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So here’s how 2020 unfolds.

Elizabeth Warren is now, as we know, actively colluding with Hillary Clinton. This collusion will bear strange fruit when, as a result of Clinton’s collusion connections, Warren clinches the nomination and gives Hillary the VP slot after the primaries but before the convention. Clinton is an obvious choice for VP; she would “balance the ticket” by being the “moderating middle of the road” influence that would ameliorate the wild and whacky kill the country on day one policies of Warren.

Such a quick-drying humid hotflash of a ticket would have an irresistible allure to formerly-cute women of all ages, races, and sexes.

Warren/Clinton would be too much testosterone for Trump to beat and he just might have to settle for a happyending rather than a second term. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Passion Flower. Complicated business.”

Fast forward January 2021 and it is President Warren and Vice President Clinton together at last. The only lingering (very) small issue is that getting there involved Warren colluding with the Mother of All Collusions Clinton who had colluded with the Russians to get Trump impeached for colluding with Putin. As such Warren was colluding with the Russian Colluding Establishment RCE, and her acceptance of RCE’s assistance indicated that Russia itself (aka “VAL”) could have again colluded to secure her election.

Loyal Democrat though she may be, this collusion allegation against Warren was so serious that Clinton had to initiate an investigation into Warren’s collusion with Russia. “I’m doing it for the little people,” she stated. “I gave Liz that 800-ROO-SKIE number one late night at the bottom of four bottles of Chardonnay and a little face time. I told her to call the Rooskies if she needed a few extra electorals. I didn’t think she’d actually do it. Then again I didn’t think I’d have to replace my rug either.”

This time the Clinton collusion investigation was headed up the Notorious RBG from her retirement condo at the Ted Kennedy Memorial Organ Farm and Health SPA. In short order, RBG’s Report confirmed that Warren had colluded with the Russians. Warren was then led to resign by the Head of her Secret Service detachment who confronted her with the RBG Report and said, “Plata o plomo.”

Exit Warren Oval Office Right.

Enter Clinton Oval Office Left with Notorious RBG and a Bible:

“Home at last, girlfriend. Home at last.”

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Boomer Recessionals: Don’t Let the Old Man In


Toby Keith Explains How Clint Eastwood Inspired ‘Don’t Let the Old Man In’  

Toby Keith knows a good hook when he hears one. And no one weaves a tale quite like Clint Eastwood.

That the two were sharing a golf cart last year at Eastwood’s charity tournament in Pebble Beach, Calif. is both a testament to their friendship and a stroke of good fortune. The encounter led Keith to pen the beautifully haunting song that lingers at the end of The Mule. The Eastwood-directed and starring film, in theaters now, is based on the true story of a WWII veteran in his 80s who takes a job as a courier for a Mexican drug cartel.

Out on the green, Eastwood shared that he’d be starting work on The Mule in two days, which also happened to be his 88th birthday. Struck by Eastwood’s relentless energy at an age when many are content to sit and reflect, Keith asked how he keeps going.

He said, “I just get up every morning and go out. And I don’t let the old man in,” Keith recounts.

[continue reading…]

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Octave Uzanne’s “The End of Books” (1894) The Bibliophile— is asked his opinion on the future of books. He replies as follows: If by books you are to be understood as referring to our innumerable collections of paper, printed, sewed, and bound in a cover announcing the title of the work, I own to you frankly that I do not believe (and the progress of electricity and modern mechanism forbids me to believe) that Gutenberg’s invention can do otherwise than sooner or later fall into desuetude as a means of current interpretation of our mental products. Printing is…threatened with death by the various devices for registering sound which have lately been invented, and which little by little will go on to perfection.”

Warren is not just a less corrupt and less repulsive version of Hillary Clinton. She captures the seething rage of that demographic. Hell hath no fury like a scorned, menopausal feminist clutching her dream catcher.

The Last Communist City | Havana Outside its small tourist sector, the rest of the city looks as though it suffered a catastrophe on the scale of Hurricane Katrina or the Indonesian tsunami. Roofs have collapsed. Walls are splitting apart. Window glass is missing. Paint has long vanished. It’s eerily dark at night, almost entirely free of automobile traffic. I walked for miles through an enormous swath of destruction without seeing a single tourist. Most foreigners don’t know that this other Havana exists, though it makes up most of the city—tourist buses avoid it, as do taxis arriving from the airport. It is filled with people struggling to eke out a life in the ruins. [continue reading…]

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Don’t Get Fooled by Dems


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AIDS and the Green River Camp

He wore coke bottle bottom spectacles over his eyes and a floppy sun hat during our days drifting down the river. No gloves though. That was for his lab and we were a long way from his lab.

We were camped somewhere on the Green River in Utah. In a shallow canyon down near the Green’s confluence with the Colorado. We were seven days into a nine-day canoe drift down the river. It was night. We’d eaten, smoked, had some cups of grog and were lying back on our sleeping bags with the stars as close as a tent’s roof. The night was warm and we were talking about the things we did when we were back in the world.

He was a scientist. A biochemist. When he wasn’t drifting down a river in the vast American outback he was working behind several levels of barriers against biohazards in a hazmat suit at some megapharma company whose name has now been washed down the Green River with so many other moments from that trip. Everything was gone except the memory of his short monologue about his line of work. He was working with the live AIDS virus. And to him, it wasn’t just another chunk of strange almost-alive/almost-dead tiny bit of matter. No. Not at all. To him, the AIDS virus was very much alive. It had a purpose and a personality.

“What I worry about sometimes,” he said, “is that it’s so lively for a virus. It’s mutating all the time.”

“Well, that’s what makes it interesting,” I said. “Isn’t that what a virus does? Mutate? And besides, don’t you have to have long and direct contact to contract AIDS?”

“Yes, now you do. But don’t always count on that. It could always figure out how to get airborne. Then you’ve got a real problem.”

“Okay, but isn’t that very difficult and very unlikely?”

“Maybe,” he said sounding sleepy. “Maybe, but from what I see in the lab I have to say that this virus is a very clever virus. Very clever and getting smarter all the time. It knows how to go around things. Someday it could decide to do what everyone believes it is impossible for it to do. The virus doesn’t listen to the scientists that study it. The only thing it would know about us is that we’re all potential hosts and therefore desirable. Like I said, it knows how to get around things in its path. Like us.”

But that was just some fading campfire conversation soon subsumed by sleep. It was just some random observation. It was a long, long time ago, in another life, down on the Green River. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.


Tombstone shadow, stretchin’ across my path.
Tombstone shadow, stretchin’ across my path.
Ev’ry time I get some good news, Ooh,
There’s a shadow on my back. — Creedence Clearwater

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Misanthropic Humanitarian
at Ace says “You might not ever look at mayo the same way again…”

Me? I’m calling this display something out of the chemically crazed and compulsive mind-set of this hard-core crack-smoking bitch and leaving it right there. Except for the observation that consuming three plump and, dare I say, tumescent hot dogs followed by a white glopping mayo inhalation moves this video closer to PornHub than YouTube.

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Rantomatic #10: Dachau Does Not Believe in Tears

To say Trump is Hitler, America is Germany in 1933, or a grimy detention facility is a concentration camp means you have never been to Dachau.

You think, after all that reading and those museum exhibits (and it is a thorough education, much more than an Instagram collection of artifacts, and oh look, a real prisoner’s uniform, honey!) you understand something. But not yet. You have really just arrived and in front of you is Dachau itself, the ground, the air — the same ground they saw and air they breathed — and you have a choice. Many visitors turn back toward the snack bar, falsely satiated after an hour thinking they saw Dachau and anxiously trying to remember if the shuttle bus runs back to the station on the hour or the half-hour.

But if you wait for them to leave, now you can see Dachau.

Most of the place is empty, acres of crushed stone with flat markers showing where the now-missing barracks where. The trees lining the central road bisecting the camp are old. They were here when Dachau was working. You can match up an individual tree from a 1942 photo with the one in front of you and touch it. The sun is warm this day, a beautiful late summer afternoon with those wonderful tickles of early fall around it. A day to be alive grandpa would have called it. There must have been days just like this in 1942 here. Were there afternoon moments when for the length of time one could close one’s eyes the prisoners left the camp?

Yet while CNN works to convince viewers silver mylar blankets instead of comfy quilts for migrants means there are concentration camps in America, Dachau reminds physicians here dissected human beings alive as part of medical experiments. Just as is taught in beginning writing courses, truth comes from showing not just telling. For those who think there is little significant difference between Germany 1933 and America today, there is Dachau to visit….

RTWT AT Dachau Does Not Believe in Tears | Hooper’s War – Peter Van Buren

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The Dizzying Hillside Cemeteries of Hong Kong in 12 Photographs
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A situation too weird for 99.999% of people to adequately explain. “They have that big gang of enforcers. I guess we’d better comply…. How could hundreds of millions of people have power over that tiny dot?”

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Pre-Owned Jeans

The PRPS NOIR Collection is not about black denim. Noir utilizes the best selvedge denim fabrics available anywhere in the world-with incredibly extensive washes and old school wear, tear & repair details that are authentic to genuine vintage jeans painstakingly collected over the years worn by real miners, mechanics, and laborers alike. Each jean is handmade and can take up to a week to produce. [Price: $300 — $500]– The Selvedge Yard

One of the small economies about living in New York City for years and relocating to the West Coast is to be had in clothing costs. If one of your jobs in New York was a men’s fashion editor for a magazine, you find that you don’t buy clothes so much as have them.

In any case, I dumped clothes by the cartload before I moved, and I still had far too many when I arrived. Since I don’t ski, the usefulness of items that would put Nanook of the North into a sweat during January in Greenland are pretty dubious. As a result, I’ve been pretty much out of the clothing shopping cycle for years and I find it, to say the least, refreshing.

In Seattle, if you hold some fleece jackets, a couple of hooded sweatshirts, a few work shirts and two pairs of jeans for “formal occasions,” you’re pretty much done. But “wear happens” and I’ve noted that my Levis have been getting — even for Levis — fairly grotty in the last couple of months. Yesterday, I decided they about to be redefined as “rags,” and I so set off to purchase my first new pair of jeans in at least six years.

Since I’m a hit-and-run shopper I did what any American male in search of jeans-to-go would do, I turned left into the parking lot of the first Gap I saw and sauntered inside confident of my mission. Unlike women of my acquaintance who practice “catch and release shopping” in order to increase their collection of designer shopping bags, I knew what I wanted. I also knew how much I was going to spend. This was in sharp contrast to many women who never really spend any money on clothes, but only “save” money on clothes. [ Me: “You look great in that new outfit with the shoes and the hat. How much did they cost?” Her: “Would you believe I saved over $800 on this? How great is that?” Me: “That’s really great.”]

I firmly believe that if you have to spend more than 15 minutes in a clothing store, you don’t need what you think you need. My list was short. I wanted one pair of five-pocket denim jeans, blue, crisp, and coming in at no more than $50. The Gap was the place for me.

Fool. Yes, fool. For if you want to find a pair of crisp, new blue jeans in trendy grunge Seattle, you’d better pack a lunch, because you are about to find yourself trapped inside an episode of “Shop Trek.”

It’s not that you can’t buy some new jeans at the Gap, it is just that you can’t buy any new new jeans.

Yes, it would seem that sometime in the last decade, the American people have become so fat and so happy and so inordinately lazy that they no longer want to put their own wear, sweat, and stress into their Levis. Nope, it seems that the entire country will only buy jeans that have already been worn into a shambles, reduced, as new, to the rags I already had at home. [continue reading…]

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Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
— WS

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The Rolling Stones have given all of us decades of pleasure and joy … and hot sex after the show. But all those things are not going to be happening apres les Stones any longer. Below are three clips from the audience of the end of their latest tour and they are, well, scary.

Without any distance, sound reengineering, or snappy edits and filters you see exactly what the Stones can bring to the stage. It’s not a pretty picture. In fact, it would be better if these images could be retracted from the infinite image bank of the planet and then scrubbed from the cache. Alas, the same goes for the singing and the playing and the sound as well.

On the one hand, it is gratifying to see the Stones still trying to get up in The Groove. After all, they’ve helped make The Groove for so long. No longer. With this tour it’s clear to see that the Stones have not only lost a step, they’ve lost half the length of a football pitch.

I certainly hope they finally got the Satisfaction they needed from this tour, but it’s time for the caravan of “The Greatest Rock and Roll Band” to pack up its tents and silently fade away. The only thing they can do that is more damaging to their image and images than this tour would be another tour.

And… scene.

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Rantomatic #9: Eric Peters Types for Me


You’re in Good Hands With Elon. Right? Right

Imagine if your insurance company knew about it immediately every time you drove faster than any speed limit, anywhere. That you failed to come to a complete dead stop at every stop sign before proceeding – regardless of the need to come to a complete dead stop.

Every instance of seatbelt scofflawism.

That you drove eight hours straight to visit friends in another state; that last Thursday, you “accelerated aggressively” while trying to merge with traffic. That you turned off the traction control the other day – and squealed the tires.

And here comes the bill, custom-tailored just for you.

This is what Elon Musk has in mind next. The King of Mandated Business is getting into the insurance business – a logical thing since car insurance is the original mandated business that set the precedent for the rest of them. It’s an even better business than the electric car business because everyone has to buy car insurance, if they own a car – even if it’s not an electric car.

But Elon’s got a a new take on the business. Or rather, a new way to take.

He wants to base premiums not on your record – of accidents and claims – but on data about your driving, mined in real-time as you drive. Which, just by happy coincidence, his cars are fully equipped to provide.

Already do provide.

“The data is there,” smacked the lips of Matthew Edmonds – who is Teslian Head of Insurance, Elon’s new Underboss. “It’s all there; cameras in and all around your car; all of the data points are there.”

Elon knows all. He just hasn’t been able to monetize it, yet.

Wait. — RTWT AT You’re in Good Hands With Elon. Right? Right

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SITES TO SEE: These are a few of my favorite things

    • “We thought the facts didn’t matter.” U.S. Versus China | Belmont Club Ultimately the leadership of the 21st century will go to whichever society fixes the problem of information corruption first. If the West can rebuild its system of monetary and civilizational accounting then it can regain its vitality. Alternatively, China, with the memory of poverty and humiliation still vivid in living memory, may pay greater homage to the facts. If Western civilization fails this epitaph will be chiseled on its tombstone: “we thought the facts didn’t matter.”
    • Sold: A Country Ham for $1 Million – Gastro Obscura “Don’t stop to think now,” exhorted the auctioneer when the bids reached $900,000. “We left common sense long behind.” Just past five minutes into the auction, the ham sold for $1 million to Central Bank and the bank’s President and CEO, Luther Deaton.
    • Oh what a wicked web we weave… Design You Trust – The Source Of Inspiration NASA Once Fed Spiders Drugs And Then Watched As The Stoned Bugs Made “Deformed” Webs
    • Art Contrarian A blog about about painting, design and other aspects of aesthetics along with a dash of non-art topics. The point-of-view is that modernism in art is an idea that has, after a century or more, been thoroughly tested and found wanting. Not to say that it should be abolished — just put in its proper, diminished place.
    • Orion Magazine | Cosmic Fruit Ancient Chileans cultivated a walnut-sized beach strawberry, colored red or white or yellow. A spy smuggled these engorged berries to France in 1714; crossbreeding with tiny European species created most of the kinds we eat today. The prettiest-sounding are Brightmore, Klondike, Red Star, and Starbright. Pathfinder, Sparkle, and Temple are equally melodious. The Marshall, or Fragaria ananassa, was once touted as “the finest eating strawberry” in America.
    • Popular New Craft IPA Just Bottle Of Pine-Sol | The Babylon Bee

[continue reading…]

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Ram Dass: Another Ghost from My Youth Goin’ Down Slow


Crimson flames tied through my ears, rollin’ high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads using ideas as my maps
“We’ll meet on edges, soon, ” said I, proud ‘neath heated brow
Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now 

— Dylan

Somewhere in the ashes of my destroyed home there are the ashen flakes of a photograph I took of Ram Dass about 50 years back when we were working on the concept of taking “Be Here Now” photos.  The way that would work is that we’d confront each other with cameras at three feet and stare at each other until we felt the soul was fully present in the face and that the fake face we flash in photos was gone. Then we’d raise the camera and take one shot.  I took one of him and he took one of me and both are now gone into the smoke of the world. But Ram Dass and I seem to

have lingered in the chambers of the sea

Ram Dass, to his credit,  has been Ram Dass and not Richard Alpert for over 50 years. Me? I am still here stuck in my old shriven self, tired of being smart and looking for a wisdom that never seems to arrive.

All the people we used to know
They’re an illusion to me now
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenters’ wives
Don’t know how it all got started
I don’t know what they’re doin’ with their lives
But me, I’m still on the road
Headin’ for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point of view
Tangled up in blue

Ram Dass is ready to rock on right out of this world and wise enough to know it. Still, even now, he’s not yet wise enough or egoless enough to avoid being interviewed by a propaganda prick from the Throne of Lies known as The New York Times. Still, he doesn’t do badly against the punk.   Ram Dass Is Ready to Die – The New York Times

Well, along those lines, your belief is that the universe is unfolding perfectly. So how do we, as human beings, make sense of that perfection given the impending awful catastrophe of something like climate change?

Humans can have consciousness on two planes. For example, when you are a reporter at The Times, it’s a game. It’s a dance. How many people do you have to impress? It’s stuff like that. But the soul has in it the witness, and it witnesses our whole incarnation. The soul watches the game without judgment.

Am I playing the game the right way?

Um, no.

If you had an audience with President Trump, what advice would you give him that would be helpful to him in his job?

Identify with your soul.

That could take some work.

No.

No? Am I being unfairly judgmental?

On my puja table  is Donald Trump. When I look at his picture, I say to him, “I know you from your karma, and I don’t know you for your soul.” And I am compassionate about that soul because he has heavy karma.

“Be here now” is: In each moment, go into the moment. Our minds take us back and forth in time. I teach a moment. And I teach that we identify with the ego. The ego is a mind warp, and most people don’t identify with their soul. They’re worried about excess meaning. The soul witnesses the ego and witnesses thoughts. “Be here now” gives people an opportunity to reidentify outside of their thinking-mind ego and into that thing that’s called the soul. It is the perspective from which we could live a life without being caught so much in fear. To reidentify there is to change your whole life.

BE HERE NOW: FULL TEXT

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cornell.gif

UPDATE: Take Note: School’s in Session — First published in 2005, this item seems to get linked to various student sites whenever the colleges come back into session. So here it is again as part of our public service.

Taking better notes requires having better tools. Of all the various note-taking systems I’ve used over the years, the best, by far, is “The Cornell Note Taking System” which was created by Walter Pauk, an emeritus professor at Cornell.

Deceptively simple, the Cornell System supplies an armature that both organizes notes and encourages review and summarization. I use it for reading, research, and for planning and organizing projects from the simple to the complex.

As an added advantage, I find that rigorous use of the Cornell system also aids and improves memory.

For a long time, I’ve used the templates here as the basis of notes. When I run low, I just have my printer  spew out a few dozen. Having a pre-printed form for notes creates, I’ve discovered, better notes in the long run — and it makes them more useful when you need to refer to them.

I’m making my templates available for free on the Web today in downloadable PDF format. You can use them as you wish and distribute them as you will. All I ask is that you pass them along as is.

The three files are:
1)    CornellNoteSystem.pdf <— (40kb)     This is the classic explanation how the note forms are used and in what order complete with graphic examples. This is essential if the system is to work for you. If you post these forms on another site, make sure this file is always included, otherwise the forms won’t make immediate sense to the user.

2)     CornellNotesPlain.pdf <— (16kb)    The Cornell Note System formatted for printing on blank paper. US Letter Size. Make sure to select “Fit to Page” from the Adobe Reader Print Menu.

3)     CornellNotesGraph.pdf <— (16kb)    The same structure but with a light 1/4″ graph background for those who like some structure behind the structure. US Letter Size. Make sure to select “Fit to Page” from the Adobe Reader Print Menu.

That’s it. And, take note, the gift must move. Pass them on.

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When I lived in the Norman Rockwell New England Small Town world, one of the most frequent conversation starters down at the Norman Rockwellesque (No kidding.) General Store with its ( I ain’t joking.) pot-bellied stove was, “Did ya git yer wood in?” This meant, “Winter is incoming in and you’ll need heat. Did  you have enough foresight to cut a couple of woodpiles or enough money to buy a couple to be dumped in your driveway so you could stack it where you’d dig it out after the first big snow.” Gittin’ yer wood in meant you could survive the coming winter. Woodpile Report is a  lot like that. Fuel to keep you warm as the nation slides deeper and deeper into the forthcoming “Game of Thrones Winter.”

Policy: Ol’ Remus offers his opinions as-is, where is. He rarely cites support for his opinions so they are, in that sense, unwarranted. He comes by them largely by having lived and watched and listened rather than by argument or persuasion. His opinions, not having been arrived at by debate are, therefore, not particularly vulnerable to debate. He entertains opposing opinion but he feels no inclination, much less obligation, to discuss or defend his own. Whatever usefulness or amusement readers may find in them is their own business….

The handmade Remus Woodpile is one of those standing stones of stability that do not change in a web noted for its unceasing clumps of clutter and crap served up by the minute.

In a vain attempt to keep up just with the sites I care about I scan more than 150 sites every morning via the Feedly service, but the Woodpile is so vital and interesting that I don’t even keep it on Feedly. It’s one of those select sites whose place and pace you know by heart. Hence, my heart says “It’s Tuesday and there must be a new Woodpile. Let’s go over and see all the important things you missed when you were looking for myself out there.”

Woodpile is my kind of site, one that is all too rare in this epoch of endless ads and jams and notices of cookies, and cookie-cooked notices asking if I want notifications, and the lebenty-leventh bleg for me to sign up for their newsletters to tell me what I am seeing on the site I am already at. Oh, and please turn off your adblocker and refresh so we can load your page with so much junk it will slow the loading to a crawl….  (Sheesh!  No wonder the Ponzi ad scheme of Googletising is sinking into the melting mire of Googlepowered gobbledegook.)

Woodpile Report is from the Hermetic School of websites. There is no advertising, no partnerships, log-ins, popups, subscriptions, print version, Disqus, feedback section, tip jar or shop. There are no trackers, cookies, LSOs, analytics or widgets. Posted links are cleansed of superfluous identifiers.

Although the sentiment warms Remus’s tiny little heart, Woodpile Report has no mechanism for receiving donations or gifts, nor does he accept them by subterfuge.

Woodpile Report does not maintain an archive. Some issues linger on the server until Remus gets around to deleting them. Don’t confuse Woodpile Report with a blog. It isn’t. It’s an olde tymme internet site made by hand and archives are a dispensable chore.

All these curmudgeonly policies warm the curdled cockles of my own curmudgeonly heart. When, on sad occasions when Remus does not stack the Woodpile weekly, I miss it as do others. We all wonder where we’d go to “git yer wood in” if not the Woodpile. Here’s just one of the standard features of the pile… [continue reading…]

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The Drawer Horror

Some years ago I was visiting an old friend in Florida. This pal (A large man who is actually “a sensitive little forest flower.”) loves boats and boating and maintained two, count ‘em, two homes in Florida set up for boating.

The first home was his main base in Ft. Lauderdale. It was a three-bedroom two-bath operation with a swimming pool, an office, and a long boat dock where he kept “the big boat.”

The second home was a smaller house set up on stilts down in the depths of the Florida Keys twenty miles above Key West with two bedrooms, one bath, and a boat dock on a canal where he kept “the little boat.”

Since he used the Keys only now and then throughout the year he decided to rent it out. In time he rented the house for a year to a well-vetted dependable man with good references. When I visited him that lease was up and he and I went to the Keys house to check it out. A day or so before we arrived my pal had a house cleaner go in and change all the bedding and spiff up the rest of the house.

When we got there I went into the guest bedroom to unpack my things into the chest of drawers. As I opened the bottom drawer I found the renter or one of his guests had left some underwear and t-shirts in the bottom drawer. Under them, the same person has left behind a large, realistic, and battery-powered dildo in a plastic bag with some suspicious smears on the inside. Moving the switch around inside the bag without touching the dildo I determined that the batteries were, to say the least, fresh. Like Elvis’s King Creole that dildo was “jumpin’ like a catfish on a pole.”

Even though he is a manly man my pal is also a very sensitive little forest flower. The least hint of some sort of object that had spent party time somewhere inside a person’s body fills him with shivering, visceral loathing. My pal took one look at my “discovery” and walked shivering into the kitchen. He returned with his hands in rubber gloves holding a pair of kitchen tongs.

He gingerly picked up the bag containing the dildo with the tongs and then, holding it as far away from himself as possible, walked down the stairs to the carport and dropped the offensive package into the garbage can. He then dropped the tongs into the garbage can. He then removed his rubber gloves, dropped them in the can, and then – still shivering with loathing and muttering to himself — went back upstairs and took a long hot shower followed by an emergency cocktail. Like I said, “sensitive.”

Because I was an old friend who understood and deeply respected his “dildo issues,” I promptly snuck down to the garbage cans, retrieved the dildo in the bag, switched it to off, and hid it in my luggage.

Several days later, with the dildo incident forgotten (except for my pal’s repeated declaration he would NEVER EVER rent out the Keys house again), we returned to Fort Lauderdale. After arriving my pal announced he was going to run to the store to pick up some groceries. I nodded and waved from my perch on the couch in the living room and watched him drive off down the street.

Then I got up and took the bagged dildo out of my luggage and went into his office. I slid open the drawer on the right-hand side of his desk and emptied its contents, hiding them in the next drawer down. I then placed the bagged dildo into the empty drawer and turned it on. Closing the drawer I was pleased to note a faint but perceptible hummmmm and vibration from the desk.

Then I went back out to the couch, picked up a magazine and waited.

Soon my pal returned with a bag of groceries. Nodded to me as he came in.

“Hey, man, there was a phone call on your office line. Probably left a message.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.” Walks into the office.

My mind says, “Wait for it… Wait for it…”

Suddenly a most unmanly scream comes wafting out of the office into the living room. My pal appears, trembling, pale, and shocked. “Out!….. Get. It. Out.  Now….. Please… I’m begging you.

Weeping from laughter, I walk into the office and glance down into the open drawer where I can see the powered up dildo shaking and moving in a circle on the bottom of the drawer. I pick up the bag by the corner and display it to him. He is glowering at me and standing by the back door pointing to the garbage can. I go out and ceremoniously drop it in…. vibrating all the way down.

He’s back in the kitchen. Boiling water. It will take three quarts of water and two scrubbing with Brillo soap pads until he’s satisfied that the drawer in his desk is finally purged of Dildo Cooties.

In a couple of days, I leave. The next year I’m back. In his office one day I absently pull open the right-hand top drawer of his desk. There’s a liner on the bottom and nothing else in the drawer.

As I said, my pal is a very sensitive little forest flower.

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WHEN THINGS get so balled up that the people of a country got to cut loose from some other country, and go it on their own hook, without asking no permission from nobody, excepting maybe God Almighty, then they ought to let everybody know why they done it, so that everybody can see they are not trying to put nothing over on nobody.

All we got to say on this proposition is this: first, me and you is as good as anybody else, and maybe a damn sight better; second, nobody ain’t got no right to take away none of our rights; third, every man has got a right to live, to come and go as he pleases, and to have a good time whichever way he likes, so long as he don’t interfere with nobody else. That any government that don’t give a man them rights ain’t worth a damn; also, people ought to choose the kind of government they want themselves, and nobody else ought to have no say in the matter. That whenever any government don’t do this, then the people have got a right to give it the bum’s rush and put in one that will take care of their interests. Of course, that don’t mean having a revolution every day like them South American yellow-bellies, or every time some jobholder goes to work and does something he ain’t got no business to do. It is better to stand a little graft, etc., than to have revolutions all the time, and any man that wasn’t a anarchist or one of them I.W.W.’s would say the same. But when things get so bad that a man ain’t hardly got no rights at all no more, but you might almost call him a slave, then everybody ought to get together and throw the grafters out, and put in new ones who won’t carry on so high and steal so much, and then watch them. This is the proposition the people of these Colonies is up against, and they have got tired of it, and won’t stand it no more. The administration of the present King, George III, has been rotten from the start, and when anybody kicked about it he always tried to get away with it by strong-arm work. Here is some of the rough stuff he has pulled:

He vetoed bills in the Legislature that everybody was in favor of, and hardly nobody was against.

He wouldn’t allow no law to be passed without it was first put up to him, and then he stuck it in his pocket and let on he forgot about it, and didn’t pay no attention to no kicks.

When people went to work and gone to him and asked him to put through a law about this or that, he give them their choice: either they had to shut down the Legislature and let him pass it all by himself, or they couldn’t have it at all.

He made the Legislature meet at one-horse tank-towns, so that hardly nobody could get there and most of the leaders would stay home and let him go to work and do things like he wanted. [continue reading…]

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How Trump Handles the Crack-Pipe Media

Elsewhere on this no-Labor Day the indefatigable Roger L. Simon notes inElection 2020: Will America Be the New China? Apocalyptic as it may sound, if you love freedom, election 2020 is becoming the last chance to stem the tide. I hate to place my hopes in

the Great Vulgarian

—or in any single man or woman for that matter—but at this point, there is no alternative, not even remotely.

To which I replied: “Trump’s not that, even though he plays one on Chopper Press Conference TV. Instead, he’s like Bugs in the great pie-fight cartoon…”

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Let’s Review: Immigration, World Poverty and Gumballs

And this, this, was made 23 years ago in 1996.

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Boomer Recessionals: American Pie

The meaning of American Pie in words and images in case you’ve missed it the first 500 times you’ve heard it.

The creator, lonestarsound, notes in 2007:

This is a revision to previously posted videos. I was fortunate enough to go to the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake IA and speak firsthand with many who were there including Tommy Allsup who flipped the coin with Ritchie Valens. This version corrects some factual errors and includes new footage from the SURF.

Interesting enough but this video also strikes a lot of chords with me as I watch it.

In a strange series of events not worth contemplating at this late date, I was present at a number of the scenes alluded to and, if I wasn’t present, was keenly and sharply aware of others as they occurred.  In a pool of nostalgia, I recall mostly — on just a cursory viewing  —  the time spent with Janis and that day at Altamont at the butt end of the 60s.

And then there was  The Family Dog and Fillmore West before there was a Fillmore East.

And before that, I was a paperboy.

And after that, I slow danced in the gym with this and that wallflower and the six-inch ruler. Pony skirts and petticoats.

And I had a white sport coat and a pink carnation and white bucks. And the bag you patted them with.

And I drove the old Hudson to the levee of the Sacramento River with my pals and a case of the cheapest green beer you could cadge from a hobo down by Skid Row.

And I had a bit part in Richard II and was rehearsing the assassination scene in the mockup of the Globe Theater in Davis, California when the phone rang backstage and somebody told me the President has been assassinated in Dallas.

And decades later was working on a film with John Lennon when John was assassinated.

And decades before that there were the pre-LSD years spent with the Free Speech Movement at Sproul Hall and later the Vietnam Day Committee.

And then there was People’s Park and the street riots with shotguns and the National Guard and the tear gas from the helicopters.

And then the Altamont concert with the Angels and the beatings and the clubbings with the pool cues and then the flashed gun and then the knife.

And then the long walk out into the night with the bonfires on the crests of the Altamont hills looking like some strange throwback to the marches of the middle ages at night with strange gawky creatures dancing like shadows in front of the fires…

And then that was the end of my Sixties. It was, after all, December of 1969.

They say that if you remember the Sixties you weren’t there. My curse is that I was there and I remember everything.

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Imperceptibly, through decades of gradual erosion, the meaning of life in the West has ceased to be seen as anything more lofty than the “pursuit of happiness, “a goal that has even been solemnly guaranteed by constitutions. The concepts of good and evil have been ridiculed for several centuries; banished from common use, they have been replaced by political or class considerations of short lived value. It has become embarrassing to state that evil makes its home in the individual human heart before it enters a political system. Yet it is not considered shameful to make dally concessions to an integral evil. Judging by the continuing landslide of concessions made before the eyes of our very own generation, the West is ineluctably slipping toward the abyss. Western societies are losing more and more of their religious essence as they thoughtlessly yield up their younger generation to atheism. If a blasphemous film about Jesus is shown throughout the United States, reputedly one of the most religious countries in the world, or a major newspaper publishes a shameless caricature of the Virgin Mary, what further evidence of godlessness does one need? When external rights are completely unrestricted, why should one make an inner effort to restrain oneself from ignoble acts?

Or why should one refrain from burning hatred, whatever its basis—race, class, or ideology? Such hatred is in fact corroding many hearts today. Atheist teachers in the West are bringing up a younger generation in a spirit of hatred of their own society. Amid all the vituperation we forget that the defects of capitalism represent the basic flaws of human nature, allowed unlimited freedom together with the various human rights; we forget that under Communism (and Communism is breathing down the neck of all moderate forms of socialism, which are unstable) the identical flaws run riot in any person with the least degree of authority; while everyone else under that system does indeed attain “equality”—the equality of destitute slaves. This eager fanning of the flames of hatred is becoming the mark of today’s free world. Indeed, the broader the personal freedoms are, the higher the level of prosperity or even of abundance–the more vehement, paradoxically, does this blind hatred become. The contemporary developed West thus demonstrates by its own example that human salvation can be found neither in the profusion of material goods nor in merely making money.

This deliberately nurtured hatred then spreads to all that is alive, to life itself, to the world with its colors, sounds, and shapes, to the human body. The embittered art of the twentieth century is perishing as a result of this ugly hate, for art is fruitless without love. In the East art has collapsed because it has been knocked down and trampled upon, but in the West the fall has been voluntary, a decline into a contrived and pretentious quest where the artist, instead of attempting to reveal the divine plan, tries to put himsef in the place of God.

Here again we witness the single outcome of a worldwide process, with East and West yielding the same results, and once again for the same reason: Men have forgotten God.

With such global events looming over us like mountains, nay, like entire mountain ranges, it may seem incongruous and inappropriate to recall that the primary key to our being or non-being resides in each individual human heart, in the heart’s preference for specific good or evil. Yet this remains true even today, and it is, in fact, the most reliable key we have. The social theories that promised so much have demonstrated their bankruptcy, leaving us at a dead end. The free people of the West could reasonably have been expected to realize that they are beset · by numerous freely nurtured falsehoods, and not to allow lies to be foisted upon them so easily. All attempts to find a way out of the plight of today’s world are fruitless unless we redirect our consciousness, in repentance, to the Creator of all: without this, no exit will be illumined, and we shall seek it in vain. The resources we have set aside for ourselves are too impoverished for the task. We must first recognize the horror perpetrated not by some outside force, not by class or national enemies, but within each of us individually, and within every society. This is especially true of a free and highly developed society, for here in particular we have surely brought everything upon ourselves, of our own free will. We ourselves, in our daily unthinking selfishness, are pulling tight that noose…

Our life consists not in the pursuit of material success but in the quest for worthy spiritual growth. Our entire earthly existence is but a transitional stage in the movement toward something higher, and we must not stumble and fall, nor must we linger fruitlessly on one rung of the ladder. Material laws alone do not explain our life or give it direction. The laws of physics and physiology will never reveal the indisputable manner in which the Creator constantly, day in and day out, participates in the life of each of us, unfailingly granting us the energy of existence; when this assistance leaves us, we die. And in the life of our entire planet, the Divine Spirit surely moves with no less force: this we must grasp in our dark and terrible hour.

To the ill-considered hopes of the last two centuries, which have reduced us to insignificance and brought us to the brink of nuclear and non-nuclear death, we can propose only a determined quest for the warm hand of God, which we have so rashly and self-confidently spurned. Only in this way can our eyes be opened to the errors of this unfortunate twentieth century and our bands be directed to setting them right. There is nothing else to cling to in the landslide: the combined vision of all the thinkers of the Enlightenment amounts to nothing.

Our five continents are caught in a whirlwind. But it is during trials such as these that the highest gifts of the human spirit are manifested. If we perish and lose this world, the fault will be ours alone.

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Breaking Bad My Way

As fate would have it I started binge-watching this program list night. And then this morning…. here it is. Isn’t it nice when the universe picks up its cue?

Via the ever-populat Chris Lynch at A Large Regular: My Way – Breaking Bad Style

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Woke America, Donald Is Giving You A Piggyback Ride

Terrible Kitchen Designs. No. Really Terrible.


It used to be an old salt mine dating all the way back to the 17th century. Before mining stopped back in 1932 Salina Turda excavated over 3 billion tons of salt, and since then the place has been a little bit of everything from a cheese storage facility to a bomb shelter. It was then renovated into an awesome amusement park back in 2009, and has since become a popular tourist attraction.  Some of the attractions include an underground theme park, equipped with an amphitheater, Ferris wheel, mini golf course, and a lake complete with rowboats.

A Kennedy launches a campaign to tell us little people to quit eating hamburgers and buying cheap cashmere sweaters   Message from the jet-tour princess touting her book in Telluride: Leave that stuff to us rich. Gruel for you, keep the rich stuff exclusively for the rich. It reads like a crie de coeur from the elites, desperate to end the prosperity of Americans and for that matter, much of the world, and restore it all to its rightful place, which is exclusively with the rich. The superrich, after all, have got to be angry at all the encroachments the proles have made on their lifestyle, taking ski vacations as if they were rich people, eating meat every night the way the Vanderbilts used to do, and putting on all those soft Mongolian cheapies to stay warm.

The Tattooed Venus And The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo   Betty Broadbent was said to have had 465 tattoos, including the largest known at that time, a Madonna and Child on her back. She was also decorated with images of pilot Charles Lindbergh, patriotic flags and emblems including the American eagle.

Dave Chappelle Calls Out Cancel Culture: You Are the ‘Worst Motherf**kers I’ve Ever Tried to Entertain’

The Only Equal End    A world without truth is a world where nothing is false. This is the ultimate equality, where everything is opinion and all opinion is equally worthless. While the Left may seem irrational, they are acting on that old Enlightenment impulse to achieve universal equality. If we cannot be equal in the utopian paradise of our own making, we can be equal in the utter and complete destruction of society. After all, the one place where all men are equal is in the cemetery.

Losing the ‘Narrative’ Narrative?     So, the New York Times did not give a rats’™ rear end about 1619, and the way African slavery became intertwined with American history, until their “Russia, Russia, Russia” lie was fully exposed and politically negated. They were now staring into the abyss of their fellow conspirators being exposed, and perhaps even criminally charged before the 2020 election.

What I Learned in the Peace Corps in Africa: Trump Is Right   All the little stores in Senegal were owned by Mauritanians. If a Senegalese wanted to run a little store, he’d go to another country. The reason? Your friends and relatives would ask you for stuff for free, and you would have to say yes. End of your business. You are not allowed to be a selfish individual and say no to relatives. The result: Everyone has nothing. Americans think it is a universal human instinct to do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  It’s not.  It seems natural to us because we live in a Bible-based Judeo-Christian culture.

We think the Protestant work ethic is universal.  It’s not.  My town was full of young men doing nothing.  They were waiting for a government job.  There was no private enterprise.  Private business was not illegal, just impossible, given the nightmare of a third-world bureaucratic kleptocracy.  It is also incompatible with Senegalese insistence on taking care of relatives.

The New Woke Marxism: Penicillin-Resistant Ideology    The Big Con is on. Once again magical Marxists are out in force. They make almost believable arguments based on almost-believable facts. The young, the unsuspecting, these are the targets. Still, to hold onto their naive prey the Marxists need more than just a good story. They must confuse and disrupt all opposition. Having sowed the seeds of dissension and distrust on the large economic issues they can proceed to create paranoia in the primary social structures that sustain life. Sexual schizophrenia becomes a cause celeb; abortion rights for transgender men becomes an important policy position of the major leftward party. That working-class income has been rising rapidly under conservative leadership must be trivialized.

edgarwright on Twitter: “You cannot nuke a hurricane for obvious reasons. The resulting shockwaves could reverberate into space, shatter the Phantom Zone and release galactic criminals into our atmosphere who may then try to invade Earth. I can’t believe this is even a discussion.”

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