But here’s a song about it.
But except for that, everything in this article is bullshit.
…sadly the flag’s nobility has been stolen.
If you say so, Bubba.
But here’s mine…
H/T to Codrea.
I got nothing. It’s a pretty morning and I’m going outside.
Here’s a funny picture.
…Don’t set yourself on fire first. Really, it’s almost guaranteed not to enhance the experience.
NOTE: NSFW due to language and industry-grade stupidity
In my admittedly limited experience with the genre, this is surely the ultimate “hold my Everclear and watch this” video.
Day before yesterday neighbor L said, “You got your seams caulked, Joel? It’s really gonna rain.” It was supposed to start Monday but Monday was kind of a bust. Yesterday the rain apologetically made up for lost time.
Didn’t make its usual big deal about it. Ian told me he’d had to abort a trip to town because the wash was flowing but that was way downstream from here: The big N/S wash flows four times for every one time ours does. It never blew or thundered much except for a little bit right after sundown. Mostly it just rained. And rained. It was Tuesday and I didn’t expect to go anywhere or see anybody so when I got up I dressed in a fashion befitting that expectation, which is to say hardly at all. But by eleven I was wearing woolies: The temperature never did get into the seventies. Woke this morning to find that, just for variety, it had rained a lot overnight.
Don’t think I’ll be watering the trees today. But I will bring the trailer to shit-shoveling because I’d rather haul away four days’ worth of backbreaking mud than seven. The sun’s shining at the moment so there’s no excuse. Open the gate and abandon hope, it’s time to go to work now.
Instead they always end up being heart-breaking cons.
Wendy McElroy: The Fate of Galt’s Gulch Chile
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – If you want to live free, don’t sit back and wait for somebody else to build all the infrastructure. That way lies …
There’s your problem right there, then.
Family upset officers used deadly force against suicidal teen
Dig the journalistic neutrality in this one…
During the encounter, officers with the Ottawa Police Department and Franklin County Sheriff’s Office were involved in a shooting.
…which is completely accurate, if by ‘involved in a shooting’ you mean they shot an unarmed, suicidal kid sixteen times, while in absolutely no jeopardy themselves.
Jennings puffed out his chest at officers, Smith said, and made several gestures that could have looked like he was going for a gun. Smith believed she and her husband could have handled Jennings had the police let them. Instead, Smith said, officers told her husband to get back.
It’s okay, though. Everything went exactly according to plan.
Ottawa Police Chief Dennis Butler said officers did what they were trained to do.
“They reacted based upon the training that they’ve been given from the academy,” Butler said. “We were thankful that no officer was injured from protecting themselves from risk of great bodily harm.”
Seems to me like they could have protected everybody including themselves much better by staying home. But I’m sure that’s just the attitude of a cop-hater.
Whenever Massad Ayoob weighs in on a matter, I always just sort of assume he’s wrong*. So now I hate the SAF, even though I didn’t when I woke up this morning.
And then even after seeing what you’d wrought, you went ahead and made it public anyway.
That’s…really amazingly stupid.
I don’t make these things up…
H/T to Bear.
As Donald Sensing correctly points out, this is the whole reason we ended up with a gun control movement in the first place. A southern white man could have driven around with a Maxim gun in the back of his truck in the early twentieth, and people would have commented on what a cool gun that was. But god help us if black people were to arm themselves. No, we must be protected against that.
And it’s been quite a long time, if ever, since a lot of black people felt protected by cops. Makes perfect sense to me that some might decide it’s best if police abuse has at least a potential cost. Though I notice that this clip contains an example of what I consider one of the saddest, sorriest sentences ever uttered in my language:
‘If you’re not doing anything wrong, you don’t have to worry about the police.’
And it’s not coming from a white person.
He might want to consider that it’s the one with the gun who gets to decide if you’re doing anything wrong.
Way back when I was trying to decide where I wanted to live out the rest of my days, the state of Montana was on the short list. It didn’t make the cut because I didn’t actually know anyone there and it was rather too close to Canada for my taste. I have nothing whatever against Canada as such, but have already enjoyed as much of its weather as I care to.
Looking back, I see that as usual I had performed no due diligence at all. I made assumptions about Montana’s political climate based entirely on cherry-picked anecdotes, exactly the way I used to seek employment – with monotonously disastrous results.
Point is, I think of Montana as this bastion of freedomista, laissez-faire thinking when in fact things like this seem to happen pretty regularly up there.
Montana Democrats had a quick meeting to replace John Walsh as their Senate candidate after revelations that he had plagiarized his master’s degree work. They selected Amanda Curtis, a Montana state representative.
Rep. Curtis was nominated for the United Stated Senate by the Montana Democratic Party on August 16, 2014. Less than two weeks earlier, on August 4, she tagged herself in this photograph featuring IWW [International Workers of the World] banners and identifying Curtis as an FW, or “Fellow Worker,” the term used in IWW for group members.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
My older brother once posited that intelligent life can’t exist at temperatures below the freezing point of water. I’m looking at some fairly compelling evidence that he might have been correct. And in any case it’s safest to assume that a place where that lady could be nominated as a senate candidate wouldn’t welcome the likes of me.
Yeah, allow me to retort by introducing you to the cuisine of my people.
Landlady sent this to me this morning…
But I’ve only had one cup so far. I couldn’t make Little Bear grin if I had a handful of bacon.
I feel like Pointy-Hair Boss this morning – and indeed have for the past few days, which is why posting has been so lame.
I once had a job where I suffered through a great many meetings just like this one. My pointy-hair boss was convinced of the importance of meetings. I was convinced of the importance of getting work done and meeting deadlines, but I didn’t get a vote.
It was the sort of job where at least once a week you’d find yourself asking, “What would Dagney Taggart do in a situation like this?” And the answer would be at least as good as anything else you could think of, and better than most.
The two or three of you who haven’t already, go read Claire’s post about what may well be the sad demise of the quirky, occasionally chuckleheaded, frequently dysfunctional but invariably uncompromising JPFO I’ve loved for years.
I’ve thought a lot since reading about it last night, and finally decided I’ve never been involved enough with either organization to rate an opinion. The few known facts, reinforced by Codrea’s very careful Examiner article, seem to support Claire’s take on the whole sorry mess.
Yesterday afternoon was overcast and rainy and I spent most of it in a chair with a book. Tried to log on once and couldn’t get a connection, and wouldn’t have had anything much constructive to do with it if I could. This morning dawned pretty much more of the same.
As usual when the weather isn’t meeting his expectation, Ghost is disgusted with my mismanagement. Think I heard Landlady drive past last night, so he might disappear on me this morning anyway.
Yesterday, with a great deal of trepidation, I let Selma the Last of the Bald Ladies out of the time-out coop. After the chickens bedded down I pulled it right out of the Fortress because I’m tired of working around it. It needs a good cleaning and some minor repair before it goes back to Landlady’s.
Regular readers may recall that Selma is the direct reason I have four young Rhode Island Reds instead of five, so I’m not prepared to put up with any nonsense from her. One fight – just one – and she goes to the Garden Spot. She’s probably one more molt away from the stewpot anyway: She was always the least of the Bald Ladies when it came to egg laying. But she has spent the past couple of months just one layer of hardware cloth away from the newchicks, so they’re quite familiar with each other. There’s been a bit of minor squabbling, but no explosions of mindless violence – yet.
We shall see.
This morning I need to take the Jeep trailer to shit-shoveling and haul off the week’s bounty. Seems to have rained pretty much all night long, so that should be a real joy and thrill. Uncle Joel’s in a grumpy mood and needs his coffee.
Turning off the ‘pooter now. Itsy-bitsy solar power systems need more sun than this.
#12, the hen who had a chunk eaten out of her by the Araucanas earlier in the summer, got a Jeep ride last night around nine. Physically she healed up pretty fast, scarring over the awful hole in her side and regrowing all her feathers. But her behavior was so inert for weeks I expected to find her dead nearly every morning. But her appetite improved, she stopped looking like a skeleton with feathers, and just in the past few days she has chippered up and seemed to rejoin the world.
So last night after she bedded down I quietly went into the garden spot where she’s been since I slaughtered the last Araucana, crated her up, and took her back to her sisters. I wanted to reintroduce her after everybody was asleep to avoid possible conflict, but as soon as she was in the Big Chickenhouse she started clamoring to get out of the crate. She ran over to the flock – I swear she cuddled up to Mayor Quimby – and everything seemed fine. Went back to check on her just now and she acts like she was never gone. Not that you can really tell from this phone photo, but she’s the one who isn’t half-plucked.
Just as I got to Landlady’s place this morning, the well guys were firing up their backhoe.
She has tried literally for months to get somebody out to fix the broken pipe or casing or whatever it is that’s made a swimming pool of the inside of the wellhouse. Now they’re going to dig it out and replace the wellhead with a NEW and IMPROVED model that’s completely underground. At last.
Annually, there’s a big problem at Hacienda Del J&H as the manure pile gets out of hand. Last summer I hauled it away with Ian’s tractor, but I couldn’t promise to do that this time due to reliability issues. How many times can I leave the tractor on the side of the road for a day or a week, bucket full of manure, before the neighbors start to complain? So this year we did something new involving D&L’s tractor, and I made a promise I’m already regretting.
Every week I dump approximately six of these. Most are rather more full than this, some are overflowing. Let it accumulate for a year, and that’s a helluva lot of horseshit. Haul it away every week and it’s not that big a deal. So I promised to come by with the Jeep trailer every Friday.
Most of the year that’s not going to be a particularly harrowing job. Dry horse shit stays in apple form, dries quickly, and weighs very little. But this is Monsoon, during which horse shit returns to a masticated form of its original consistency, holds moisture beautifully, combines with the mud below it, and weighs a very great deal. The Augean stables were…approximately just like this.
There was actually talk of bulldozing the latest mountain’o'dung into the gully behind it, which would have pretty much applied the Heraclean solution to the Augean problem. I talked them out of that: You really want to fill that pretty rock canyon with shit, where it will (most visibly) flow to the wash every time it rains? You’re gonna hate that.
So anyway, for the next several weeks I expect to work up a very good sweat every Friday morning. After that, when things dry out again, it’ll be less of a burden.
I do wish I’d discussed payment in more detail, though. I mostly promised it through anxiety that I might be losing the shit shoveling gig entirely, and that’s still up in the air.
From here. I got a kick out of a comment:
That’s the new Federal “Saturn” two-stage ammo, which — when the first stage fires — leaves the barrel in time for the second stage to ignite. Terminal performance is extreme (equivalent to the lunar module slamming into the moon). Misses are parachuted softly to the ground.
Ah, the perils of working outside your comfort zone. I’m a word guy, and the graphics tend not to get a lot of attention from me. I’ve worked with graphics guys for whom the opposite is true. The result in either case can be tragic. One of my best friends was a commercial art instructor at a tech school – this was many years ago while the first, or fourth, depending on your level of geekdom, Star Wars movie was actually playing in theaters – and inevitably the informal topic of the semester was scifi graphics. One day when I popped in for a visit one of his students wanted to show me a poster he’d labored over for several days. It was a beautiful, full-color panoramic view of a fanciful Enterprise bridge peopled with alien creatures, apparently very well done in every respect except for the one I was qualified to judge, and that was right where my eye fell. Unfortunately the poster was captioned. And the caption read, “Captian’s Log, Star Date XXXX.” Which did sort of spoil the whole thing, but so far nobody else to whom he’d shown it had noticed.