January 2015

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He is who he is.

He is who he is.

So Mommy isn’t helpful either. Ring a bell with anyone? Hate the post. Need a new one but don’t expect me to help.

I’m not really concerned. I just do what I do. Raebert is the same way. Neither one of us is unfaithful. We just act like assholes all the time. Not that we’re ever impolite. We aren’t. Don’t believe it? Ask the missus.

I Win

No. Seriously. If they wanted to kill you, they would. I love my wife, she loves me. Anticlimax.

No. Seriously. If they wanted to kill you, they would. I love my wife, she loves me. Anticlimax. And ultimate cartoon. Oh look. Boobs and pussy. Never seen those before.

I’ve had the full court press. An all out assault on my desire to live. My oldest friend tells me none of my books will sell. My putative writing son shows himself a psychotic just waiting for his next break with reality. My wife can’t come home. She’s busy. Not such a big deal. Except that I need her. Because I can’t defend myself from her friends at Facebook.

Guess what. I LIVE. like Roddy Piper at They Live.

I. Always. Win.

I. Always. Win.

My secret weapon? What NONE of you have. A sense of humor.

We shared it. Yes we did.

We shared it. Yes we did. Exactly how he listened.

Full disclosure. I missed the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz (if we can truly call it liberation rather than appalling discovery). Didn’t know till I saw stories about how Obama chose not to attend ceremonies at the Washington, DC, holocaust museum.

For my own remembrance I chose the third movement of Gorecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, which is unmistakably about the holocaust.

Raebert was on the couch with me. I expected him to flee. He hates (hates hates hates) all high-pitched sounds. The third movement features a particularly piercing soprano for most of its 17 minute length.

But he stayed. Normally he bolts like a scared child from high sounds and gunfire in action movies. He shifted and looked at me. I explained (one does attempt to explain things to deerhounds) that the voice was of a woman mourning the loss of her family. He settled as you see him above, making no attempt to leave. He does not like violence, killing, shrieking threats of any kind, but he is entirely comfortable (apparently) with lamentation.

Honestly not trying to make this all about us. Thing is, we shared a moment during this music. Mourners hold hands for a reason. I know I had my hand on Raebert throughout. Hard not to suspect that a breed as ancient as deerhound does not carry some sense memory of war, horrific events, massive loss of life. So we listened, the two of us, to this holocaust requiem, gravely, sadly, sorrowfully. All the way to the final doleful note, which hung in the air like the last sigh of dying life.

From Raebert there was none of the usually near constant moaning and groaning. After I explained the music, he just looked at me and fell still and silent. As I write this the moaning and groaning have resumed.

I won’t tell you he knew. But I can’t tell you he didn’t. And I’m not making this up. The holocaust was an event so profound that it made a hole in the universe. Even at this distance I feel it. How many other creatures feel it? If you don’t, sorry for you.


This is CGI. Unfortunately, our current plight is not CGI. It’s splat time.

After more than 20 years of commenting at length on current events, I guess I have some obligation to continue doing so. Or do I?

We’ll get through this, the forty somethings say. (Never mind the twenty and thirty somethings who just know they have Everything figured out.) No we won’t. Our president chews gum in the face of foreign dignitaries and ducks out of ceremonies remembering the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. And our heirs are illiterate, spoiled, amoral morons. We’re not getting out of this alive. Or free. Unless you mean free falling.

When I’m in a better mood, I’ll explain it to the ones who still know who the first president was and what century he served in.

Frank Bogage.

Frank Bogage.

Interesting article at Hotair today. Called “The Smartest Person Who Ever Lived.” The nomination was Isaac Newton, and I can’t disagree. Scientist, theologian, mathematician, alchemist, technologist. Whatever the subject, if he didn’t have the tools, he invented them, including calculus and the scientific method.

I would not, could not dispute this nomination. All I can do is mention the smartest person I’ve ever known personally. As you may have guessed, his name is Frank Bogage. I’ll remind you of the Newton nominator’s criteria:

We must first discuss what we even mean by smart. Colloquially, we routinely interchange the words smart and intelligent, but they are not necessarily the same thing. There is an ongoing debate among psychologists, neuroscientists, and artificial intelligence experts on what intelligence actually is, but for our purposes here, a simple dictionary definition will suffice: “capacity for learning, reasoning, understanding, and similar forms of mental activity; aptitude in grasping truths, relationships, facts, meanings, etc.”

Implicit in this definition of intelligence is general knowledge. An intelligent person capable of understanding quantum mechanics is useless to society if he is completely ignorant. So, a truly smart person will know a lot of things, preferably about many different topics. He should be a polymath, in other words.

Finally, there is the element of creativity. Creative people think in ways in which most other people do not. Where society sees a dead end, a creative person sees an opportunity.

What Frank was and is. In college he studied urban development and did onsite archaeology on the Anasazi peoples. He divined how human organizations worked. Then, inexplicably, he became a computer jock. He built microprocessors by hand, he learned machine code, he sussed out systems architecture and systems analysis on the wing.

I learned about him before I ever met him. I went to work at a company called Datapro, where they hired people who could write and might learn something about computers. And they hired people who knew about computers and might be taught how to write. I was an English Major lost at sea. Our business was documenting and reviewing computer hardware, software, and peripherals, including communications. Our most senior editor had worked on the original Eeniac project. We were supposed to be the gray matter of the biz, much in demand by everyone who wasn’t IBM. My editor kept talking to me about Frank Bogage, the smartest guy who had ever worked at Datapro. I took seminars, listened in the hallways, heard much more about the legend of Bogage. I got sick of hearing about him.

By accident, I suppose, I went to work at the same company that had hired Frank. He showed up at my cubicle on the morning of my first day. I forget what questions he asked me. After that we somehow became inseparable. He had made a judgment on incredibly slight data. He chose me as a partner in corporate crime. Jersey boy buccaneers. He would teach me what I didn’t know. He’d decided I could learn it.

Which was the third leg of his four-footed stool of polymathematics. He knew everything about everybody. From the temp secretaries to the most ambitious Vice Presidents. It’s not that he was a gossip. He was curious, his questions prompted answers somehow, and people told him things they wouldn’t have told their parents or spouses. He had a kind of brusque empathy that made people want to talk.

The executives hated him. Not because he knew their personal secrets, which he did and they didn’t suspect, but because he knew their business way WAY better than they did. He was a walking threat to their authority. They used and abused him nearly to death. They sent him on the road to peddle a flawed corporate networking strategy. He was so creative that he succeeded more often than anyone should have thought possible. Hell on the road. Once he couldn’t remember where he was. Only the sight of a dangling replica of the Spirit of St. Louis reminded him he was in the St. Louis Airport. So he had coffee and proceeded to his next Executive Briefing.

Which he accepted because of the fourth leg of the stool. He was, more than a computer genius or a potential office politico, a family man. He did everything he did so that he could take care of his wife and kids. Corporate advancement wasn’t on his list.

But integrity to his profession and job was. He wasn’t prepared to claw his way up the ladder. But he was prepared to fight to the death for principle. Which we did together. He taught me everything I’ve ever known about the computer industry. His rules — like Gibbs’s from NCIS — still hold true. Microsoft operating systems are all fatally flawed. Companies have never figured out that emails are corporate documentation or how to secure them. Great code is worthless without a usable interface or documentation of how everything works. What sank the division where we worked.

They came to hate the sight of us together. They called us the Blues Brothers.

I provided the car. Because though we were both from Jersey, I was the only motorhead.

I provided the car. Because though we were both from Jersey, I was the only one of us who was a motorhead.

I played my part. But I wasn’t the one — in the midst of a 36 hour day to defeat a disastrous software release — who descended in a glass hotel elevator looking like a suit-and-tie version of this guy.

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Call it the central pillar of a four legged stool. The eyes. Black but not evil. Just hard to meet if you had something to hide. Eyes that made executives hate and fear him. Eyes that made other people tell him secrets. Eyes that saw the future of a technology that just got started. Eyes that saw family as more important than all the other fires burning within.

Now he’s a mild mannered grandfather. I saw him at war. In about 16 months I learned enough from him — about technology, people, organizations, office politics, thinking on my feet, courage in the face of bureaucracy — to build a whole career. Until I discovered the fourth leg of the stool something more than a decade on. He’s a great man. And the smartest I’ve ever known.

God bless you, Frank.

Sorriest for the dogs, who have to wade through this mountain of snow.

Sorriest for the dogs, who will soon have to wade through this mountain of snow.

Thank God we are generally well prepared for emergencies. We have a 12 pack of AA batteries, a 6 pack of D batteries, and a crank powered radio for the inevitable power failures. We also laid in the requisite provisions from a largely denuded supermarket: 12 gallons of water, 25 loaves of white bread, a large jar of Jif peanut butter, and 25 gallons of milk. (We don’t actually drink milk anymore, but who are we to gainsay official disaster protocols?)

At present we are in good health but as I write this my wife is donning the approved four layers of down-filled outerwear and hip-length snow boots in preparation for the 30 foot journey to the mailbox where further survival instructions from the government almost certainly await.

My job is to look out for the mental health of our dogs and cats, who have been severely traumatized by the immensity of the storm.

The two small dogs can’t hope to go outside, so they are tossing and turning restlessly in their crates, evidently having nightmares that could eventually awaken them. Elliott the orange cat is sitting on the couch staring in rigid shock at the sight pictured above.

Raebert is as you see him below, exhausted by all the stress of the past 24 hours.

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All we can do for the moment is wait and hope, and see how much milk and peanut butter sandwiches we can consume before help arrives.

Wish us luck.

We do not seek attention. We get unintended attention.

We do not seek attention. We get unintended attention.

Wow. Two lies in a single caption. Probably a record.

I’ve just been accused, dismissed, of doing doggie blogs.

Funny. As I get closer to the heart of things, I find myself getting farther from the things bi-coastal progressive America cares about. Odd? Not really. The self important ones know nothing of things not related to their own importance.

I am learning that I am not important. Except insofar as I love my wife, my dogs, my cats, and something called family.

Bri Zoni knows that there is no God.

“If America is in decline, we ought to go back to what made America both great and possible in the first place. When you look at the, you know, facts of, you know, history, we see that wasn’t Christianity. The faith of your fathers was a barnacle, a lichen, a weed tangled up in the true root. The Greek way. Which grew into consciousness, philosophy, science, individuality, and liberty.

Gods not required. Even if still present.”

The only god required is Bri Zoni. Sure he’ll explain how his pure rationalism will fix everything. With no reference to Nazism, Soviet Communism, and Maoism. Total human cost? Probably above 200 million dead souls. The better alternative? Putting Bri Zoni in charge.

Are we clear?

They should have the nerve to remake the ultimate spaghetti western.

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From left to right, the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Don’t have to rewrite the script or commission a new score or even make any wardrobe changes. Just do it in IMAX and everyone will be happy. (Well, the Good’s nom de guerre will probably have to be changed from Blondie to Baldy, but c’est la guerre.)

Hollywood has no business sense. Perhaps the sorriest commentary on our age.


Some call you the Breeze. Others just call you a blowhard.

Last we heard at Facebook, Bri was irate that I cut off his latest atheist oration at Deerhound Diary. Based on the moronic argument that absolutely everyone was sick of the repetition, the sanctimoniousness, and the presumption.

Of course, he conveniently overlooks the fact that I gave him the last word at the ten-year blog called Instapunk. Worse, he waited eight months after I had moved on to Deerhound Diary to stab me in the back with what he called a ‘Double Fisk.’ Screaming himself blue in the face in the void. What a man. Eight months to cook up one more ignorant, incoherent rant. If someone screams on an abandoned Internet blog, does it make any sound?

Bri-heart

Sorry. He’s a coward, a sneak, and a creep. Even if he looks a lot like a sorta bloated and more dissipated Leonardo Di Caprio.

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Nevertheless a great and symbolic romantic interest on the Titanic.

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Right now I’d be willing to shut the whole thing down. The prospect of a Seahawks-Patriots Super Bowl is as close to a double dose of Melatonin as an old geezer like me can take. But that’s not in the cards. Yes, the Patriots always cheat and get away with it. Yes, the Seahawks always act like back-alley muggers and get away with it. What else is new? They’re going to play a game bent around an endless halftime show featuring some no-talent or other, and the best I can hope for is some saucily spiced boneless chicken wings prepared and paid for by someone else. What else is new? As I said.

BUT! I have an idea for next year. Wait till you hear it.

The president can issue one of his unconstitutional edicts forcing both Tom Brady and Peyton Manning to retire. Think of it! An immediate end to the endless blathering about the two of them. Peyton is obviously shot and Tom is obviously a crashing bore. What could redeem the two of them and the NFL at the same time?

A brand new typically creative NBC sitcom called “The Odd Couple.” Think about it. One boring old pretty boy who gets booted by his supermodel wife winds up rooming with a querulous old jock whose whole family has finally grown sick of his pizza commercials. The two of them rent an apartment in Queens (got to get the gay angle in these days, right?) and the fireworks begin.

It’ll be so cool. Retirees, shut-ins, invalids, and horny old women will kick the ratings through the roof as Tom’s OCD fascination with the mirror and his hair styles drives loutish, hick-Cajun Peyton through the roof. One is a would-be Bostonian sophisticate from the Midwest, while the other is a would-be Midwesterner from the Deep South. Raw oysters or gourmet catfish and grits? Savile Row suits or, uh, suits hand tailored from down south somewhere? Appletinis at the Ritz or Belgian beers nobody’s ever heard of at the Ritz? Constant quibbling, phone calls between agents, gorgeous women who can’t decide between a perfect nose and a broken one, Maseratis or custom Corvettes? The suspense just builds and builds, along with the list of cameo guest stars out on bail…

Her too. Why not? Tom can throw up, Peyton can send her out for a pizza and bar the door. FOFL, right?

Her too. Why not? Tom can throw up, Peyton can send her ass out for a pizza and bar the door. FOFL, right?

…Thereby accomplishing the real mission. Which is to distract from the ongoing dissolution of NFL football into a dreary thugocracy of media blowhards, flash in the pan diva stars, felonious millionaire Pro-Bowlers, idiotic sybarite owners, and increasingly embarrassing attempts at cover-ups of all the above via gestures in the direction of political correctness.

The Odd Couple should be a ratings success at least until the NFL can agree to rename the Redskins the “NARAL*,” short for Native American Reparations and Litigiousness.

Can't show you the new helmet yet, but it's predetermined to be an iconic version of this pic, just prior to her pro-choice decision.

Can’t show you the new helmet yet, but it’s predetermined to be an iconic version of this, just prior to her pro-choice decision.

Then we can all get back to the business of watching Patriot scandals and Jets/Giants soap opera while ridiculing the fans of the Philadelphia Eagles.

Oh. Did you say football is played outside the northeast? Really? Where do The Odd Couple have their apartment? See what I mean?

Perfect strategy. Why I’m so so good.

* Not to be confused with the other NARAL, because the NFL has no political positions of any kind.

P.S. Actually, I’m serious about getting these two out of the NFL. They’re getting tedious.

Yesterday some caller accused Rush Limbaugh of giving up, being burned out. Why? Because Rush announced he wasn’t going to listen to the State of the Union address and would be watching the season premiere of Justified instead.

Rush said he wasn’t burned out. Right.

I find that the above clip helps get your mind right. Especially the last 17 seconds played over and and over and over and over and over again.

Hail to the Chief.

Hail to the Chief.

They're little. But you have no idea what they can do.

They’re little. But you have no idea what they can do.

Used to be a blog called Deerhound Diary. Wolves would know better than to mess with a bigger, stronger, faster, smarter version of themselves who hate Satanist movies. Wouldn’t they? But they might not think they have much to fear from a Scotty.

Scotties do not f***ing care what wolves think.

Just a thought for you to think of on SOTU night.


Unlike most of you, I don’t feel superior to Keanu.
But I’m wise, you see. A rare thing.

Unhappy kids fight with me. I feel like the final scene in The Matrix where Neo is slow motion against Agent Smith. They think they’re winning, but because they don’t actually know anything, they’re just making me sad.

This isn’t meant to provoke, specifically, Brizoni, but he’s an exemplar of the millennial brand. Sorry. A brand is all you are these days. Without actual education, you’re just Wiki-hitters.

My wife felt compelled to call me today because she didn’t like my tone. Pessimistic. She was extremely concerned. Why would I be pessimistic about millennial assholes who think they know everything and know absolutely fucking nothing?

Why? Because the future depends on smart people, not Rand cultists. Fortunately, she calmed me down. Reminded me that if there’s somebody as genuinely genius as me, there are others. Not everybody is a mediocrity named Bri.


A train wreck that will inevitably lead to a ratings wreck.

Given all the world changing events in the news this week, I have decided to address the most important one: the catastrophic return to the air of Fashion Police.

What were you thinking, Melissa? Obviously no one can replace your mother, Joan Rivers. But Kathy Griffin???!!! Pullease!

The great thing about Joan Rivers was that she was an equal opportunity offender. Nobody was not a potential target. She never (or rarely) dragged politics onto the set. Why we could stomach the occasional unfair shot at Sarah Palin, for example. It was only occasional. We’ve learned, since her death, that Joan was actually pretty conservative. Perhaps the reason for her take no prisoners approach to comedy. She was bawdy, frequently crude, and yet impossible to classify as anything but funny. And, as befits a show about fashion, she was keenly aware of fashion and passionate about what was the good and the bad of it.

Kathy Griffin is the opposite of all this. She’s mean without the redemptive quality of being universal. Because most of her shots at humor have political roots. She’s ostentatiously leftist, feminist, pro-abortion, pro-LGBT, and merciless about attacking everyone whose politics don’t suit her. She’s not a comedian at all. She’s a “look at me” monologist who’s made a career out of irrational resentments and inexplicable personal grievances. She is not, like great comedians are, an observer but a shrieking victim of her own stupid biases and behaviors. For her that’s where the laughs are. And she’s a slob who knows squat about fashion.

No doubt Joan liked Griffin because everyone likes heirs to paths they pioneered. Joan made it okay for a female comic to be edgy and vulgar. But some heirs are bastards and not worthy of the name. With Griffin at the helm, Fashion Police will rot into an ETV version of The View, a barely disguised propaganda tool of progressive hatefulness.

It’s tempting to make some kind of racial point here. The contrast between a polished Manhattan jewess and a rude, raw-boned Irish tramp. But as soon as my mind went there, I bethought myself of Dylan Moran, who could be described in exactly the same terms I just used, except that he, exactly like Joan Rivers, is just plain funny. If he knew or cared about fashion, I’d pick him in a heartbeat to replace the irreplaceable Joan.

Of course, Dylan Moran is probably either drunk or unavailable or both. Which leaves us with the problem of how to replace Joan Rivers and save Fashion Police.

My nomination is Stacey London, late of “What Not to Wear.” Nobody knows more about fashion, and she’s feisty to a fare-thee-well. No standup comic, but let’s not forget the immense Dewey Decimal style catalogs of Joan Rivers jokes, the army of writers left behind by the great lady, and the screen presence Stacey brings to the table. Could she make vagina jokes and get away with it? She could, to a certainty.

Melissa. Honey. Listen to your audience. We fans of Fashion Police do not want a vicious banshee sitting in your mother’s chair. We want a shrewd, clever, irreverent woman who knows the ins and outs of every clothing store, boutique, and designer in New York and Los Angeles. We can get politics and causes anywhere. The Fashion Police have a unique and limited jurisdiction. Long may they rule on their chosen beat.

They won’t rule long with the likes of Kathy Griffin.

Ignore my advice at your own peril. Not happy with you at the moment, Melissa. Sorry.

He's so ladylike.

He’s so ladylike.

Well. We have to take our kudos where we can. Look at Cameron. He looks like he’s on the verge of manspreading. Obviously they’re both wusses, but optics count.

Avant garde feminism? Mylie Cyrus's new pic. No. Same old same old.

Avant garde feminism? Mylie Cyrus’s new pic? No. Same old same old.

Women are fooled once again. Men want to see their private parts. Women think they triumph by showing them off. Is it art? No. It’s women’s private parts exposed. More fun when they want us to look up their skirts. It’s the flirtation that’s fun, not the flesh. Relatively few vaginas are lovely. How does this kind of game get played? Stay tuned.

Why is this man laughing? Because he got a thousand feminists to let him photograph their vaginas.

Why is this man laughing? Because he got a thousand feminists to let him photo their vaginas. And he gets to pretend he’s an artist. Actually he’s another con man to avoid.

Women are in over their heads. Women have played a major part in human history from the beginning of recorded human history. Nefertiti. Cleopatra. Lucretia Borgia. Catherine de Medici. Elizabeth I. Madame de Pompadour. Catherine the Great. Marie Antoinette. Napoleon’s Josephine. Mary Lincoln. Queen Victoria. Margaret Trudeau. Princess Di. Hillary Clinton. Educated, influential, wealthy beyond measure. But where are their artistic and literary contributions? Nowhere. Mary Shelley wrote a Gothic novel. So did all the Bronte sisters. But Mary Shelley was not Percy. And the Brontes were not Dickens. There’s never been a good woman poet, and the only good woman novelist was Virginia Woolf. For whatever reason. And forget music composition, art, sculpture, architecture, and, uh, physics. Never happened. To this day. On what level and in what way are we supposed to recognize them as equals? Because they can get law degrees and sue us for their various inferiorities? No. In the meantime, look out for feminist guys bearing cameras…

African-Americans are overplaying their hand. Life is not about reparations. It’s about starting from the beginning and making your way. If more than three quarters of your children are born out of wedlock and hardly any son has a father, the results are dull and predictable and usually sad if not violent. Diamond earrings and gold chains don’t make up the deficit. They’re responsible for most murders in this country. It’s racist to notice that? I don’t think so. Shouting and shutting down traffic doesn’t fix any of that. If it does, let me know. I’m waiting.

Islam is not a religion, but an antique barbaric spasm. Their holy scripture — which as far as I can tell is an incompetent plagiarism of the Bible — commands monstrosities. Beheading of infidels. Stoning of adulterers. Cutting off the clitoris of a female child. Killing of defiled daughters who don’t have four witnesses of rape. That’s not a religion. It’s just torture and terror, a flight backward from the 21st century to the 7th. Ally ally Akbar. God as the devil incarnate. Not a religion but a death wish. Doomed, damned, and horrific. Until they repent for their excesses, they deserve to be exterminated from the earth. And the Pope is a fucking coward for not recognizing it.

Progressives are braindead totalitarians, so ignorant they have learned nothing from their own history. Like all Marxists, they know no history and never argue logically. They call their opponents the most obscene and scatological names they can think of because they have no counter-arguments and are intellectually, morally, and ideologically bankrupt. Uneducated idiots. Why I don’t argue with any of them anymore. Can’t wait to hear from the first progressive who can articulate for me a positive vision of the future that isn’t a reengineering of Original Sin.

Atheists are the biggest fools of all. They think computers invented themselves and humor is a threat worse than climate change. They miss the most fundamental principle of all. No organization can exist without a template, its own DNA. You can’t ever be anything otherwise. The universe has DNA.

I’ve worked for companies that had no creative DNA in their makeup. There was no way to introduce it. I’ve worked for companies that could remember a past talent for creativity. I think the universe works the same way. Our universe has DNA for intelligence, creativity, vitality, morality, and humor.

Atheists think they have the market cornered on all these things. But without any source. They think they thought it up for themselves with all their rational brilliance. Usually, these are youngsters. Sometimes they’re old old fools like Richard Dawkins. But I’m old enough to have some humility.

The universe is THE comedy that makes fools of all the self styled smart ones.

Facing Ali


This was the fight AFTER Ali should have retired for good. He took repeated shots to the head no fighter should take. I remember. I was begging, “Stop now! Please!” He did not.

Some perspective here. Muhammed Ali was a Black Muslim. Most of the men he fought were nothing like that. The documentary called Facing Ali is a revelation of how this man transcended narrow sectarian divisions. My own favorite image of him is with children, both black and white, playing and sparring with them like a kid.

This movie has nothing to do with that. It’s about the perspective of old men, the chief foes Ali faced in the ring. Joe Frazier, Ken Norton, George Foreman, Ron Lyle, Ernie Shavers, Leon Spinks, Henry Cooper, and others.

Some if not many of these were once rumored to detest Ali, notably Frazier and Norton. What comes through in the documentary is their nearly unanimous admiration and gratitude to the greatest prizefighter who ever lived. For his talent, yes, but also for his humanity. For most the shot he gave them at his crown was the breakthrough moment of their lives, and their personal stories are of hardship survived, determination to surmount wasted years, and the opportunity to go up against the most heroic figure in their world.

Even losing, as most did, did not diminish their appreciation. For some it was an opportunity to begin life anew, for others it was an immediate instant of awareness that they had been allowed to become part of a legend.

All — even an accident-crippled Ken Norton — express sorrow for the subsequent physical ills of the great champion. Even Joe Frazier wipes away tears of sorrow.

Youtube is charging to see the whole film. It’s well worth it.

This is an opportunity to see a fraternity of men whose like we will never see again. Seeing them coalesce in thankful and magnanimous love for the major combatant in their lives is moving in the extreme. To a man, they seem to love Muhammed Ali. I do too.

Something to factor into our grievances and resentments about Islam.

Oriana Fallaci. As brave as she was beautiful.

Oriana Fallaci. As brave as she was beautiful.

Now the men are worms, and the best and worst of us are women.

American feminists are insane, probably brain-damaged sociopaths. They fret about rape — and who would want to rape them? — while they celebrate the right of women to dress and act like streetwalkers. They fight for the right to kill babies conceived in promiscuous lifestyles. Nuts.

On the other hand, the only remaining investigative reporters with a nose for hard news are women. Sharyl Attkisson. Katie Pavlich. Michelle Malkin. And Kimberley Strassel.

I’m proud to announce that Kimberley Strassel has accepted me as a Facebook friend.

But I have to acknowledge that these iconic women were not the first. Here’s an excerpt from Tim’s latest comment.

I just so happen to have started reading the Rage and the Pride by Oriana Fallaci last week right before the Paris shootings. As she describes them: “Hens who are only able to flap inside the henhouse. Cluck, cluck, cluck, my dears.”

Fallaci. She knew eunuchs when she saw them. Tragic that she’s not still here to comment on the current state of affairs.

Addio, Oriana.

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