Archive for September, 2008

Society down the tubes

The ultimate in ‘White male demonetisation. This is so commonally done and it is ruining our society. After you watch it read the comments at the bottom, sad, very sad.



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The Packers play this afternoon.  I very seldom watch them anymore.  My kids don’t want to watch the game with me.  It is just too painful.

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Paul Newman

Paul Newman has died. I will be going Blockbuster and will put some Paul Newman in my Queue. Great Actor and a good human being. A liberal but a good liberal. Wish more of ‘them’ were like him.

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Challenge my own ideas

I’ m setting here thinking about things/stuff. Among other things/stuff I’m thinking is that I am politically and socially somewhere to the right of center. On any given day, how far to the right of center I find myself depends to the degree of how good or bad day I am having at the time. I know I should be reading something on the left politically if for no other reason than to challenge my on views so they are more grounded in reality. I do that on occasion, no much but I try. I went to Orion Magazine http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/3211 because I sometime Camilla Paglia and she had an article there. I read an article titled ‘The Art of Dying’ and not too far in came these paragraphs.

My feet are a few inches away from the feet of the Flamingo, a
four-story-high Alexander Calder sculpture in the middle of Federal Plaza. It
has always looked like a big chicken to me, as if it should be titled Big Red
Chicken Stalks Inner City. Since I have covered myself with a white sheet and am
pretending to be dead, I can’t see the red chicken. But I imagine it looming
over me, coming to life, pecking at my soft flesh and at the other bodies lying
around me. Given the tenor of the moment—pretending to be dead and all—I should
be more serious, but the chicken keeps scratching around in my brain.

I dream of the president making an emergency announcement on nationwide television
that the Calder chicken and the equally worrisome Picasso sculpture in the Daley
Plaza are terrorist robots that are electronically connected to a Henry Moore
sculpture in the Art Institute of Chicago. Reportedly planted long ago by a
sleeper cell of starving artists, they can be simultaneously activated at any
moment. “We are all vulnerable to such attacks,” the president might say. “The
enemy is everywhere. Even in modern art.”

And it goes downhill from there. This might be my own fault, I know I should stay with the leftists who are a little more rational, a lot more rational.

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The economy is passing a kidney stone. Here’s one man’s guide to survival.

By Bill Whittle

Last Friday I was wrapping up my last day as the editor on Shootout. Five years, and 180 episodes, and I’d never missed a single one. They had hidden a cake with GOOD LUCK, BILL! for my surprise going-away party.
Just before noon I felt a little . . . something. Five minutes later it felt like someone had punched me in the left kidney — hard. I went back to the edit bay to lie down for a moment. Things got a little better, then worse, then much worse. And then someone said they were going to drive me to the hospital.

The Hospital. No health insurance. Why? A preexisting surgery made me tough to insure, but the fact is, I had gotten away with it yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. So I was trusting to luck for a while. And I had been lucky — for a while.

Next thing I know I’m bent over in the hallway, waiting for the car to come around — hands on my knees like I’d run a marathon. And then — BAM! I’m kneeling in front of the couch, arms wrapped around the cushion, making sounds like frying grease . . . little pops and grunts and hisses. Ten minutes in and I was beneath language already.

The only thing I remember about the drive to the hospital was that it was slow. I scratched my name on some forms, left my clothes on the bathroom floor after getting undressed, and didn’t give one sweet damn about any of that gown nonsense. I staggered out just holding the thing on. Because by now, my friends, my world was just a white-hot blinding light — all around me, the entire room was just bathed in that wall of pain and the only thing I cared about was getting that shot.

Little problem, here, however: They didn’t actually keep the pain medicine in the same place as the actual people having the actual pain. No, that had to be signed out of the pharmacy. The nurse made a call, a guy said he’d bring it down “as soon as he could” and that meant about another 25 minutes before Nurse Kessie — bless her — decided it was taking too long and went up to get it herself.

It took me about an hour to get the first shot of Demerol . . . which did absolutely nothing. It took another hour for me to discover it wasn’t working, tough it out for a while so I didn’t look like a complete baby, then ask for another shot, get it delivered, and injected.


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London’s Olympic Park toilets to turn away from Mecca out of respect for Islamic law Daily Mail [UK], by Staff

Toilet facilities are being built at London’s Olympic Park so Muslims will not have to face Mecca while sitting on the loo. The Olympic Delivery Authority has said it wants to produce an ideal venue for people of all cultures, faiths, ages and abilities for the 2012 Games and beyond. The Islamic religion prohibits Muslims from facing the Kiblah – the direction of prayer – when they visit the lavatory.

On commenter said,

Now I don’t care which way the Olympic toilets face and I certainly have no serious problem with anyone’s respectful courtesy to a religious group. But let’s face it. This isn’t about religious sensitivity at all; it’s about terrorist blackmail. Other religious groups (especially Christianity) are regularly dissed and no news editor, education official or toilet designer cares a naught. The adherents of the slighted religion simply sigh over the lack of respect and go on about their business. But a viciously intolerant religion that blows people up when it perceives an offense? That’s what turned the toilets.

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If only

If I had only read this poem when I was young, I might have acomplished more. And these lines maybe explains why, also.

If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

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