REMUS: James Lileks “gets” the way I feel about web sites lately.
To give you the best possible experience, this site sticks as many ads and popups and social media crap as possible on the page, making it impossible to read the piece, and if you do succeed in getting interested, allow this huge ad that lurks behind the copy to completely detail your attention… it’s like reading a book that has spring-mounted fingers that jump out and give you wet willy.
Popups and blackouts and slide-overs and autoplay videos in the corner—gack. There are times when I exit rather than search for the hidden click-offs. There are sites so out of control I don’t go to them anymore. Behind every popup—Free Book!—there’s another popup—Subscribe!—and the last popup demands I turn off a filter. Cookies or something. I’m outta there.
Stop. Just stop. Just because you can be obnoxious doesn’t mean you have to be. Why not go into the robo-call business and be done with it?
The current favorite is, “We notice you’re using an ad blocker”. Why yes I am, and I had so hoped you wouldn’t mind how I configure my PC. Then they tell me to whitelist them or else. Next they’ll demand I log in … oh, wait. So, zap! I’m Gone. There are times when I’m shopping that I go elsewhere because there’s the same popup on every page, usually offering to email me every day with sales pitches. How ’bout I let you pull out my fingernails instead? Ol’Remus at Woodpile Report
A couple of days back some demented slag accused Trump of raping her in a Bergdorf Goodman’s dressing room sometime back before World War One… or something like that. It was the standard Kavanaugh/Trump horror story du jour for somewhat less than a jour. Today sharp-memoried experts in second-rate television remembered something stinky and familiar from Law and Order SVU, Season 13, Episode 11.
“Justice Gorsuch’s concurring opinion in this case is laced with wittily incisive discussions of where the law has wound up in the area of The Establishment Clause by allowing, it is important to note, in some cases but not in all cases, a person who is offended by seeing something, as in this case, a 94-year-old memorial to that area’s dead from World War I, to be permitted to claim “standing” to sue in a Federal Court for relief. Here is the way he opened his treatment of this “doctrine,” leaving little or no doubt of how foolish he thought the whole idea was…”
The American Humanist Association wants a federal court to order the destruction of a 94-year-old war memorial because its members are offended. Today, the Court explains that the plaintiffs are not entitled to demand the destruction of longstanding monuments, and I find muchof its opinion compelling.
The Association claims that its members “regularly” come into “unwelcome direct contact” with a World War I memorial cross in Bladensburg, Maryland “while driving in the area.”And this, the Association suggests, is enough to allow it to insist on a federal judicial decree ordering the memorial’s removal. Maybe, the Association concedes, others who are less offended lack standing to sue. Maybe others still who are equally affected but who come into contact with the memorial too infrequently lack standing as well. But, the Association assures us, its members are offended enough –and with sufficient frequency –that they may sue. This “offended observer” theory of standing has no basis in law… [click to continue…]
It’s going to be the “Summertime” Issue of American Digest for a bit. That means, especially after the last seven months, this page will not be updated daily as usual but will, I suppose, languish at times as do I in the wake of all that has happened since last November 8. For the present, I am in recovery from the past.
To announce this shift in a way that was a little bit entertaining and more than a little bit irritating I thought I’d find a clip of The Jamies obsessive/compulsive ring-a-ding-doo-wop ditty from the Stone Age of Rock, “Summertime, Summertime” (Otherwise known as “Earworm in a Can.”)
YouTube, as usual, did not disappoint and served up this ancient artifact of long extinct teens dancing in a disappeared studio on an evaporated afternoon to a tune now mostly, and gratefully, forgotten.
While looking at this odd clip, I noticed that it used visuals that had been melting, fuzzing out, and otherwise degrading until snapped up into this current digital version. Looking at these dancing shadows and time-smudged images was like gazing into the pool of my own dissolving memory; one more than 50 years old. I would have been 13 in 1958 and it was likely that I actually watched this on my family’s old and large black and white television. In some long ago suburban home that still survives but with a different family. One that today seems to have an inordinate love for rock gardens. [click to continue…]
There be those who say that things and places have souls, and there be those who say they have not; I dare not say, myself, but I will tell of The Street.
Men of strength and honour fashioned that Street; good, valiant men of our blood who had come from the Blessed Isles across the sea. At first it was but a path trodden by bearers of water from the woodland spring to the cluster of houses by the beach. Then, as more men came to the growing cluster of houses and looked about for places to dwell, they built cabins along the north side; cabins of stout oaken logs with masonry on the side toward the forest, for many Indians lurked there with fire-arrows. And in a few years more, men built cabins on the south side of The Street.
Up and down The Street walked grave men in conical hats, who most of the time carried muskets or fowling pieces. And there were also their bonneted wives and sober children. In the evening these men with their wives and children would sit about gigantic hearths and read and speak. Very simple were the things of which they read and spoke, yet things which gave them courage and goodness and helped them by day to subdue the forest and till the fields. And the children would listen, and learn of the laws and deeds of old, and of that dear England which they had never seen, or could not remember.
There was war, and thereafter no more Indians troubled The Street. The men, busy with labour, waxed prosperous and as happy as they knew how to be. And the children grew up comfortably, and more families came from the Mother Land to dwell on The Street. And the children’s children, and the newcomers’ children, grew up. The town was now a city, and one by one the cabins gave place to houses; simple, beautiful houses of brick and wood, with stone steps and iron railings and fanlights over the doors. No flimsy creations were these houses, for they were made to serve many a generation. Within there were carven mantels and graceful stairs, and sensible, pleasing furniture, china, and silver, brought from the Mother Land.
So The Street drank in the dreams of a young people, and rejoiced as its dwellers became more graceful and happy. Where once had been only strength and honour, taste and learning now abode as well. Books and paintings and music came to the houses, and the young men went to the university which rose above the plain to the north. In the place of conical hats and muskets there were three-cornered hats and small-swords, and lace and snowy periwigs. And there were cobblestones over which clattered many a blooded horse and rumbled many a gilded coach; and brick sidewalks with horse blocks and hitching-posts. [click to continue…]
Believe in me, baby, and I’ll take you away
From out of this darkness and into the day
From these rivers of headlights, these rivers of rain
From the anger that lives on the streets with these names
Cause I’ve run every red light on memory lane
I’ve seen desperation explode into flames
And I don’t want to see it again
From all of these signs saying,
“Sorry, but we’re closed”
All the way
Down the telegraph road
The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite, perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries. In the center of each gallery is a ventilation shaft, bounded by a low railing. From any hexagon one can see the floors above and below-one after another, endlessly. The arrangement of the galleries is always the same: Twenty bookshelves, five to each side, line four of the hexagon’s six sides; the height of the bookshelves, floor to ceiling, is hardly greater than the height of a normal librarian. One of the hexagon’s free sides opens onto a narrow sort of vestibule, which in turn opens onto another gallery, identical to the first-identical in fact to all. To the left and right of the vestibule are two tiny compartments. One is for sleeping, upright; the other, for satisfying one’s physical necessities. Through this space, too, there passes a spiral staircase, which winds upward and downward into the remotest distance. In the vestibule there is a mirror, which faithfully duplicates appearances. Men often infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite-if it were, what need would there be for that illusory replication? I prefer to dream that burnished surfaces are a figuration and promise of the infinite. . . . Light is provided by certain spherical fruits that bear the name “bulbs.” There are two of these bulbs in each hexagon, set crosswise. The light they give is insufficient, and unceasing. — Borges, The Library of Babel
The unique culture of Japanese convenience stores “A convenience store is not merely a place where customers come to buy practical necessities,” said Furukura in the novel’s opening pages. “It has to be somewhere they can enjoy and take pleasure in discovering things they like.”
Florida man steals mail truck leading to a pursuit up I-95, deputies say The suspect intentionally swerved and drove the mail truck directly toward the deputy. Estep missed the deputy and swerved the trick toward a different FCSO deputy who was attempting to lay out more stop sticks. Then, when the back tire of the truck struck a stop stick and the suspect lost control of the mail carrier. The suspect overcorrected, causing the truck to crash into a guardrail and flip.
Modern smart devices are purposely designed to be operated even by an idiot. Technology has allowed the burden of intelligence to be shifted away from the user to the machine. As a result people routinely use tools they barely understand implicitly believing they will work. It works but there’s a danger. As Arthur C. Clarke famously observed, “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”. In our high technology present an increasing percentage of the global population must relate to their world in terms of magic.— Richard Fernandez, The Coming Age of Magic
==*==*==*== from The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester: CHAPTER TWO
BETWEEN MARS AND JUPITER is spread the broad belt of the asteroids. Of the thousands, known and unknown, most unique to the Freak Century was the Sargasso Asteroid, a tiny planet manufactured of natural rock and wreckage salvaged by its inhabitants in the course of two hundred years.
They were savages, the only savages of the twenty-fourth century; descendants of a research team of scientists that had been lost and marooned in the asteroid belt two centuries before when their ship had failed. By the time their descendants were rediscovered they had built up a world and a culture of their own, and preferred to remain in space, salvaging and spoiling, and practicing a barbaric travesty of the scientific method they remembered from their forebears. They called themselves The Scientific People. The world promptly forgot them. [click to continue…]
Strange female with a crew-cut at 1:26:“Um, I thought I was gonna be reading Facebook posts all day, so people going, you know, everybody posts their business on Facebook, so I was gonna read everybody’s stuff and then be able to, you know, decide if it has to stay up or come down, so, I thought it would be a fun job.”
Quiet’s dangerous. We live in a world of bluster. But then again, some people don’t have any fear, and play it half as fast and half as loud as the others. You can’t look away, when it’s quiet like that. — Sippican Cottage
As fate often had it in those dear dead hippie days beyond recall, I was in the booth watching and listening long ago when the great Glyn Johns was producing “Willow” with Joan Armatrading. His largest problem with getting the take was getting Joan to overcome her innate shyness — even in the studio. To “come out from behind the piano, dear,” and address the microphone.
This vid might be from that session — it was long ago, and my old brain fades — but it shows how a singer can shape a song by surrounding the silences. It’s an amazing clip. Through the microexpressions on her face, you can track her mapping, thinking, feeling, reaching within, and then shaping the song around the silences.
In those sessions and others, it was Glyn Johns’ habit to let the song begin, listen to the first few bars, and then shut the whole thing down by punching up his mike and saying, “Sorry. Not sold.” Then the band would begin again and… “Sorry. Not sold.” and… then again “Sorry. Not sold.”, and…
As I recall it, once this take started he just let everything roll.
Come running to me
When things get out of hand
Running to me
When it’s more than you can stand
I said I’m strong
To be a
In a storm
Your willow oh willow
When the sun is out
“Communism is not new. It is, in fact, man’s second oldest faith. Its promise was whispered in the first days of the Creation under the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil: “Ye shall be as gods.” It is the great alternative faith of mankind. Like all great faiths, its force derives from a simple vision. Other ages have had great visions. They have always been different versions of the same vision: the vision of God and man’s relationship to God. The Communist vision is the vision of Man without God.
“It is the vision of man’s mind displacing God as the creative intelligence of the world. It is the vision of man’s liberated mind, by the sole force of its rational intelligence, redirecting man’s destiny and reorganizing man’s life and the world. It is the vision of man, once more the central figure of the Creation, not because God made man in his image, but because man’s mind makes him the most intelligent of the animals. Copernicus and his successors displaced man as the central fact of the universe by proving that the earth was not the central star of the universe. Communism restores man to his sovereignty by the simple method of denying God.” — Whittaker Chambers
Most children are afraid of the dark. I know that I was. Parents who are too tough deny you the nightlight or the cracked door letting in a distant glow from the front room or from downstairs. Parents who are too kind leave the door ajar or plug in the nightlight. A lot of parents, tough or kind, help you learn a prayer familiar to hundreds of millions of people:
“Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake….”
It is not clear that the prayer helps allay the fear of the dark and of death in that dark, but as children we learn it anyway. It is probably the first prayer that is learned. Its lesson is that, parent or child, we are hostage to fortune or to His ineffable will. Being bound to His will is one of the most fundamental calisthenics of faith.
Most children remain afraid of the dark but learn not to admit it. At some point, you are instructed to grow out of it. You become an adult; no longer a slave to childish fears without foundations. You tell yourself, “I’m not afraid of the dark.” You’re lying but, like so many other lies that let you get through the day, you lie this lie for so long that you forget it is what it is; a lie.
I feared the dark as a child and when I grew to be a man I still felt uneasy when consigned to a room that was “too dark.” I developed some manly and not-so-manly methods for mitigating the dark — light curtains, dim baseboard night lights in the hallway, falling asleep with the television on a timer, votive candles, the whole inventory, the entire catastrophe. After some years of sleeping safe within these rituals and relics, I forgot that I was, in the core of my being, still afraid of the dark; afraid that “I should die before I wake.”
The Interface –for my father, Albert John Van der Leun
The empty rituals and dusty opulence
of the nightmare’s obvious ending dwindle,
and the sounds of departing automobiles
fade into the humm beyond the cul-de-sac.
Inside the house, my mother sits quietly,
surrounded by the plates of finger food
that everybody brought and no one ate,
and wonders if she should begin to take
his clothes from the closet and call the Goodwill.
Some blocks away, the minister hangs
his vestments on a peg, and goes to lunch.
I drive the Skyway to the town named Paradise,
park his car at the canyon’s rim, and sit awhile
in the hot silence of the afternoon looking out
at the far Sierras where, in June, the winter lingers.
On the seat beside me, a well-taped cardboard cube
contains what remains of my father. I climb out
and, taking the cube under my arm, begin to climb
down the canyon’s lava wall to the stream below.
The going is slow, but we get to the bottom by and by
and sitting on some moss, we rest awhile, the cube and I,
beside the snow-chilled stream.
The place we have come to is where the pines lean out
from the rounded boulders lodged above the stream;
where what the stream saves builds up in the backwater,
making in the mounds of matter an inventory of the year:
Rusted tins slumped under the fallen sighs of weeds,
diminishing echoes of the blackbird’s gliding wings,
laughs buoyed in the hollow belly of stunted trees,
gears, tires, the bones of birds, brilliant pebbles,
the rasping whoosh of leaf fall crushed to dust,
the thunk of bone on bark, the thud of earth on wood,
the silence of soft ash scattered on chill waters.
And in such silence, he fades forever.
The stream, its waters revolving round
through river, ocean, clouds, and rain,
bears away the hands and eyes,
but still the memory remains,
answering, in pantomime,
the questions never asked:
Are these reflections but the world without,
carried on but never borne onward, westward,
towards sunlight glazed on sea’s thigh?
Or are such frail forms shaped upon the waters all
the things that are, and we above immersed in air
the forms that fade, only the mere mirrors of the stream?
Is this life all that is and, once life lost,
the end of all that was, with nothing
left to be, with no pine wind to taste,
nor sun to dapple mind with dream?
Is all that is but ash dissolving,
our lives mere rain in circles falling?
Or are we still the center of such circles,
our fall a rise above the shawl of night,
where all shall shine contained within
that single soul, that heart of stars;
that interface where souls and suns
and Earth’s far scattered waters meet?
Meet in that one hand whose palm
still remains held out forever,
held out and for forever holding us
even in the coldest light of day.
“They are with me still, real in memory as they were in flesh, loving and beloved forever.”
“Why don’t we say to people reach out and take it. It can be yours. What else are you going to do with your life than live in that inheritance and play a part in it? And even if you don’t see a part of it that you can play in it at least help it to keep going. Don’t make your generation the final chapter.”
Heimatsicherheitsdeinst (literally, Homeland Security) and TSA
have nothing to do with “catching terrorists” and everything to do with habituating people to arbitrary authority and routine degradation by government goons – so as to make them feel the same way that prisoners feel – I get the deer-in-the-headlights face from most of them.
I then go on to ask them whether they think it is beyond the means and capabilities of real “terrorists” to charter a plane.
The whole thing is absurd – and evil almost beyond words. Perhaps the worst part is the willing complicity of so many people – from the TSA geeks themselves (no one puts a gun to their head; they could seek honest work that didn’t involve treating their fellow Americans like cattle on the way to Treblinka – and that’s no coincidence, either) to the people who don’t have to fly to keep their jobs/feed their families – but do it anyhow. If even 10 percent of “optional” flyers had refused to fly until the TSA was abolished, the TSA would be abolished. But most people will not inconvenience themselves in the least to take a stand for the right thing. Reader Question: Why Don’t “Terrorists” Fly Private? – EPautos – Libertarian Car Talk
Democrats Announce Investigation of ACME Mfg. Co. for Selling Defective Products That Always Let Trump Get Away – “I remember when Trump called me into the Oval Office to discuss funding the border wall, and I had this feeling that he might try leaving before I could get on camera and cut him down with childish name-calling. So I took some ACME Wall Paint and made a fake archway into the next room. Sure enough, 2 minutes into the meeting, he runs out, but somehow he runs THROUGH the archway I painted. I tried running through the archway after him, but I hit the wall face-first and splayed out flat against it. That’s why I have this bandage on my nose. It is NOT – as some people have suggested – from cosmetic surgery. That’s the other bandage on my nose.”
“We as a society” is often a hint that one person presumes his individual conclusions or desires extend to a vast nation with hundreds of millions of people. — -LILEKS (James)
Thoughts from the ammo line | The legal system is currently geared to favor the clinically insane and corporate entities are loath to offend anyone in that protected category, which is why middle-aged men in lipstick are free to potty in the same restroom as little girls in Target. [click to continue…]
“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”