4 Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding.
5 Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? or who hath stretched the line upon it?
6 Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the corner stone thereof;
7 When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?
"Mr. Trump's goal is not a rearrangement of wealth in America, a transfer of rich to poor.
Instead, he wants to grow the pie much larger, but also keep more at home. Under his policies, corporations will make far more than they would under Clinton. Yet, most likely companies such as Google and Goldman Sachs, multinationals that are American in name only, will loudly oppose President Trump. Foreign multinationals, such as InBev, the owner of Budweiser, will play ball." - - Unorthodoxy
Reverend Donald Sensing returns to the arena today with Sense of Events: Jesus does not endorse your candidate
The naive assumption of many religionists on both side of the American political aisle seems to be that their only one candidate, but not the other, can sustain Christian morality in the national polity.
It beggars words to describe how foolish - indeed, how un-Christian - this belief is. I find it impossible to affirm even in the smallest way that either Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump care a fig about the Christian religion at all, no matter what they claim, and at least Trump has the forthrightness not to claim any particular religion at all. Trump's religion is Trump. There is almost nothing I have seen about his platform that bears the imprimatur of orthodox Christianity or its inheritors. I am dismayed that so many prominent Christian figures have endorsed his candidacy. It is more than merely distressing to observe what even conservative commentators are calling, "The Moral Collapse of the Republican Party."
That said, exactly what is the actual evidence, not rhetoric, butevidence, that Hillary Clinton cares a fig about Christian religion herself? Sure, she claims Methodist affiliation, but exactly what does that mean when examining her truly dismal, spectacularly failing record as a public official?Claiming a religious affiliation does not confer competence, and even MSNBC's in-the-tank hosts were forced to admit one day that they could think of nothing of note thatshe had ever accomplished. This is a woman whom FBI Director James Comey, under oath before a Congressional committee, confirmed repeatedly had lied over and over and over about handling highly classified material but just wasn't "sophisticated enough" to know the severity of her actions. So yeah, sure, that plus Methodism qualifies her for the presidency, of course. Hillary Clinton's religion is Clintonism...... [more]
RTWT @ Sense of Events
Time for the West to turn its outrage into RAGE!
Dark. A very new addition to the vocabulary,
engendered by the Washington Pravda, under the new dominion of its Insect Overlord, Bezos, the New York Slimes, and their robots in the TV media, as a descriptor of Donald Trump’s acceptance speech at the recent Republican National Convention. After Trump laid out the problems facing America (crime, illegal immigration, bad trade policies, lawlessness and a destructive foreign policy) and then vowing to lead the nation to rejuvenation and greater glory, the speech was labelled “dark”. Note how the word appeared in all Party organs at the same time. “Light” speeches, on the other hand, talk endlessly of unicorns, pixie dust and building bridges, and are deemed “insightful, healing and inclusive” (aka Democrat piffle). - - Newspeak for Everyone
Well I been to London and I been to gay Paree
I followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there
I was born here and I'll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there
Yes, it's all been said before. Yes, it will all be said again. The plight of the "Left Behind" African-Americans will only be exacerbated as the remnant becomes more intractable in the future. No, nothing substantive will be done about it. The race hustlers from the president down to the parasites like Sharpton, Jackson, the Congressional "Black" Caucus, and the #BlackLiesMatter crowd prefers to keep their remnant poor, pregnant, addicted, and criminal. It's good for their "business." It's easier to feed off them.
"It's all been done before
It's all been written in the book
But when there's too much of nothing
Nobody should look."
Still, O'Reilly clears the mind and refreshes the palate with a plate sized helping of the truth.
[ HT: -- Iowadog]
My kind of town: Where the still have a good old-fashioned 4th!
8:05 a.m. A concerned Bigfork resident reported that the neighbor has created some sort of “firework bomb” with several propane tanks. Apparently, he plans to set it off tonight.
8:22 a.m. Someone saw two elderly women drag a bear off of Highway 2 East.
9:42 a.m. A local man reported that his missing iPad notified him that it had made its way to Florida.
9:52 a.m. A Kalispell resident complained that the neighbor man has refused to clean up his firework mess.
1:57 p.m. Spastic boys in a Jeep Wrangler were seen chucking fireworks out the window as they drove down River Road.
2:43 p.m. The owner of a local ranch reported that four foreign men checked in to a room with only two queen beds. He thought this was weird.
2:46 p.m. A Kalispell man reported that the maintenance manager threatened to end his life over excessive water usage.
2:52 p.m. Someone reported that a man wearing fuzzy pajama bottoms was standing between ShopKo and Super 1, looking very “lost.”
7:02 p.m. A report was made about a local “bugler” who was shooting fireworks at “tubers” floating the river near Bigfork. He was told to knock it off.
7:15 p.m. Kids were seen tossing fireworks into the woods along Mountain Meadow Road.
8:48 p.m. A Kalispell resident reported that the fireworks in their neighborhood seem louder than the fireworks in other neighborhoods.
9:42 p.m. Reportedly, a drunken man shot a firework “out of his butt” in the direction of children who were sitting on a dock in Lakeside.
Made, like Porsche, in der Black Forest mit der elves.
For an inside look in great detail: Explore Der Wunderland courtesy of Google Maps. Mouse down and look around.
During the following hours, the idea of realizing a long forgotten childhood dream became vivid more and more. On the very same day, he called his twin brother Gerrit and surprised him with the following words: „We are going to build the largest model railway in the world“.
Gerrit, who is more rational and sceptical by nature, doubted Frederik’s state of mind, and didn’t take the idea too seriously. However, six phone calls later, each with Frederik in the line enthusiastically presenting new ideas about this topic, Gerrit realized that his brother was serious, indeed. So, he started to consider the project from an economical and technical point of view.
He came to the conclusion that the project is technically demanding, the economic aspect very risky, and from an entrepreneurial point of view it is plain crazy – but possible, nonetheless.
Thanks to intensive research, the Wunderland team succeeded in receiving information and documents and have recreated Area 51 in the America section. The model of AREA 51 consists of three different floors, developed from carefully crafted plexiglass and sandpaper, which form a realistic simulation of the cold, barren concrete walls of this secret research facility.
For the equipment a lot of unusual materials were used, for example:
- Star gate: Medical X-ray image viewer lamp
- Floors in the control center: Rechargeable battery inner casing
- Walls in the control center: Lamellas of a camping gas heater
- Rotor: Toothed circular saw and cable armoring
- Alien spider: Casting of a genuine spider in silver
- Control desks: Fiber optic cabling with LED lights
- Monitor: Converted MP3 Player
The Area 51 has two servo motors (star gate, UFO), an engine (rotor), and approximately 300 LEDs installed. 30 guards protect the area, in which can be found 50 researchers and technicans, along with 20 aliens and 2 robots.
Arthur Jensen: You have meddled with the primal forces of nature, Mr. Beale, and I won't have it! Is that clear?
You think you've merely stopped a business deal. That is not the case! The Arabs have taken billions of dollars out of this country, and now they must put it back!
It is ebb and flow, tidal gravity! It is ecological balance!
You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations. There are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There are no third worlds. There is no West. There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and immane, interwoven, interacting, multivariate, multinational dominion of dollars. Petro-dollars, electro-dollars, multi-dollars, reichmarks, rins, rubles, pounds, and shekels. It is the international system of currency which determines the totality of life on this planet.
That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and subatomic and galactic structure of things today!
And YOU have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and YOU... WILL... ATONE!
Am I getting through to you, Mr. Beale?
You get up on your little twenty-one inch screen and howl about America and democracy.
There is no America. There is no democracy. There is only IBM, and ITT, and AT&T, and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today.
What do you think the Russians talk about in their councils of state, Karl Marx? They get out their linear programming charts, statistical decision theories, minimax solutions, and compute the price-cost probabilities of their transactions and investments, just like we do.
We no longer live in a world of nations and ideologies, Mr. Beale. The world is a college of corporations, inexorably determined by the immutable bylaws of business. The world is a business, Mr. Beale. It has been since man crawled out of the slime.
And our children will live, Mr. Beale, to see that... perfect world... in which there's no war or famine, oppression or brutality. One vast and ecumenical holding company, for whom all men will work to serve a common profit, in which all men will hold a share of stock.
All necessities provided, all anxieties tranquilized, all boredom amused.
And I have chosen you, Mr. Beale, to preach this evangel.
Howard Beale: Why me?
Arthur Jensen: Because you're on television, dummy. Sixty million people watch you every night of the week, Monday through Friday.
Howard Beale: I have seen the face of God.
Arthur Jensen: You just might be right, Mr. Beale.Continued...
"History doesn't repeat, but it rhymes."
Big business, elite media and major donors are lining up behind the campaign of my opponent because they know she will keep our rigged system in place. They are throwing money at her because they have total control over everything she does. She is their puppet, and they pull the strings.
That is why Hillary Clinton’s message is that things will never change. My message is that things have to change – and they have to change right now. Every day I wake up determined to deliver for the people I have met all across this nation that have been neglected, ignored, and abandoned.
I have visited the laid-off factory workers, and the communities crushed by our horrible and unfair trade deals. These are the forgotten men and women of our country. People who work hard but no longer have a voice.
I AM YOUR VOICE.
In The Cascades
Above the trail to the summit
Clouds climb the mountains --
Hands through water, fingers of rain,
Smoke in dreams, as steps accumulate,
Placing first one foot, then the other,
Pacing out the rip-rap of the years.
Below the snow ghosts swirl behind
Drifts of leaf-shimmer, billowed veils
Of wind whose whispers echo back
Across the distant silence singing
To the tempo of the breath:
"Once only, once only, only once."
Above the stream in the ravine.
Watched by sentinels of stone, of fir,
Of trees so tall their tops dissolve
Into the breath of the mountains.
Ebony glints of ravens' wings
Banking into green on darker green.
Below it's all been settled long ago.
Only on foot, step by step,
Can you climb up, beyond,
And out of time -- except for the weight
You carry on your back; gossamer
Thread spinning down into the Labyrinth.
At the crest, looking back, looking below,
Herds of mule deer graze beneath pylons
Where a survey crew measures the steel river,
For a grid of concrete and copper cables
Connecting the Matrix coiled on the coast.
Above, the mountains' shoulders shatter the rain.
If you didn't see it, you need to see it.
The fearless neo-neocon screws her courage to the sticking post and, after a year of TrumpDread notes
The fat’s in the fire.
The fat lady’s sung.
The bird’s on the wire.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,"
gives you the finger.
I watch the formal nomination with a growing feeling of special dread. I watch it with a kind of sardonic awe as Fox splits its screen in two and on the right I see someone from Ohio proclaiming their surreal votes while on the left some aging supermodel working for WeightWatchers proclaims “Bye-bye bellyfat!” And thus the rising surreality of our current reality washes over me and gives me a sick, sinking feeling. Not about Trump. Not about that at all. Just the feeling that returns and returns, that echoes and echoes, that repeats and repeats the careworn mantra, “Events are in the saddle and ride mankind.”
Feeling the tectonic plates shift deep under the population....
Something moving deep in the mantle. Small tremors here, vibrations at slant there....
Like that movie with the burrowing monster worms roaming under the homes of men. Not the hellish island sized worms of Doom sifting sand mountains and devouring whole factories, but the smaller ones, the predators, the carnivores, the ones in the American grain, the ones that rise up and at most take down a Chevy with a couple of people in it as sandwich filling.
Over the passing months this saison en enfer fills me, more and more, with a kind of nameless dread regardless of the outcome. The more that I read from people who have it “all figured out” the more I feel that my only shelter is in staying stupid. Staying stupid and admitting that deep down I don’t have one single crisp clue as to what is really going on.
Staying stupid but still smart enough to avoid crowds. No matter who. No matter where. The war is here. The war is now.
After the smoke began to clear in the early evening in my Brooklyn Heights neighborhood on 9/11 I made my way down to the Promenade to see the twin torches burning as the F-15s swooped overhead and the black helicopters landed across the river near the funeral pyre for 3,000 New Yorkers. This song came clambering into my memory. In time it faded. Today it's back. I don't think it's going away....Continued...
These two will outlast us, our silly and desperate politics, our children and our children's children down the ages, our nation, our species, our planet and still be going strong and only beginning....
The waterless waves on that sea without ships
Go outward, roll onward in search of horizons.
The faces in stone keep their futile appointments
With wind and with water, which also have schedules,
That return them to silence in a melding of stars
Here where the tree's roots drink from the stream,
Here on the banks of tomorrow as the mind's searching message,
Laden with numbers, with dates, and with data,
Rises up and flies out past the sun to the birth of the stars.
"We all have our hippie limits. I've always considered mine to be unusually high:
I grew up in Santa Cruz, with a pagan mother who took me to documentaries called "The Goddess Remembered" and bought me veggie burgers at a fast food restaurant called Dharma's. I haven't exactly rebelled from my upbringing. In the past couple of months I've gotten acupuncture, gone to multiple yoga classes, willingly eaten raw vegan food, treated a cold with a neti pot, added powdered mushrooms to my green smoothies, and used garlic to combat a yeast infection. I have friends who attend matcha tea ceremonies, hire doulas, and go to shaman-led sweat lodges in Tulum. I looked at Spirit Weavers as going to camp as an adult, but with the added bonus of gluten-free food and the option to do some basket-weaving or purify my spirit at the same time. But I realize during the opening ceremony of Spirit Weavers just how deeply bourgeois I am. The moment I most feel like myself is around 9:00 at night, back at my tent, eating popcorn I bought earlier at a gas station, wearing an SK-II face mask, while watching Lifetime's Unreal on my laptop. By Marisa Meltzer in Harper's Bazaar
Spirit Weavers' founder and trademark owner, Amy Woodruff, doing a naked headstand while simultaneously breastfeeding her daughter Naia went viral. ("I was just doin' my daily flow when the little sweet pea came to sneak a suckle," Woodroff wrote at the time on her blog, Daughter of the Sun, where she also sells juice cleanses, incense, and "organic baby bootie balm.")
Sigh. Somedays I actually believe that this entire civilization is headed head-first into the Crock-Pot of History.
T.E. Lawrence: So long as Americans play PokymonGo, so long will they be a little people, a silly people - greedy, barbarous, and cruel, as you are.
Venture capitalist Chris Dixon has a line I like.
"The next big thing will start out looking like a toy," he says. Welp, Pokémon Go looks like a toy. Hell, it is a toy. But it’s also the first widespread, massive use case for augmented reality — even though it’s operating on smartphones that aren’t designed for AR. So what’s going to happen as the hardware improves, the software improves, and the architects learn to use these more immersive environments to addict us more fully?
About a year ago, I tried the Oculus VR, and it blew my mind. I had thought we were a long way from inventing virtual reality. But as I stood in a flat, bare room, only to have the headset flicker on and convince my body and brain I was teetering on the edge of a skyscraper, I learned I was wrong. As I jumped back, I realized we’d already invented VR. Now we’re just perfecting it, making it cheaper, better, more addictive.
How far are we until your VR life is far more interesting, far more pleasurable, than your real life? Not that far, I bet. Maybe 10 years. How far are we until your walk to work is better with augmented reality than without it? Well, Pokémon Go suggests we’re already there. I’m not much for sci-fi dystopias — I don’t think the robots will kill us all — but the world of Ready Player One, in which the future has devolved (or evolved) into people escaping a grim existence by living inside their VR consoles, seems perfectly plausible to me.Pokémon Go isn’t a fad. It’s a beginning.
WARNING: *Very Graphic*
"Want to help the Western world and help prevent attacks like this in the future?
Then spread this video and all like it. It is time that the anger and awareness of Western peoples reached fever pitch. There is no point being constantly insulated from the violent truth, especially when tens of millions of people indulge in Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead, watch horror films, and play video games where players maim and kill others.Continued...
"Whether they realized it or not, every person who voted for leftwing parties in recent French elections, and even the âcenter-rightâ UMP, voted for the continuation of terror attacks. Every other competitive party but the National French have shown no interest in tackling the immigration disaster that is fueling terrorist attacks, ethnic minority crime and overall cultural capitulation from Paris to Nice. The Socialists and UMP were so scared of the National Front that they even banded together to make sure it did not succeed. That said, the main blame can be attributed to French voters themselves, who were too interested in idealized and fake happy narratives than preventing more of the attacks and social disunity that otherwise make them weep and complain." 80 Killed In New French Attack, Police Donât Want Video Uploads To Compromise Narrative
CIA official: You said a program should be renewed. I'm asking is our strategy working?
Peter Quinn: What strategy?Tell me what the strategy is and I'll tell you if it's working. [Silence] See, that right there is the problem because they - they have a strategy. They're gathering right now in Raqqa by the tens of thousands, hidden in the civilian population, cleaning their weapons and they know exactly why they're there.
CIA official: Why is that?
Peter Quinn: They call it the end times. What do you think the be-headings are about? The crucifixions in Deir Hafer, the revival of slavery? Do you think they make this shit up? It's all in the book. Their fucking book. The only book they ever read - they read it all the time. They never stop. They're there for one reason and one reason only: to die for the Caliphate and usher in a world without infidels. That's their strategy and it's been that way since the seventh century. So do you really think that a few special forces teams are going to put a dent in that?
CIA official: Well what would you do?
Peter Quinn: Are you offering me a promotion?
CIA official: I'm offering you a hypothetical.
Peter Quinn: Two-hundred thousand American troops on the ground indefinitely to provide security and support for an equal number of doctors and elementary school teachers.
CIA official: Well that's not going to happen.
Peter Quinn: Then I better get back there.
CIA official: What else? What else would make a difference?
Peter Quinn: Hit reset.
CIA official: Meaning what?
Peter Quinn: Meaning pound Raqqa (ISIS’s stronghold) into a parking lot.Continued...
I hear a lot of black people on Facebook talkin’ about they want to move to Africa.
Well, move your ass to Africa.
I ain't going with you.
You know what?
People in Africa don't even like blacks from America.
Shit you ain't even from Africa.
You was born here in the US.
Still a lot of people here that want to go back.
And here a lot of them here use government assistance.....
Well I hate to break the news but Africa got no government assistance especially if you not from there.
You ain't getting food stamps.
You ain't getting no child support check.
You ain't getting no houses, no section eight....
I hate to break the news but in Africa you ain't getting nothing.
Plus they got flies that'll kill yo ass.
And they're not paying for that shit I guarantee you that....
Africa? Police Brutality, whatever you want to call it, you can forget about it.
They don't even got real police in Africa.
You get shot you just get shot.
Your husband knock you up the side of your head?
Well, best not to fuck with him.
And I want to know why if you was born in
why are you mad about slavery?
It is 2016 not 1816....
This blacklivesmatter’s lot of bullshit.
A lot of black people that say blacklivesmatter put their grannies and mommas
in a nursing home to die,
and then scream blacklivesmatter.....
Now if America is that god damn bad
why the fuck everybody moving here?
I'm still trying to figure this shit out,
so let me know how did it go....
"I pity from the bottom of my heart any nation or body of people that is so unfortunate as to get entangled in the net of slavery. I have long since ceased to cherish any [spirit]] of bitterness against the Southern white people on account of the enslavement of my race. No one section of our country was wholly responsible for its introduction, and, besides, it was recognized and protected for years by the General Government. Having once got its tentacles fastened on to the economic and social life of the Republic, it was no easy matter for the country to relieve itself of the institution. Then, when we rid ourselves of prejudice, or racial feeling, and look facts in the face, we must acknowledge that, notwithstanding the cruelty and moral wrong of slavery, the ten million Negroes inhabiting this country, who themselves or whose ancestors went through the school of American slavery, are in a stronger and more hopeful condition, materially, intellectually, morally, and religiously, than is true of an equal number of black people in any other portion of the globe. This is so to such an extend that Negroes in this country, who themselves or whose forefathers went through the school of slavery, are constantly returning to Africa as missionaries to enlighten those who remained in the fatherland. This I say, not to justify slavery â on the other hand, I condemn it as an institution, as we all know that in America it was established for selfish and financial reasons, and not from a missionary motive -- but to call attention to a fact, and to show how Providence so often uses men and institutions to accomplish a purpose."
Interesting perspective from a man who was born in slavery. It can be found in his autobiography Up From Slavery, published in 1901.
Today the nation grieves. But those of us who love Dallas and call it home have had five deaths in the family.
Laura and I see members of law enforcement every day. We count them as our friends. And we know, like for every other American, that their courage is our protection and shield. We are proud of the men we mourn – and of the community that has rallied to honor them and support the wounded. Our mayor, our police chief, and our police department have been mighty inspirations to the rest of the nation. These slain officers were the best among us.
Lorne Ahrens, beloved husband to Detective Katrina Ahrens and father of two.
Michael Krol, caring son, brother, uncle, nephew, and friend.
Michael Smith, U.S. Army veteran, devoted husband, and father of two.
Brent Thompson, Marine Corps vet, recently married.
Patrick Zamarripa, US Navy Reserve combat veteran, proud father, and loyal Texas Rangers fan.
With their deaths, we have lost so much. We are grief-stricken, heartbroken, and forever grateful.
Every officer has accepted a calling that sets them apart. Most of us imagine, if the moment called for it, that we would risk our lives to protect a spouse or a child. Those wearing the uniform assume that risk for the safety of strangers. They and their families share the unspoken knowledge that each new day can bring new dangers. But none of us were prepared – or could be prepared – for an ambush by hatred and malice. The shock of this evil still has not faded.
At times, it seems like the forces pulling us apart are stronger than the forces binding us together. Argument turns too easily into animosity. Disagreement escalates too quickly into dehumanization. Too often we judge other groups by their worst examples, while judging ourselves by our best intentions. (Applause.) And this has strained our bonds of understanding and common purpose.
But Americans, I think, have a great advantage. To renew our unity, we only need to remember our values. We have never been held together by blood or background. We are bound by things of the spirit – by shared commitments to common ideals.
At our best, we practice empathy, imagining ourselves in the lives and circumstances of others. This is the bridge across our nation’s deepest divisions. And it is not merely a matter of tolerance, but of learning from the struggles and stories of our fellow citizens, and finding our better selves in the process.
At our best, we honor the image of God we see in one another. We recognize that we are brothers and sisters, sharing the same brief moment on earth, and owing each other the loyalty of our shared humanity.
At our best, we know we have one country, one future, one destiny. We do not want the unity of grief. Nor do we want the unity of fear. We want the unity of hope, affection, and high purpose.
We know that the kind of just, humane country we want to build – that we have seen in our best dreams – is made possible when men and women in uniform stand guard. At their best, when they are trained and trusted and accountable, they free us from fear.
The Apostle Paul said, “For God gave us a spirit not of fear, but of strength and love and self-control.” Those are the best responses to fear in the life of our country. And they are the code of the peace officer.
Today, all of us feel a sense of loss – but not equally. I’d like to conclude with a word to the families, the spouses, and especially the children of the fallen. Your loved one’s time with you was too short, and they did not get the chance to properly say goodbye. But they went where duty called. They defended us, even to the end. They finished well. We will not forget what they did for us.
Your loss is unfair. We cannot explain it. We can stand beside you and share your grief. And we can pray that God will comfort you with a hope deeper than sorrow and stronger than death.
May God bless you. READ: Full transcript of Former President Bush's speech at memorial service | WFAA.com
The Faroe Islands have some of the most beautiful roads in the world.
It is impossible to describe what it feels like driving through the green valleys and up the mountains, or alongside the ocean, surrounded by steep drops and tall cliffs. It’s an experience like no other. But there is a problem. Unlike almost all other parts of Europe, we don’t exist on Google Street View. The Faroe Islands may be rugged and remote but this collection of 18 islands in the North Atlantic also provide some of the world’s most magical landscapes and it is time that this hidden Nordic nation is revealed to the world. Taking matters into my own hands, I decided to create my own version of Street View – Sheep View 360.
I gently placed a 360˚ camera, powered by a solar panel, on the back of a sheep that would take photographs as the animal freely grazed the open hillsides of the Faroe Islands. Photos are then transmitted back to my mobile phone so that I can upload them to Google Street View myself, finally putting the Faroes on the map in a very unique way! But now I need your help. My sheep are great for capturing the tracks and trails of the Faroe Islands, but in order to cover the big sweeping Faroese roads and the whole of the breath-taking landscapes, we need Google to come and map them." -- Durita Dahl Andreassen[Note: The pointers at the upper left will spin the POV around as in Google Street View.]
Taking the top spot by a long mile is Teton, Wyoming – the county home to the affluent Jackson Hole ski area, and 40.4% of the famous Yellowstone National Park. The Top 1% that live near Old Faithful are particularly well-off, making an average of $28.2 million each year! - - Full Article Here
He must make an instant decision which would require months for a lawyer to make. But...If he hurries, he's careless; if he's deliberate, he's lazy. He must be first to an accident and infallible with his diagnosis. He must be able to start breathing, stop bleeding, tie splints and, above all, be sure the victim goes home without a limp. Or expect to be sued. The police officer must know every gun, draw on the run, and hit where it doesn't hurt.He must be able to whip two men twice his size and half his age without damaging his uniform and without being "brutal". If you hit him, he's a coward. If he hits you, he's a bully. -- Full TextContinued...
A powerful heart-felt comment from police officer Jay Stalien:
As time went by in my law enforcement career, I quickly began to realize something. I remember the countless times I stood 2 inches from a young black man, around my age, laying on his back, gasping for air as blood filled his lungs. I remember them bleeding profusely with the unforgettable smell of deoxygenated dark red blood in the air, as it leaked from the bullet holes in his body on to the hot sidewalk on a summer day. I remember the countless family members who attacked me, spit on me, cursed me out, as I put up crime scene tape to cordon off the crime scene, yelling and screaming out of pain and anger at the sight of their loved ones taking their last breath. I never took it personally, I knew they were hurting. I remember the countless times I had to order new uniforms, because the ones I had on, were bloody from the blood of another black victim…of black on black crime. I remember the countless times I got back in my patrol car, distraught after having watched another black male die in front me, having to start my preliminary report something like this...Suspect- Black/ Male, Victim-Black /Male.
I remember the countless times I canvassed the area afterwards, and asked everyone “did you see who did it”, and the popular response from the very same family members was always, “Fuck the Police, I ain't no snitch, Im gonna take care of this myself". This happened every single time, every single homicide, black on black, and then my realization became clearer.
I woke up every morning, put my freshly pressed uniform on, shined my badge, functioned checked my weapon, kissed my wife and kid, and waited for my wife to say the same thing she always does before I leave, “Make sure you come back home to us”. I always replied, “I will”, but the truth was I was never sure if I would. I almost lost my life on this job, and every call, every stop, every moment that I had this uniform on, was another possibility for me to almost lose my life again. I was a target in the very community I swore to protect, the very community I wanted to help. As a matter of fact, they hated my very presence. They called me “Uncle Tom”, and “wanna be white boy”, and I couldn’t understand why. My own fellow black men and women attacking me, wishing for my death, wishing for the death of my family. I was so confused, so torn, I couldn’t understand why my own black people would turn against me, when every time they called …I was there. Every time someone died….I was there. Every time they were going through one of the worst moments in their lives…I was there. So why was I the enemy? I dove deep into that question…Why was I the enemy? Then my realization became clearer.
I spoke to members of the community and listened to some of the complaints as to why they hated cops. I then did research on the facts. I also presented facts to these members of the community, and listened to their complaints in response. This is what I learned:
Complaint: Police always targeting us, they always messing with the black man.
Fact: A city where the majority of citizens are black (Baltimore for example) …will ALWAYS have a higher rate of black people getting arrested, it will ALWAYS have a higher rate of blacks getting stopped, and will ALWAYS have a higher rate of blacks getting killed, and the reason why is because a city with those characteristics will ALWAYS have a higher rate of blacks committing crime. The statistics will follow the same trend for Asians if you go to China, for Hispanics if you go to Puerto Rico, for whites if you go to Russia, and the list goes on. It’s called Demographics
Complaint: More black people get arrested than white boys.
Fact: Black People commit a grossly disproportionate amount of crime. Data from the FBI shows that Nationwide, Blacks committed 5,173 homicides in 2014, whites committed 4,367. Chicago’s death toll is almost equal to that of both wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, combined. Chicago’s death toll from 2001–November, 26 2015 stands at 7,401. The combined total deaths during Operation Iraqi Freedom (2003-2015: 4,815) and Operation Enduring Freedom/Afghanistan (2001-2015: 3,506), total 8,321.
Complaint: Blacks are the only ones getting killed by police, or they are killed more.
Fact: As of July 2016, the breakdown of the number of US Citizens killed by Police this year is, 238 White people killed, 123 Black people killed, 79 Hispanics, 69 other/or unknown race.
My improved. flying-machine consists of a jacket, A, adapted to the body of the aeronaut, right and leftwings, Bf, and a tail, D, held to the jacket, and a balloon, E, from which the aeronaut is suspended by connections to the jacket and to straps or bands encircling his legs, all as shown in Fig. 1 of the drawings, and as will be hereinafter more particularly described in the order above mentioned. Patent US398984 - Flying-machine - Google Patents
This recent addition to the spam folder pretty much closes the circle of strife:
ATTENTION SCAMMED VICTIM
YOUR REF CODE NUMBER: 06654, FOR YOUR $1,500,000.00 USD ONLY
This is to bring to your notice that I am a delegate from the US AMBASSADOR TO UNITED NATION to The IMF (International Monetary Fund) Regional Payment Office to pay 721 scam victims $1,500,000.00 USD (One Million Five Hundred Thousand Dollars only) each. You are listed and approved for this payment as one of the scammed victims to be paid this amount,respond to this mail and contact MR JOHN BROGAN in Abuja Nigeria as soon as possible for the immediate payments of your $1,500,000.00 USD*(ONE MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS) compensations funds.
You are to send your INFORMATION TO THE REPRESENTATIVE:
 Full Names:...... ..
 Contact address:....
 Direct Telephone:...
TO THE REPRESENTATIVE
MR JOHN BROGAN
Mrs Susan Rice
It began when my brother, Jeff, reached into his cupboard one evening in Black Mountain, North Carolina, and pulled out a small can. "You want to see some vague food?" he asked holding the tin out.
"Yes, vague," he said. "Just what is "Potted Meat" anyway? Has it been smoked, drenched, strained, and then slammed into the can with extreme prejudice? What animal gives potted meat?"
I looked carefully at the can and turned it to the list of ingredients "as required by law." Not vague in the least.
Mechanically Separated Chicken, Beef Tripe, Partially Defatted Cooked Beef Fatty Tissue, Beef Hearts, Water, Partially Defatted Cooked Pork Fatty Tissue, Salt. Less than 2 percent: Mustard, Natural Flavorings, Dried Garlic, Dextrose, Sodium Erythorbate, Sodium Nitrite
The first item caught my eye since I had no idea what "Mechanically Separated Chicken" was except that it sounded bad for the chicken. Since then I've learned what the process entails:
Mechanically separated meat (MSM) [I'll let the acronym "MSM" pass without comment], also known as mechanically recovered meat (MRM), is a paste-like meat product produced by forcing beef, pork or chicken bones, with attached edible meat, under high pressure through a sieve or similar device to separate the bone from the edible meat tissue. Mechanically separated meat has been used in certain meat and meat products since the late 1960s.That really perks up the taste buds, doesn't it?
My brother, to his eternal credit, didn't open that can of "Potted Meat." If he had we might have had to vacate his home at high speed surfing just ahead of the odor wave. Instead he prepared a very good dinner using real food.
Still, his concept of "vague food" stuck with me. How much vague food was there and what was it like? The next morning I found myself roaming through one of Food Lion supermarkets that are scattered about North Carolina. It was a bit of spontaneous cultural anthropology. My mission was to discover what other strange offerings had crept onto the grocery shelves during the years in which my own tastes had tended towards the more high end of offerings at YuppieChic Whole Foods style markets. I was not to be disappointed.
It was a series of small satoris. Here are some items that caught my attention. None of these things are on my current diet.
First up was this mercifully seasonal offering from Starbucks:
In this one offering we see a grand harmonic convergence of everything that has gone terribly, terribly wrong for Starbucks over the last few years. To get an abomination like this on the shelves means that hundreds of people at the company are working overtime to put it there. But before that can even get started you need a small group of executive marketing bozos sitting around trying to justify their phony baloney jobs.
"Okay, here's what we'll do. We'll take some bad coffee extract, dose it with some cheap chocolate syrup, and then lace it with peppermint!"
"Sounds suitably disgusting. How do we get people to buy it?"
"We'll tell them that it's available for a "Limited Time Only."
The next things not to make it into my shopping cart were the musical Tuna Medleys:Continued...
While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity
Heavily thickening to empire,
And protest, only a bubble in the Molten Mass, pops
And sighs out, and the mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make
Fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances,
Ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
You making haste, haste on decay: not blameworthy; life
Is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than
Mountains: shine perishing republic
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance
From the thickening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lies at the
Monster's feet there are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man.
A clever servant, insufferable master.
There is a trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught
They say God, when he walked on Earth.
There's a "For Sale" sign on a big old rusty tractor.
You can't miss it, it's the first thing that you see.
Just up the road, a pale-blue water tower,
With "I Love Jenny" painted in bright green.
Hey, that's my Uncle Bill, there by the courthouse.
He'll be lowerin' the flag when the sun goes down.
And this is my town.
(Na, na, na, na, na.)
Yeah, this is my town.
(Na, na, na, na, na.)
Where I was born, where I was raised.
Where I keep all my yesterdays.
Where I ran off 'cos I got mad,
An' it came to blows with my old man.
Where I came back to settle down,
It's where they'll put me in the ground:
This is my town.
(Na, na, na, na, na.)
Yeah, this is my town.
(Na, na, na, na, na.)
There ain't much goin' on here since they closed the mill.
But that whistle still blows ev'ry day at noon.
A bunch of us still go down to the diner.
I wonder if that interstate's still comin' through.
Come Sunday morning service, at the Church of Christ,
Well there ain't an empty seat to be found.
And this is my town.
Well, I bought and painted up that rusty tractor.
You can't miss it, it's sittin' right there in our yard.
The County came and took that water tower,
And that's Jenny, with a baby, in the car.
Ah, we're off to Sunday service at the Church of Christ,
And if we want a seat, we better leave right now.
And maybe later, me an old T-roy will show you around,
Yeah, this is my town.
(Na, na, na, na, na.)
This is my town.
(Na, na, na, na, na.)
A father possum reads his kids a story that’s an alphabet of the most dangerous animal of all – HUMANS!
Major Political News Outlets Offer Interviews for Sale at DNC and RNC Conventions FOR HIGH-ROLLING special interests looking to make an impression at the presidential conventions next month, one option is to pay a lot of money to a media outlet. Lobbyists for the oil industry, for instance, are picking up the tab for leading Beltway publications to host energy policy discussions at the convention, including The Atlantic and Politico.
And for the right price, some political media outlets are even offering special interviews with editorial staffers and promotional coverage at the convention.
THE FOLLOWING is an excerpt from my new favorite page to watch, Rural Pioneer:
Ownership is something few think about. Do you own your house, free and clear as they say? Where I live, ownership is neither free nor clear.
My house note is $650/month and my property taxes and home owners insurance are $785/month. The taxes and insurance are required in escrow account according to my mortgage agreement – conditions of the lowest interest rate agreement I could find.
My 40 acres is $400/month (nearly paid for now) and has taxes of $150/year. There is no mortgage, just a simple note, as it was bare unimproved land when purchased.
My suburban place is ¼ of an acre, with neighboring buildings within 20 feet, easements surrounding each parcel 10 feet inclusive, and a very specific set of laws regarding appearance and behaviors allowed. These include:
- no overnight parking of trailers on the street
- no unlicensed or unregistered vehicles visible on property
- no boats parked in driveway
- no parking on lawns
- no personalty (discussed below)
- permits, city approval and required contractors for any home modifications
- grass height cannot exceed 6 inches
- no vegetable gardens in front yard
- specific roofing types/colors required
- changes in exterior color schemes must be ‘conservative’
there is even more, but you get the picture….
One of the things that HOA’s and cities have latched onto is an archaic legal term called ‘personalty’. This means personal property, and was coined into wide use at the end of the 19th century, primarily in the northeast. It was widely used to keep people from blocking alleys and accesss to buildings in big cities, and numerous ordnances in cities deal with ‘personalty’
For HOA’s and cities today, personalty has been twisted to mean ‘anything we do not like’. I have personally been hit with fines and warnings for the following ‘personalty’ violations:
- mower visible in side yard for more than 24 hours
- ‘unknown object’ in driveway (a diamond drill bit)
- lumber in driveway on saw horses
- decorative boulders in yard (had to explain to officials)
- yellow trash cans visible from the street (gray and green acceptable though)
- 4-wheeler in driveway (3 times warned, then threatened to confiscate as a junk vehicle due to no license and registration)
My farm is absolutely without any of these rules. In point of fact, there are NO county inspectors within the county, thus building and building code matters fall to the states rural electrical, plumbing and construction codes for dwellings, which every RV or mobile home meets. My nearest neighbor is ¼ mile away and is not a permanent resident but a weekender. I can own and park anything I wish to on my property, and paint my home purple if I am so inclined.
Created by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
Now once again serious people,
if you consider Elon Musk, Bill Gates and Steven Hawking serious, are saying that the ideas can have consequences. Morality is suddenly a key concern of artificial intelligence research, not a mental disease affecting bigoted white males. Mike Loukides and Ben Lorica astutely observe that "most fears of a super-intelligent AI aren’t really fears of a machine we neither know or understand; they are fears about human nature at its worst, coupled with unlimited power. We don’t imagine a machine that thinks thoughts we can’t comprehend; we imagine an unbeatable Hitler or Stalin, whose thoughts we do comprehend. Our fears are essentially human fears: fears of omnipotent machines acting like humans."Who 'ya gonna call? | PJ Media
"The unnamable vision always leads to the unspeakable crime." -- AD Commenter Gloria
Daniel Henninger in a prophetic 2007 "Wonderland" column in The Wall Street Journal, Talking Ourselves Into Defeat , examined the pall of self-loathing that has settled over the American mind in the past decade. A self-loathing that has reached, for now, its apotheosis in those "Americans" that love the idea of an Islamic mosque at Ground Zero. For the most part, his estimate of the roots of this malaise is accurate, but one insight strikes me as wide of the mark:
"One reason the negative mood in politics is so disconcerting is that the opposition's alternative vision is nonexistent. On joining the opposition recently, GOP Sen. Norm Coleman announced, "I can't tell you what the path to success is.'"
It is "the vision that dare not speak its name."
It is no secret that classic liberalism, in the mold of FDR, JFK,and LBJ that reached its apotheosis in Hubert Humphrey, has long been consigned to the bone-yard. What has taken its place hates to be tarred with the brush of liberalism because, frankly, it isn't. It prefers to be called "progressivism" even as "a sociopathic political and social recidivism" more accurately describes it.
What now stands in the place one occupied by classical liberalism is a kind of perverted one-world idealism in which "the world as it is" is constantly measured against "the world as it should be." Classic liberalism at least had the argument that it was being done for the greater good. The new perverted progressive variant is one in which policy and plans are made because it makes the initiators yearn to "feel good" in the manner that compulsive masturbators obsess over fantasies implanted before puberty. Those that make and support these measures hold themselves in high regard, seeing each other as, in the French phrase popular when many of them were young, "citoyens du monde" -- citizens of the world.
Typically these are people who have "gone beyond" nation states in their own minds and, if they can afford it (and many can), in their personal lives as well. These are people with access to enough money to afford private jets, or enough money to pay the premium prices of hybrid car. They do not dwell in the same nation as their fellow, less-fortunate citizens. Instead they can afford to spend their time spreading a gospel whose high costs and marginal benefits are always carefully hidden from the middle middle class and those below. But this is never seen by those spreading the gospel as a kind of noblesse oblige, only as something that is "good for them."Continued...
A short list. In no particular order.
We told our children that any child could grow up to be President. And then we made it come true.
We had car shows, boat shows, beauty shows and dog shows.
We ran robots on the surface of Mars by remote control.
Our women came from all over the world in all shapes and sizes and hues and scents.
We actually believed that all men are created equal and tried to make it come true.
Everybody liked our movies and loved our television shows.
We tried to educate everybody, whether they wanted it or not. Sometimes we succeeded.
We did Levis.
We held the torch high and hundreds of millions came. No matter what the cost.
We saved Europe twice and liberated it once.
We believed so deeply and so abidingly in free speech that we protected and honored and, in some cases, even elected traitors.
We let you be as freaky as you wanted to be.
We paid you not to plant crops and not to work.
We died in the hundreds of thousands to end slavery here. And when that was done continued for a century and a half around the world.
We invented Jazz.
We wrote the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Gettysberg address.
We went to the moon to see how far we could hit a golf ball.
We lifted a telescope into orbit that could see to the edge of the universe.
When people snuck into the country against our laws, we made parking lots and food stands off to the side of the road so they wouldn't get hurt, and we let them use our hospitals for free, and we made their children citizens.
We didn't care what God you worshipped as long as we could worship ours.
We let the People arm themselves at will. Just to make sure.
We gave everybody the vote.
We built Disneyworld. Just for fun.
We had a revolution so successful it was still going strong two and a quarter centuries later.
We had so many heroes, even at the end, that we felt free to hate them and burn them in effigy.
We electrified the guitar.
We invented a music so compelling that it rocked the world.
We had some middling novelists.
We had some interesting painters.
We had some pretty good poets.
We had better songwriters.
We ran our farms so well we fed the globe.
We made the automobile and the airplane.
We let you get rich. Really, really rich.
We didn't care who you were or what you were or where you came from or who your parents were. We just cared about what you made or what you did.
We had poor people who, even at their most wretched, were richer than any other poor people on the face of the planet.
We were the most nobel nation the world had ever known.
We had so much freedom that many of us voted to just throw it all away.
Even towards the end, as we dissolved into the petty bickering and idle entertainments that come with having far too much leisure and money, many among us were still striving to make it higher, finer, brighter, better and more beautiful.
Even towards the end, the best of us declined to give up and pressed on. "Where to? What next?"
[First published 2007]
"It must be the summer of 1949 and she's taking my brother and I back home to her family in Fargo for the first time. I would be almost four and he'd be two and a half. The war's been over for some time and everyone is now back home and settled in. My father's family lost a son, but -- except for some wounds -- everyone else came out all right.
"We're living in Los Angeles and her home is Fargo, North Dakota, half a continent away. So we do what you did then. We took the train. Starting in Los Angeles we went north to San Francisco where we boarded the newest form of luxury land transportation available that year, the California Zephyr.
"Out from the bay and up over the Sierras and down across the wastes until we wove our way up the spine of the Rockies and down again to the vast land sea that stretched out east in a swath of corn and wheat that I remember more than the pitched curves and plunging cliffs of the mountains.
On the Zephyr you sat in a plush chair among others in a long transparent dome at the top of the car and it seemed all Earth from horizon to the zenith flowed past you.
"There was the smell of bread and cooking in the Pullman cars that I can still capture in my mind, and the lulling rhythm of the wheels over the rails that I can still hear singing me down into sleep.
"At some point we changed trains to go north into the Fargo Station and, as we pulled into Fargo in mid-morning, my mother's family met us with their usual humble dignity -- they brought a full brass band that worked its way down through the John Philip Sousa set list with severe dedication. They also brought me more family members than there were people living on our entire block in Los Angeles. There may also have been a couple of Barbershop Quartets to serenade us during the band breaks, but I'm not sure about that. My Mother at 100 @ AMERICAN DIGEST
"Train travel once played a large and vital part of America’s passenger transportation network, but today it’s taken a back seat– all the way in the back. Rail transportation in the nation now consists primarily of freight shipments, while passenger service plays a seriously limited role compared to train travel in many other countries. By the late 1950s, America’s railroad flagship passenger services were unable to compete with airlines, and it all pretty much went downhill from there. Which is frankly, pretty sad because when they were at their best, American railways really knew just how important the glamour and elegance of travel was to the passenger experience. Streamliners were designed to reduce air resistance, offering multi-day high-speed across journeys across the country in train cars resembling luxury hotels and private clubs. Life aboard them really did seem to reach a “high peak of enjoyment” as the brochure says…." Streamliner Trains that Oozed the Elegance of Old World Travel
The observation car of the California Zephyr today.
Somewhere back in the day Helen Gurley Brown said that after a certain age the only thing a woman could rely on to improve her appearance was good posture and expensive jewelry.
At least that is my recollection, though I no longer recall the exact source or context. The gender specificity, the whiff of doom in the goal, the daft simplicity, the conciseness, the candor, and the plausibility caused it to stick in my head (although my most recent earrings were bought for three dollars from a street vendor). Perhaps this is because everyone who already has their ears pierced and pricked for this kind of suggestion is tired and looking for quick, pithy advice—especially, it is assumed, women, around whom a many-tentacled advice industry was fashioned long ago, with its golden age perhaps corresponding to the golden age of magazine publishing, suburban housewifery, and leisure time—again, somewhere back in the day. That men—both gay and straight—were once a considerable audience for these women’s magazines, unacknowledged in the official target demographics, is another topic entirely though I will mention it here in passing.
I also recall once getting in the slowest grocery store line so I could flip through Brown’s Cosmopolitan in order to discover what “5 Things,” advertised on the cover alongside its monthly, near-taxidermic décolleté (who can recall the faces perched above?), were sure to “Drive Men Wild,” but not finding them anywhere and having to put the magazine back.
Read the rest of this review/profile/autobiographical confession atA Very Singular Girl by Lorrie Moore | The New York Review of Books