January 2015

You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2015.

Yeah. They crushed Alabama and they killed Oregon..

Yeah. They crushed Alabama and they killed Oregon..

I know lots of people hate Ohio State. I can’t explain my feelings on this night without confessing that my mother and her parents were all Buckeyes. And therefore so am I. Here’s the last pic I have of my mother, who died a decade ago.

She was in her sixties then. But she was always beautiful.

She was in her sixties then. But she was always beautiful.

Tonight I can feel her beside me. She majored in Romance Languages at Ohio State. French, Spanish, Portuguese, etc. Worked on the Manhattan Project. Raised us tirelessly and constantly. No better woman ever lived.

So hurray for the Buckeyes. Long may they live. And long may she shine as an example of what women can be.

She always loved Sinatra. I can still picture her dancing to one of his songs. Light of foot and light of heart. She was joy in the moments you want to remember. And iron in the moments you want to forget. Buckeye babe. I’ll get her a helmet sticker. The kind of guy I am. What kind of guy are you?

My hole card is tenderness. Tenderness forever.

Not a unique phenomenon. Women want you to look. Why do they resent it when you do?

Not a unique phenomenon. Women want you to look. Why resent it when you do?

We were just talking about the new hardcore feminists. Here’s another proof of their exhibitionism, which is a mix of self love and self loathing.

Women of New York Draw Their Own Boobs. (Watch the whole slide show. Even you women. Yours are probably better than you think.)

Most of them are not very good drawers. But the project itself says a lot. They really really want to show off their boobs.

I wish they all would. They don’t need the excuse of a PETA or anti-nuclear protest. Just whip off your shirt and enjoy the attention.

Men don’t respond well to displays of male genitalia. But even women like the sight of a great rack. Men, of course, like all boobs, even the ones that droop and sag and flop around. The real power women have over men.

If the feminists are serious about taking control, this would be their ultimate weapon. Topless women in every workplace. Who will gainsay your orders? Who will defy your authority? Brassieres and nipple-hiding blouses are the surest proofs of the patriarchy ever invented.

Penises are ugly. Breasts are beautiful. And wouldn’t the Islamists be outraged?

Destiny: You tend to find your soulmate.

Destiny: You tend to find your soulmate.

The new hardcore feminists seem to hate men. They’re looking for rape under every beer keg in colleges and universities across the land. It reminds me of the relationship between progressives and flyover country. The only thing that matters is what happens on the two coasts. New York and Los Angeles are the two poles of the universe, and everywhere else is nowhere.

Forget the “differences attract” nonsense. Like tends to find like. Today’s feminists are looking across the vast flyover country of decent guys to focus on the true objects of their desire: the monolithic sexual animals who really are attracted to the thought of having hate sex with man-hating women whose deepest regret is that they weren’t born with a penis and testicles. And just like the bicoastal rivalry between NY and LA, the women (NY) wish to impose their will on the men (LA) who are most like them. Men who think the opposite sex is trash, worth only of subjugation and, well, use.

What’s the equivalent of date rape drugs like rohypnol? Maybe the fabrication of rape narratives that never happened. One is aggressively predatory male in nature. The other is passive-aggressively predatory female. They are mirror images of each other. One could say they deserve each other.

So I have some advice. If you’re a hostile, man-hating feminist, take a step back. Most of the 90+ percent of men who have the humanitarian impulses you claim to prize are put off by you, afraid of you.

Nice men are habitually afraid of women, not just angry mean women but all women. Afraid to say they are attracted to her. Afraid to ask her out. Afraid to make a move sexually. All your speech codes and campus regulations and kangaroo courts were put in place years ago by their upbringing. These are not men who are native cowards. They produce prodigious accomplishments most feminists are incapable of. They have the cultural disadvantage of being, gasp, gentlemen.

Why, then, do you completely overlook them and focus instead on the cavemen who simply want to bend you over a table and shtup you?

Maybe the animals are the ones you really want. But in that case, stop the fighting. Bend over the table and get shtupped.

Not trying to be abusive. But you sure do look like a bunch of sexually frustrated females. To the rest of us. Meaning the huge population of nice guys who have learned to avoid every woman with the look you always have on your not terribly attractive face.

Or something.

They DO try, you know.

They DO try, you know.

Now that we’ve mostly dealt with the Islamic problem, I thought it was time to talk about the new feminist grudges, manspreading and manslamming.

What’s “manspreading”?

The folks at Gothamist have bravely taken on the scourge of “manspreading,” the male practice of sitting on a crowded train with your legs spread wide apart. It’s a habit so nefarious the MTA even built a campaign targeted at scolding men who do it. Now Gothamist has taken a camera on the subway and confronted guilty manspreaders about their unthinkable behavior.

And what’s manslamming?

In early November of last year, 25-year-old labor organizer Beth Breslaw decided to confront male entitlement one sidewalk stranger at a time. She was inspired by a friend’s experience: Having heard that men were less likely than their female counterparts to make room on a crowded sidewalk, this friend wanted to test the theory herself while commuting to and from her job in the Financial District. From then on, she spent every day getting repeatedly body-checked.

When I explained the crisis to my wife, she said “huh?” I explained that I was manspreading as we spoke, holding my legs far enough apart to put my elbows on them, as all men do when they lean forward. She had heretofore been unaware of the sexual aggression it represented, especially since the real aggressor on our couch is Raebert, the deerhound who always wants his head on my or my wife’s lap.

So I thought maybe it was time to discuss both these sexual issues.

Manspreading first. Factually, not that many people are on an urban subway when you consider the whole population. But men do tend to sit with their legs apart and their elbows on their knees all the time, in bus stations, on couches, and even in the awful confines of airline seats. It’s not a display or an aggression, or even a microaggression. It’s just a desire to be able to spring from the seat into action if there’s a need. And a convenient resting place for our elbows.

Does it really take up extra space? It seems to me that women are reacting to the endless strictures to keep their legs together, lest men look up their skirts. Fine. Spread yourselves. Let us look up your skirts. And while you’re at it, jettison the giant handbags, backpacks, and other baggage you invariably carry with you when you travel by subway, train, and airliner. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been assaulted by female luggage — in the aisle, from overhead, and in a seat on public transportation. Also, given that most of the U.S. population is obese, does a few degrees of leg askewness really matter? People on public transit are fat, fat, fat, fat, fat. There are women who more than compensate for the worst cases of manspreading whose thighs are so thick I can’t even see up their skirts.

On to Manslamming. Which is even sillier. I have the advantage here of being a man. If the premise were true, these alpha male slammers should barge through everyone. They don’t. Walking sidewalks in big cities is a cooperative exercise. Sure, there are jerks. People who give way to no one. Most are not that. I rarely bump shoulders on big city sidewalks.

Two rules. Good for both sexes. First, don’t be walking sidewalks to make a testosterone statement. Walk to get where where you’re going as expeditiously as possible. The biggest obstacle is pairs of people who are so busy talking to one another they don’t see anybody else. The second biggest obstacle is people on cellphones, male or female. They don’t see nothing.

The second rule is to pick the right side to be on. Pedestrian traffic tends to divide itself into this way and that way. If you insist on going this way against a that way flow, you can count on shoulder bumping experiences, whether you’re a guy or a gal.

My own worst pedestrian experiences have to do with women in malls and airports. You know. The old broads who are ambling along three abreast talking at half the normal walking pace. They don’t know and don’t care that they’re holding other folks up. Because they’re the only ones in the whole goddam place.

Which brings us to Femsteering. This article says something true I haven’t heard in 30 years. [boldface added]

…Breitbart [London] has discovered an even more pernicious gender-specific public nuisance that is endangering anyone on the roads. The phenomenon is known as “femsteering,” and it describes the almost total inability of any woman to competently operate an automobile. Though whispered about on men’s rights forums, in working men’s clubs and on the pages of tabloid newspapers for decades, this is the first time the trend has been discussed in the open in a serious publication.

According to the activists drawing attention to this ugly expression of female privilege, femsteering affects all of us: men, women and children, and threatens the personal safety of anyone on the motorway or, especially, on busy streets outside schools. Its effects are dramatic and visually arresting, they report: crumpled bumpers, crippled cyclists and petrified passengers screaming: “Mommy, why are you driving us into the wall?!”

Yet some women insist the whole thing has been cooked up as yet another way of oppressing women. Asked yesterday to comment on the phenomenon, Guardian blogger Judy Truncheon said: “For too long men have expressed their cis privilege by alluding to a mystical driving manoeuvre no woman has ever successfully executed, referred to as ‘parallel parking.’ It’s time feminism took a stand against this patriarchal fairy story and said it out loud: women can drive just as well as men.

“So-called ‘health and safety’ restrictions placed on women, demanding that we stop applying lipstick at 80 miles an hour and texting at clogged-up intersections before lurching into oncoming traffic are folk tales put about to discourage women from expressing themselves and as a way of perpetuating inequality.” Short-lived cable TV documentaries with titles such as Are You Ready To See The World’s Worst Female Drivers? have contributed to “unhelpful stereotypes” about women, she added.

Truncheon’s comments will come as a surprise to husbands everywhere, who have for generations been left with inflated insurance premiums and hefty repair bills for the carnage inflicted on family vehicles by the fairer sex. Men point to the numerous examples from their own lives and the privately whispered meme among men about their better halves and motor vehicles.

This is intended as satire but it’s also true. Women generally have better insurance rates than men, as the insurance companies proudly tell us, but the facts hide the facts. Men drive fast, they drive drunk, and they drive a lot more. Women drive into things, not because they’re drunk or mad, but because their spatial consciousness isn’t quite up to men’s. Uncomfortable fact. Last year, they asked Richard Petty when Danica Patrick was going to win a NASCAR race. He laughed. “Never,” he said.

Never. The same timeframe in which feminists are going to win the superiority over men they insist they deserve.

Completely doubled up. Until he needs to run.

Completely doubled up. Until he needs to run. Impossible? Only to leftists.

Don’t tell anybody, but he’s feeling hangdog. He ate my glasses last night. I didn’t yell at him, but he knew anyway. Here’s how he’s looked all day.

Think dogs don't feel guilt? Call your nearest animal behaviorist for phenobarbital.

Think dogs don’t feel guilt? Call your nearest animal behaviorist for phenobarbital.

Won’t look me in the eye.

Anyhow. Why we can ride through the maelstrom of nonsense about fanatics killing civilians in Paris. We grieve, but it was bound to happen. As my wife reminded me, I did leave my glasses on the nightstand. He doesn’t eat my glasses when I leave them outside the bedroom.

Paris 1963

I was there. If you ordered Coke, the waiters suavely popped the bottles between their legs. No harm in that.

I was there. If you ordered Coke, the waiters suavely popped the bottles between their legs. No harm. And les filles who saw American boys ordering Coke were enchante.

I wouldn’t write this but for another fairly sleight reminiscence by National Review’s Jay Nordlinger.

Just now, I was reading, “Police have ordered all shops closed in a famed Jewish neighborhood in central Paris . . .” (Article here.) The neighborhood, of course, is the Marais, and in particular its Rue des Rosiers.

In the summer of 1982, I was between high school and college, and in Paris for a bit. Arab terrorists — same people as today, nothing ever changes — attacked a delicatessen in the Marais. On the Rue des Rosiers. It was called Goldenberg’s. Not sure whether it’s still there.

Anyway, there were six people killed, including two American tourists. More than 20 other people were injured. You know the drill. Same old scene.

In Jerusalem, the prime minister, Begin, said something like, “If the French state can’t protect these Jews, I will.” He meant in Paris itself. He was just blustering, of course, engaging in some bravado. But I was kind of impressed with it.

We had all been taught to hate Begin, needless to say. He was the Hitler of the Middle East. Never mind Saddam, Assad (père), or Khomeini. Menachem Begin was the bad guy, eating Palestinian children for breakfast.

August 1982 was just one step on my road to growing up. My lessons were hard, but there were those who had it harder — like the dead and their families.

Over the years, I’ve wondered, “Why the hell is there a single Jew in France? Why the hell is there a single Jew trying to do business on the Rue des Rosiers?” I wonder it again now.

No, I’m no expert either. But I was there in 1963, when Charles de Gaulle was the target of multiple Algerian assassination attempts. We had to stay home a couple of times because Paris was locked down after another incident of Gaullian gunfire. He would not let them go as a French colony. I saw him (almost) in a Bastille Day parade. My dad got me one of those cardboard towers with mirrors, and I was unable to make it work. But I heard the oceanic cheers when he rode by.

I'm the one in the upper right corner of the part just to the left of the buildings.

I’m the one in the upper right corner of the part just to the left of the buildings.

You can think, if you like, that at 11 and 10, my sister and I had no idea what was going on in the world while we were experiencing the pageantry of life in the vicinity of the Champs Elysee.

I was a car buff, sure. But I knew there something different about the French.

I was a car buff, sure. But I knew there was something different about the French.

A woman spit on my father when he didn’t let her hijack a cab taking his wife and kids home. I’d never seen that before.

On the other hand, my mother got her hair done and never looked more beautiful. And my sister and I always felt rich in Paris because we had 35 centimes each for the Metro, so that if we ever got lost we could buy our way home.

Simplest subway map I've ever seen.

Simplest subway map I’ve ever seen.

My sister and I were not unaware of the world. We both remember the headline of the International Herald Tribune that announced the death of Jackie Kennedy’s baby Patrick. We went home to a November that resulted in the assassination of our president. Which changed everything forever.

In between we experienced near death in a hurricane at sea.

We went to Europe on the QE1. Perfect service.

We went to Europe on the QE1. Perfect service.

We very nearly died. A hurricane named Beulah.

Came home on the Leonardo da Vinci. We nearly died. A hurricane named Beulah. We saw panic and vomit.

Just in case you didn't believe me. HURRICANE.

Just in case you didn’t believe me. HURRICANE. Click on the image. Real hurricane, real fear.

Funny thing. Our mother took us all over Paris. Place de la Concorde, the Louvre, Musee d’Orsee, and everywhere else too. The Catacombs. The Sewers. Place Vincennes. When my dad got time he took us down through the south of France. Many chateaus. My memory isn’t what it what it was but I remember Chenonceau.

Most beautiful place I've ever been, except for Isola Bella. White peacocks beat everything.

Most beautiful place I’ve ever been, except for Isola Bella. White peacocks beat everything. Click!

So I think back to de Gaulle in France in that summer of 1963. I’m minded that you can move on or become the captive of your past. America tried heroically to move on. We tried to overcome the legacy of slavery. Maybe it can’t be done.

France didn’t try nearly as hard. And they are paying the price. Their guilt over imperialism has destroyed them. Their country is going to be terrorized to ruin. But America was the least imperialist of the great western powers. In European countries, there is no cultural contribution from their immigrants. They live in isolated ghettoes, “no go” zones, dead ends of society.

Different in America. Yeah, we haven’t had an Italian president yet, but we’ve had Irish and black presidents. It can be done.

The key is not to build the future on guilt over the past. The past will hunt you down, eat you alive, and ultimately kill you if you let it.

France does not have the equivalent of jazz, rhythm and blues, or even Oprah Winfrey. They take credit for crude burlesque acts like this:

And things, unlike that, I wish I’d done.

But I’m just a Jersey boy who was once in France.

Post-Modern Nihilism is a seductive thing. I expect Jihadis know what to do with that nose-ring. Islam always knows what to do. I refuse to imagine it.

Like most of you, I expect, I’ve been watching lots of news reports and reading lots of opinion articles from all over the political spectrum. Something bad happened in Paris. But it didn’t begin in Paris and it won’t end there. Here are my thoughts. The problem is Islam. And the people who submit to it. That is what Islam means. Submission, not peace as it is so often represented. The ones who submit are the problem. They’ve been sold a bill of goods.

They hate western civilization. They believe in an authoritarian truth that cannot be disputed. They elevate historical grudge to an ideology of permanent ineradicable grievance. They want to roll back industrial civilization to a level that is barely above a subsistence economy and population. They want everyone subject to the dictats of a handful of didacts who speak for absolutely everyone and can pass judgment on the poor infidels who have no chance of redemption except through perpetual humiliation and self sacrifice. Why the infidels deserve death or worse. Their sanctifying alternative offer is utter guilt and misery in life with a faint promise of redemption in the manifestation of the greater good.

Most of all they hate the United States of America. Because it celebrates freedoms their ideology cannot accept and which they despise. They hate the United States because it exists and looks like it will continue on much the same terms regardless of their superior wisdom.

If you’ve been wondering why western leftists continue to defend Islam as a religion of peace, look no further. They have more in common with the beheaders than they have in conflict. They are all Islam. Even their apparent differences really aren’t.

Contemporary leftist feminists, for example, are trying to destroy man-woman sexuality. Maybe in their heart of hearts they really are in favor of female genital mutilation, meaning clitorectomies. Then they will be free to worship with comforting apathy the gods of human annihilation represented by climate change, pandemics, and other incarnations of old scripture prophecies confirming original sin.

If you want to die, go ahead and die. Most of us don’t. But Islam is making its big bid. We’ll be better off without you.

Be sure to take the New York Times with you when you go.

I got a reminder today.

I got a reminder today.

You can try to outrun your past but it will always catch up with you. I got a call today from a bright young thing who wanted me to attend a 45th Reunion of my class at Mercersburg. I have no desire to go back. My roommate and best friend died at the age of 40, probably from drug propensities he acquired at Mercersburg in the sixties. When the Penn State scandal hit, I reached back to Mercersburg, wondering how seriously they took the fact of pedophile teachers, who were not numerous but were always somehow covered up, much after the fashion of the Catholic Church. They stonewalled me. Sergeant Schultzes all. “I know nothink.” Even men for whom I had such a lifetime of respect that I called them mister when I phoned them in my late fifties.

Life may be about loss, but it’s not about dismissal. I have written a lot about Mercersburg over the years. I sought feedback from the BYT about her experience as a recent graduate and what she had heard about the old times. She told me she’d heard it was a “dreary place.”

This is so ridiculously wrong that I emailed her what I suddenly realized was almost a book length volume of evidence to the contrary.

Part of which I would now like to share with my Mercersburg brethren and anyone else who cares.

When did Mercersburg get so rich?

Culture Shock

Never watched “The Social Network.”

How Old Am I?

The New America

Sorry for all the no bottom-line promos. But I’m tired and my car battery is dead in the cold. I’m still just a Mercersburg boy.

Her name was Edith Sanski. She was 22. I was 10. She kissed me.

Her name was Edith Sanski. She was 22. I was 10. She kissed me in Menton.

First time and place I fell in love. There is passion there and don’t you dare brand it all as effeteness or cowardice. (No. Don’t get wrong ideas. Edith was a singer with a becoming overbite who was just being sweet to a boy with an obvious crush.) France has been a friend, regardless of her loose talk. The graves at Normandy are scrupulously maintained. The memory remains. Sad but not regretted.

I wrote about France (you could look it up) critically, lovingly, and even slavishly long before today’s tragedy:

My own observation is that the amount of emotion expended in… arguments about France has very little to do with France itself and a great deal to do with what one thinks the other guy believes about France. Maher is using the topic of things French to poke a stick in the eye of his own straw-man stereotype of American conservatives. Most hardcore French bashers, on the other hand, aren’t as hostile to France as they are to self-styled liberal sophisticates like Maher who see themselves as world-class intellectuals in the tradition of Sartre, Foucault, and Rousseau. It’s all cultural war by proxy. And France is, of course, an incredibly picturesque and symbolic backdrop for a war between opposing cultural perspectives.

I believe Bill Maher when he says, “I don’t want to be French.” His most subtle punchline is his correct assumption that his fiercest critics won’t ever believe it.

I also happen to think that both sides of the culture conflict are ill served by choosing France as a theater of war over competing American visions of our national future. There are simply too many disqualifying ‘but’s’ in every instance that make the French experience irrelevant. Hopelessly, completely, permanently irrelevant.

The France they’re all talking about doesn’t really exist, certainly not as any kind of template for American life, good or bad. France is a small country. We are a huge one. France is an old country with a young constitutional government (all its predecessors having failed for centuries). We are a young country with an old constitutional government. France is ethnically homogeneous with a fairly homogeneous religious minority of immigrants it can’t or won’t assimilate. We are ethnically heterogeneous with a heterogeneous minority of immigrants, most of whom do or will assimilate successfully. France is located at the heart of the most violent continent in history, while we overwhelmingly dominate the most peaceful continent in history (barring the uninhabited Antarctic). France has a legacy of conquering its neighbors, executing hundreds of thousands of its citizens, and engaging in oppressive colonial actions in the Third World that continue to this day. We have our own legacy of slavery and warfare against the Indians, but if you’re into comparing bloodstains, this is an apples-to-oranges comparison without meaning or relevance. France is an exhausted nation with a seriously declining birthrate, and its crimes and misdemeanors on the world stage are those of an aged cynic who has learned to seek every possible personal advantage with the least possible personal risk — and to hell with all your naive ideals. We are an energetic, growing nation still willing to risk making big mistakes for big rewards.

In this context, the liberal habit of cherry-picking the “good things” about France to fling in the face of conservatives is delusional and counterproductive. They forget that almost no one of any political stripe wants America to be France. The conservative habit of comparing American liberals to the effete French is equally counterproductive. For the most part, the effete liberal Americans who really would like to be French have already moved there. Johnny Depp. Gwyneth Paltrow. Who else?…

On the other hand, conservative bashers of all things French would do well to remember that this nation they so despise has produced some of the greatest writers, philosophers, artists, architects, generals and armies in recorded human history. If your French-bashing goes beyond humor for the sake of entertainment or clever satire, you’re doing yourselves no honor in the process. For example, it’s fine to make dozens of jokes about how cowardly the French are, but before you get too carried away, read up on the battle of Verdun in World War I. Less than a century ago, the French army was filled with heroes so stupefyingly brave that they allowed themselves to be wasted by the hundreds of thousands to no real purpose. Read, study the battlefield photographs, and the contemporary accounts of the action — then, by all means, give us some more cowardly French jokes. That’s our birthright as Americans, and will remain so as long as we don’t take our jests — and ourselves — too seriously.

I also love Paris. My heart is with all the French tonight.

Everyvoice. Only funnier.

Everyvoice. Only funnier.

Don’t even know which one to begin with. Male or female. How he started. A guest didn’t show, so he filled in, playing both parts. He’s done it ever since. The thing to notice is not whether the guest is male or female but the speed with which he switches from one voice to the other. People pay to see that. There are times when it seems he’s seems he’s overtalking, but that’s a mere illusion.

Here’s a male guest. Note the intrusion of an irate caller.

And here’s a female guest.

Every single night, there are irate callers. Think about that fact.

Dogs hate cats and vice versa.

Dogs hate cats and vice versa.

Actually, they don’t. Among other false ideas you have to get over.

When they hide, it's impossible to find them.

When they hide, it’s impossible to find them.

The missus got up late this morning and somewhere along the way, Raebert went missing. If you’ve seen him out there in the wide world, give us a ring.

Don't need another blog. But I keep giving because I keep getting.

Don’t need another blog. But I keep giving because I keep getting.

So I’m trying to start a new blog called The Thin Red Leash. It’s about Scotties. Who are cool.

With all the trouble I’m having doing it, it occurred to me you might want to revisit my whole blog history, which is older than you can imagine. More than 15 years. Dog years are a lifetime compared to Internet years. Or weren’t you counting?

A citation to prove the point. A comment from the thirty-something boy who calls himself Bri Zoni.

Pathetic. You’re all venom, no fang.

You call me out. Twice. I *come* out with a lengthy response to your little pokings. You delete it. And then you delete the whole post. Because you saw the box that said “comment deleted” and worried others could see your cowardice.

Stop running. I’ve shown you which beliefs of yours are broken. Fix them. Without the dramatics, please and thanks. No more excuses or weasley rationalizations. Be a man and get the work done.

This bears infinite repeating: Because you’re wrong, you should revise your beliefs accordingly. Religious freedom doesn’t mean reality is optional. Not if your integrity matters.

What this is about. Why I won’t let up. Integrity. And the other things on your list of manhood. You’ve failed them all. Including, especially loyalty. Sure, you’ve stayed loyal to the faith assigned you at birth. But to do that, you had to betray the best in yourself. Even your obsolete God understood the folly of serving two masters. You chose the wrong one.

The kind, squishy part of my guts doesn’t want to post this today. The part that doesn’t like hurting you, not even with the truth. You may have chosen death, but that’s not what I want for you. I want you to live, and thrive. Fear of the Lord is the end of wisdom. It’s a childish fear. I want you to grow out of it. I want that FOR you.

I know he’s sincere. Tried to find the Facebook comment where he blew me up in all caps for being CHRISTIAN and in my SIXTIES. Yes, I’m both those things. But that’s hardly a headline unless you’re a fanatic atheist.

I’m accused of not thinking to his standard. Okay. You be the judge. Study my record as a blogger.



Deerhound Diary (And check out the header links, which go all the way back to the pre-blog universe.)

Instapunk Rules

And, hopefully soon, The Thin Red Leash.

So far, so good. We’re both upright and walking around(!). The missus is an Oregon fan. She looooooved the Duck demolition of Florida State and their grossly illiterate QB. (Hey. 35 grammatical errors in a one minute statement of boastful defiance in the face of humiliating defeat was worth a whole season of nauseatingly fawning Jameis Winston hype.) She’s quaaaacking in glee.

For my part, I enjoyed the return of Ohio State. Alabama may be a university. I have no personal proof of that. Speaking of which, Wisconsin also beat the other pretend university in that state. Cool. And Michigan State embarrassed Baylor. (Any surprise that Boudica identifies with Spartans?)

Our grandchildren liked their Christmas gifts as far as we know. (Especially the Thornton Burgess stuff.) But our children are our pets. And they were avid in their support for our football affiliations.

So so eager. We are touched indeed.

Raebert can't get enough of the Oregon Ducks.

Raebert can’t get enough of the Oregon Ducks.

Eloise is pretty sure Urban Meyer owns The Force.

Eloise is pretty sure Urban Meyer owns The Force.

Muffy thinks football is almost as much fun as lint.

Muffy thinks football is almost as much fun as lint. Meaning, it’s like a LOT of fun.

Well, Elliott was pretty ticked off at the poor performance of the Kansas State Wildcats against UCLA. But he's always been a contrarian.

Well, Elliott was pissed at the way the Kansas State Wildcats flopped against UCLA.

But that’s the nature of the holidays. Not everybody can be happy all the time.

Now, though, it’s NFL time.

If we can't be Eagles, we'll be Ravens. Long live EAP.

If we can’t be Eagles, we’ll be Ravens. Long live EAP.

Newer entries »