Waiting for Bartlett in the UK
Nothing Makes Liberals Angrier Than Us Normals Insisting On Our Rights – Kurt Schlichter When they once again say, “We must have a conversation about guns!” I still couldn’t agree more. And, since all we’ve heard is you leftists shrieking at us all week, I’ll start it off.
You don’t ever get to disarm us. Not ever.
There. It sure feels good to engage in a constructive dialogue.
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.
For those of you who work in the controlled mainstream media, who betray your nation with every word you type, all for a measly salary, you must accept the will of the American people. Present them with the truth instead of acting as the communist opposition party. In the past, your content controlled the collective minds of the nation, but it has become impotent and ineffective, a laughing stock that makes your job on par with that of being a cocktail waitress. Your power is fading, so raise you right hand to your temple and salute the great flag of America, because the times are a changing.
Bet Losing Machine
The New York Public Libraryâs Schwarzman building is most famous for the ornate and cavernous Rose Reading Room, now reopened after two years of restoration. The stacks under the library can hold 4 million books (the actual number in storage is lower, though no one is quite sure), which are delivered to the reading room by 950 feet of miniature rail running at 75 feet per minute.
But the real gem of the library, in Lannonâs view, is the stuff that you can find only in boxes like the ones now strewn across the table. âYou can get a book anywhere,â he said. âAn archive exists in one location.â The room weâre standing in is the only place that you can read, say, the weekâs worth of journal entries in which New York Times editor Abe Rosenthal contemplates publishing the Pentagon Papers. Itâs the only place where you can read the collected papers of Robert Moses, or a letter T.S. Eliot wrote about Ulysses to James Joyceâs Paris publisher, Sylvia Beach.
At the foot of Mount Sinai, the mountain atop which God is said to have given Moses the Ten Commandments, lies St. Catherine’s Monastery, one of the world’s oldest continuously running libraries. St. Catherine’s is home to some of the world’s oldest and most valuable books and manuscripts, and the monks that watch over them. These texts are largely manuscripts and are filled with mostly Greek and Latin. However, recently scientists have uncovered new languages in the manuscripts — and some that haven’t been used since the Dark Ages. The only catch — the languages can’t be seen with the naked eye.
ON THE STEAMY first day of August 1966, Charles Whitman took an elevator to the top floor of the University of Texas Tower in Austin. The 25-year-old climbed the stairs to the observation deck, lugging with him a footlocker full of guns and ammunition. At the top, he killed a receptionist with the butt of his rifle. Two families of tourists came up the stairwell; he shot at them at point-blank range. Then he began to fire indiscriminately from the deck at people below. The first woman he shot was pregnant. As her boyfriend knelt to help her, Whitman shot him as well. He shot pedestrians in the street and an ambulance driver who came to rescue them.
The evening before, Whitman had sat at his typewriter and composed a suicide note:
I don’t really understand myself these days. I am supposed to be an average reasonable and intelligent young man. However, lately (I can’t recall when it started) I have been a victim of many unusual and irrational thoughts.
The team first set off for Big Lava Lake, situated approximately a quarter mile from the cabin. There they saw a sled, half-submerged in snow. There was a dark stain on one of the boards—human blood. Following a “dim trail” to the middle of the frozen-over lake, they noticed a hole that had “been cut in the ice and had refrozen,” along with a brown human hair, according to an account in local paper the Bulletin.
Beneath a tree, searchers also found the carcasses of several foxes. They had either been shot or clubbed, and all were skinned—expertly. Adams, whose first assignment had been to determine the fate of the foxes, now had his answer. An even more brutal clue turned up soon after, in an unthawed patch of snow: human blood, more human hair, and a front tooth.
The following day, after the ice was broken up, the group confirmed the worst: The bodies of all three men floated to the surface, wrapped in canvas. Roy Wilson had been shot in the right shoulder and behind his ear, while Morris had been shot in the left arm and hit with a hammer. Nickols had been shot in his side, and his jaw was shattered—probably by a shotgun blast. Ominously, his watch had stopped at 9:10.
The box opens out as a kind of introduction to the basics of idealized family life: this is what dinner is; this is what home is. Each ingredient is individually wrapped and Saussureanly labelled. “Green Beans,” it says on the green beans. “Saffron,” it says on the saffron. The consumer is presumed to be in a state of primal confusion, an amnesiac being coaxed through the performance of some semblance of a former life. Here is your husband, don’t you remember? Your children, whom you love. This is your front doorbell ringing, this is a box sent by a friend, this is the katus-style eggplant you’re about to prepare and eat in this set of rooms that makes up the emotional center of your life.
This is from a piece that finds these boxes problematically problematical, and it begins with the usual specious generalities that reveal nothing about the subject and everything about the author.
The consumer is presumed to be in a state of primal confusion, an amnesiac being coaxed through the performance of some semblance of a former life.
The consumer is actually being informed that the saffron can be found in the packet labeled saffron. This is helpful information.
Until WWII, L’Amour’s life was a series of manual labor jobs. He was an abandoned mine caretaker (guarding against thieves and vagabonds), ditch digger, cargo officer on ships, logging inspector, amateur boxer, and more. Through it all, the bachelor noted, “I was never without a book, carrying one with me wherever I went and reading at every opportunity.”
Even then L’Amour knew he wanted to make his true living as a writer — preferably as a poet. So when he wasn’t reading or working, he was writing. When his poems didn’t catch commercially, he tried his hand at short stories, in a variety of genres — Far East adventures, boxing tales, Westerns. He wrote about nearly everything. Finally in the late 1930s, his stories started being accepted by the pulp magazines that were popular at the time.
How we live now: Driver hits pedestrians outside Natural History Museum |
She said: ‘I was sat at my desk when I heard the crash. There was a loud bang, as the car smashed into others. At first I didn’t take much notice, but all of a sudden people started running away and I knew it wasn’t a normal accident.
‘I saw a dad dragging his kids along Exhibition Road and urging them to hurry up, and then they were followed by streams of people. They were screaming and running like a typical worst nightmare scenario. It put me in mind of Las Vegas.
‘Then the alarm went off in South Kensington station and everyone began to evacuate. Police officers were going into the restaurants and telling people to leave.