as they say in publishing, “the same thing only different” that his readers were expecting. It was just plain different, and therefore unpopular. Although he no doubt intended at the beginning for Moby Dick to be a rousing whale hunt on the high seas ending in tragedy, it seems that at a certain point something else, something other, took over the writing of the book and drove Melville before it. In the process, the book broke him financially, spiritually, and physically. As it was finally written, Moby Dick was to be and become many things, but “commercial” was not among them.

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“I remember I first saw a photo of their painted car in the ‘Sunday Times Magazine’ and thought it was really cool,” recalls McCartney in his interview with Hathaway. “So I got in touch with them and asked the guys if we could have a meeting. We did, and I told them ‘I’ve got a little piano I’d like you to decorate in that same style.’ And at first they were a little bit reluctant to do anything, but I persuaded them. So they measured it all up, took the panel dimensions, and worked up some designs. Then they painted it and did a lovely job. It became my psychedelic piano, which I wrote a lot of songs on, including ‘Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band,’ ‘Fixing A Hole,’ and ‘Hey Jude.’ It’s in its rightful place in my music room in London.”

RTWT at: The Sources of Psychedelic Art? Drugs, But Also Picasso and the Fire-Bombing of Tokyo | Collectors Weekly

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Breadcrumbs In the Labyrinth

  1. The biggest impact the Right can make at this stage of conflict is to destroy, damage, or neutralize Lefty Institutions. But Lefty Institutions are massive cultural power centers. Universities, Media, Bureaucracies, Organizations/Foundations, Cities. The Right is not big enough or organized enough to really destroy Lefty Institutions.
  2. In 1972, before “special handling”, the entire black student body at Temple University Law School failed. They burned down the law library. Such behavior was a novelty at the time.
  3. In the end, we have to convert, or pogrom them, or they will pogrom us. Expelling Muslims is supposedly unthinkably wicked, but Muslims are always expelling each other, usually for obvious and excellent reasons, and no one blinks an eye.
  4. The Cold Civil War The government apparatus identifies with the ruling class’s interests, proclivities, and tastes, and almost unanimously with the Democratic Party. As it uses government power to press those interests, proclivities, and tastes upon the ruled, it acts as a partisan state.
  5. The blasphemy case against Bret Weinstein, and its four lessons for professors   If a mob comes for you, there is a good chance that the president of your university will side with the mob and validate its narrative (as the presidents at Yale and Evergreen have done, although the presidents at Middlebury and Claremont McKenna did not).
  6. The true cost of renewable energy : The cost of renewables is assessed without regard for the fact that renewables are intermittent and unpredictable. Sometimes the sun shines, some times it does not, sometimes the wind blows, sometimes it does not, sometimes it blows too hard and the windmills must shut down. This creates a burden on the grid, and the need for backup power, and this backup power and grid load is not costed or funded.
  7. My sitting room door is older than America. I heat one room with a cast-iron wood burner and dry my clothes on a line strung above it. I don’t travel. Don’t dine out. Carry no debt. Take no dole. Own no mobile phone, television or alarm clock.
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For My Father

Mountain of the Holy Cross

The Interface
–for my father, Albert John Van der Leun

1.
The empty rituals and dusty opulence
of the nightmare’s obvious ending dwindle,
and the sounds of departing automobiles
fade into the humm beyond the cul-de-sac.
Inside the house my mother sits quietly,
surrounded by the plates of finger food
that everybody brought and no one ate,
and wonders if she should begin to take
his clothes from the closet and call the Goodwill.
Some blocks away, the minister hangs
his vestments on a peg, and goes to lunch.

I drive the Skyway to the town named Paradise,
park his car at the canyon’s rim, and sit awhile
in the hot silence of the afternoon looking out
at the far Sierras where, in June, the winter lingers.
On the seat beside me a well-taped cardboard cube
contains what remains of my father. I climb out
and, taking the cube under my arm, begin to climb
down the canyon’s lava wall to the stream below.
The going is slow, but we get to the bottom by and by
and sitting on some moss, we rest awhile, the cube and I,
beside the snow-chilled stream.

The place we have come to is where the pines lean out
from the rounded boulders lodged above the stream;
where what the stream saves builds up in the backwater,
making in the mounds of matter an inventory of the year:
Rusted tins slumped under the fallen sighs of weeds,
diminishing echoes of the blackbird’s gliding wings,
laughs buoyed in the hollow belly of stunted trees,
gears, tires, the bones of birds, brilliant pebbles,
the rasping whoosh of leaf fall crushed to dust,
the thunk of bone on bark, the thud of earth on wood,
the silence of soft ash scattered on chill waters.

And in such silence, he fades forever.

2.
The stream, its waters revolving round
through river, ocean, clouds, and rain,
bears away the hands and eyes,
but still the memory remains,
answering, in pantomime,
the questions never asked:

Are these reflections but the world without,
carried on but never borne onward, westward,
towards sunlight glazed on sea’s thigh?
Or are such frail forms shaped upon the waters all
the things that are, and we above immersed in air
the forms that fade, only the mere mirrors of the stream?

Is this life all that is and, once life lost,
the end of all that was, with nothing
left to be, with no pine wind to taste,
nor sun to dapple mind with dream?
Is all that is but ash dissolving,
our lives mere rain in circles falling?

Or are we still the center of such circles,
our fall a rise above the shawl of night,
where all shall shine contained within
that single soul, that heart of stars;
that interface where souls and suns
and Earth’s far scattered waters meet?

Meet in that one hand whose palm
still remains held out forever,
held out and for forever open
even in the coldest light of day.

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Breadcrumbs in the Labyrinth

Unfortunate typos of our time: Gotham City fags fly half-staff: Adam West, dead at 88, had special connection to fans

H*ll most of the editors, publishers and writers in my field seem to be women. It reminds me of being in an all girls’ school in middle On Being Persona Non Grata

Boyfriend’s getting dressed ethos:1. Is it clean? 2. Does it kind of look clean? 3. Does it look clean from space? Advice Goddess Blog

Whether it’s international politics, war in the Middle East or the world of the Beltway nothing seems to work the way it did.  The old order is lying like a corpse on the floor and yet the pundits standing around can provide no clue as to who the murderer is.

Unstable

If America attacks North Korea, or Russia, or China, we will read of it the day after. The central government, and only the central government, decides. | Fred On Everything

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“Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible.

“He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people’s vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse. Like the credulous widow who wakes up one day to find the charming young man and all her savings gone, so the consenting subject of a piece of nonfiction writing learns—when the article or book appears—his hard lesson. …The catastrophe suffered by the subject is no simple matter of an unflattering likeness or a misrepresentation of his views; what pains him, what rankles and sometimes drives him to extremes of vengefulness, is the deception that has been practiced on him. On reading the article or book in question, he has to face the fact that the journalist—who seemed so friendly and sympathetic, so keen to understand him fully, so remarkably attuned to his vision of things—never had the slightest intention of collaborating with him on his story but always intended to write a story of his own. The disparity between what seems to be the intention of an interview as it is taking place and what it actually turns out to have been in aid of always comes as a shock to the subject.”

The Journalist and the Murderer: Janet Malcolm

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Dairy Queen Princess


Hard to believe the first Dairy Queen opened back in Joliet, Illinois in 1940

The soft-serve ice-cream giant began business in Joliet, Illinois, on June 22, 1940, with Sherb Noble as its founder.  Soft-serve ice cream was created by John Fremont McCullough and his son Alex in Iowa in 1938. Noble and McCullough were friends; Noble offered to sell the new style of ice cream in his Kankakee ice-cream shop.  The ice cream was a big hit, leading the team to open the first Dairy Queen.  It was one of the first food chains to offer franchises, and went from only 10 stores in 1941 to over 6,

RTWT at: The birth of the fast food restaurant

dairyqueen.jpg

When I get hot and sweaty from workin’ in the sun,
I head down to her corner for a tall, cold, frosty one.
When I’m with my DQ princess I’m never there alone.
For just another dollar, she’ll gladly dip my cone.

My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.
I crave her flavor. She don’t treat me mean.
She’s a smooth vanilla softy. She’s the center of the scene.
My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.

aacmn-dq.jpg

My baby makes me order my big banana frozen.
The boys line up to see her. She’s the one that’s chosen.
She’s just a small town mama but still an ice cream star.
She’s the only one around who’ll grab your Dilly Bar.

My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.
I crave her flavor. She don’t treat me mean.
She’s a steamed hot chocolate malted. She’s the center of the scene.
My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.

dairy_queen_1956_sweet16_01.jpg

She ‘s got a long blonde pony tail, wears tight white shorts,
With a polka dot bikini top. She plays all the midnight sports,
And she’ll whip you up a sundae, maybe top it with a cherry,
But tomorrow she’ll be serving it to Curly, Moe, or Larry.

My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.
I crave her flavor. She don’t treat me mean.
She’s deep-fried tofu toffee. She’s the center of the scene.
My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.

dqueeniowacity.jpg

Down at her DQ she’s some games that you can play,
Like “Ninja Warrior Pinball,” or “CyberRoad to Mandalay.”
She’s workin’ hard for tips all the big boys wanna slip her.
She’ll gladly change your dollars and let you pump the flippers.

My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.
I crave her flavor. She don’t treat me mean.
She’s a deep dip Dilly Bar. She’s the Blizzard Breeze supreme.
My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.

atthedairyqueenparkinglot.jpg

She’s the town’s roadside attraction.
She’s the center of the summer’s action.
It’s just a little job — pumping soda for the jerks.
It don’t pay all that much, but she’s never out of work.

My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.
I crave her flavor. She don’t treat me mean.
She’s a hot fudge filly. She’s the center of the scene.
My baby’s a Princess of the Dairy Queen.

DQPRINCESS.jpg

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The Lost Blackboards of Oklahoma

The first group of historic chalkboards was discovered last June in four classrooms on the second floor that were having their old blackboards replaced with whiteboards and smart boards. Underneath the blackboards were thin slate boards covered in math, music and handwriting lessons, hygiene tips, student names and brilliantly colored chalk drawings dated November 30th and December 4th, 1917.

It seems when the old slate boards were covered with new ones over a couple of weeks in late November, early December of 1917, several teachers decided to leave their work up, dating it and signing it for posterity. The new boards were mounted on top of the old ones in wood casings with enough of a snug fit to keep the 1917 chalk from wearing away.

The History Blog サ Blog Archive サ More 1917 blackboards found in Oklahoma school

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Landmarks in the Labyrinth

Stuck You can’t choose the future, only variants of the past. Any road away from perdition requires huge political risks that are difficult to overcome.
Camille Paglia: On Trump, Democrats, Transgenderism, and Islamist Terror   Political correctness represents the fossilized institutionalization of once-vital revolutionary ideas, which have become mere rote formulas. It is repressively Stalinist, dependent on a labyrinthine, parasitic bureaucracy to enforce its empty dictates.
Remarks by President Trump on Regulatory Relief one gentleman from Maryland was talking about an 18-mile road. And he brought with him some of the approvals that they’ve gotten and paid for. They spent $29 million for an environmental report, weighing 70 pounds and costing $24,000 per page.
They Want Us Dead – I said women are terrible drivers and with Sharia, you don’t have to worry about broads driving ever again. I said it’s awesome because you get to punish your wife if she doesn’t want to blow you. You make her sleep on the couch and if she still refuses, you get to beat the shit out of her.
Greatest antitheft device when the thieves are millenials: Man leads Jeffco deputies on low-speed chase in stolen flatbed truck after unable to get out of 1st gear The driver – later identified as 29-year-old Randy Dewayne Vert – refused to stop and continued driving south on Center Point Parkway, Christian said. Vert was apparently unfamiliar with the complexities of a modern manual transmission.

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Of Diners and Schleppers


“The one-time Corfu Diner on 10th Avenue and West 18th Street in lower Manhattan, a stereotypical Greek-owned, railway-car inspired diner, and a hangover from a past age when the Hudson River docks still flourished and provided work and ample venues for heavy-eating and hard-drinking to stevedores, truckers, warehouse workers, and others. I haven’t walked down lower 10th Avenue for many years and have no idea if the Corfu Diner still stands, whether vacant or open in a new incarnation. Any updates are welcome, thus. (Note the slogan on the orange-painted truck parked to the background at the left side of the photo: “Schleppers, Moving Storage, Never a No Show.” The 1980s saw the rise of independent non-unionized moving companies in New York. Many, like Schleppers — Yiddish for “draggers” or “carriers” — and Moishe’s were owned by recently arrived Israelis, legal and illegal, and staffed by their compatriots, mostly young, strong, and well pumped-up for long hours of lifting and carrying with liberal rations of cocaine. Other independent movers provided women with entree into this formerly all-male domain. The memorable name of one of the first such company: Mother-Truckers!)” Monumentally Non-Monumental: A Diner near the Westside Docks | Bubkes.Org

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The West has captivated the imaginations of America’s greatest writers, from James Fenimore Cooper to Cormac McCarthy. Walt Whitman’s “Pioneers! O Pioneers!” mixes adventure and a summons to tread out on new paths. Published at the end of the Civil War and the start of the great migration west, Whitman is rightly considered to be one of the earliest poets to distill America down to its essence. “Pioneers! O Pioneers!” still moves the spirit to chart a new course and serves as both a reminder of where we have come from and where we can go.

Source: 20 Classic Poems Every Man Should Read | The Art of Manliness

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

1

COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes? Pioneers! O pioneers!

2

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, 
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

3

O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost, Pioneers! O pioneers!

4

Have the elder races halted? 
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson, Pioneers! O pioneers!

5

All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O pioneers! 15

6

We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways, Pioneers! O pioneers!

7

We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines within; 
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving, Pioneers! O pioneers!

8

Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come, Pioneers! O pioneers!

9

From Nebraska, from Arkansas, 
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood intervein’d;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern, Pioneers! O pioneers!

10

O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult—I am rapt with love for all, Pioneers! O pioneers! 

11

Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, (bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang’d and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon’d mistress, Pioneers! O pioneers!

12

See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter, 35
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging, Pioneers! O pioneers!

13

On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fill’d,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping, Pioneers! O pioneers!

14

O to die advancing on! 40
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d, Pioneers! O pioneers!

15

All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us, Pioneers! O pioneers! 45

16

Life’s involv’d and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves, Pioneers! O pioneers!

17

All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, 50
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying, Pioneers! O pioneers!

18

I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing, Pioneers! O pioneers!

19

55
Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams, Pioneers! O pioneers!

20

These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind, 60
We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing, Pioneers! O pioneers!

21

O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united, Pioneers! O pioneers!

22

Minstrels latent on the prairies! 65
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep—you have done your work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us, Pioneers! O pioneers!

23

Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious;
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment, Pioneers! O pioneers! 70

24

Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock’d and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground, Pioneers! O pioneers!

25

Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on our way? 75
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious, Pioneers! O pioneers!

26

Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call—hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind;
Swift! to the head of the army!—swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers.

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Fire and Dice

Downstairs in the casino, little remained of the MGM Grand Hotel’s former glory.

In the early morning hours of 21 November 1980, a fire had broken out in the Las Vegas landmark, ripping through the lounge in an explosive wave that instantly killed everyone in the area. Bodies sat frozen in front of what had once been slot machines, now no more than blackened pillars jutting upward from a flow of melted slag along the floor. The room’s plastic and chrome-plated decor, it turned out, had been as much a facade as its promises of riches.

Fortunately, the Clark County Fire Department had responded immediately, and the blaze never spread beyond the first floor. From where David Demers and his fire investigation team stood on the 23rd floor, no one would have even felt the temperature rise. Why, then, were they surrounded by corpses?Fire and Dice • Damn Interesting

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