Okay. I’m not big physically. But I have a big heart.
Call this moral support. Why is the Temple team the “Owls”? Because they started as a night school, a place for aspiring blue collars to learn and acquire a degree through extraordinary extra effort after a long working day.
Remember this. The owl is the most exceptional of birds, able to fly silently at high speed. And they have those eyes.
I see you.
But I guarantee you’ll never hear me coming.
Per aspera ad astra, noctuae. Go Temple.
Notre Dame isn’t the only one who can ask for divine favor.
Rum Tum Tigger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pleasant he would rather have rough,
If you give him a bed he would much prefer not.
If you offer him soft, He’ll pick all that’s tough.
If you show him a deerhound, he signs on the dot.
If you show him a Scotty, he laughs just enough.
If you’d rather have stupids, you’ve no need of me.
No excerpts from “Cats” tonight. Elliott is still the king of the township.
For people who are forced to go out into into the new urban guerilla zones. Cops hiding in their cars. BLM activists looking for blood. Random thugs punching old ladies in the head for YouTube videos. Thank you, Obama and Holder.
Your death toll is higher than all the mass shooters in the country.
What can we say? She’s such a coward she never answers her commenters on her Facebook page. She’s such a shill she writes every day, three, four, five times about how bad Trump is and why we need Jeb.
I know they pay her money, enough to pay for her condo in DC, but all she ever writes is Jeb! Jeb! Jeb! Jeb! JEB!!!
Did she go to school somewhere? Does she ever emerge from her condo? Does anybody at the Washington Post know or care that she’s a paid factotum of the Bush family? Or is the fact that everybody else is a paid factotum of Hillary rule that out? Except George Will. Who is a paid factotum of the Chicago Cubs. And now he’s lost yet again. Which is why his hobby, explaining how Republicans can win the White House, is so uproariously funny.
What do they say? The perfect is the enemy of the good.
Oh. And then the super-uneducated millennial lefties come in. Cool. If you point out they don’t know anything, you’re ad hominem. I could live with that. If any of them were hominem in the first place. Know that’s not correct in Latin grammar. But I’d hate to trigger them by using the correct word ‘homo.’
P.S. There was a guy who tried to lecture me about World War I at the Charles Murray page. Lloyd Thomas Sloan. We went back and forth. Now he’s removed himself and all his comments from the thread. The way lefties are. Lose and slink away. I never stop. Why this is still Instapunk.
Zevon and Tearson. How to sum it up. The basis of all that was great in rock and roll. Michael Tearson was our little cross-eyed monster. He talked slow. He loved the music. That was MMR in a nutshell. The Radio Station. WMMR, Philadelphia.
Haven’t listened to rock music stations for ten years. Then, this week, I just turned off talk radio. Local guy named Dom Giordano. Got on a tear about a poll about Trump and Carson. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. And so on. Caller makes a perfectly good point. Carson got beat up in the mass media. Got a bump in the polls. Giordano right back on his narrative. Therefore, Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump.
So. I. Bailed. First to my wife’s awful station, WMGK. Then to the Radio Station of my youth. WMMR. You know how long it takes to hear a Stones song on WMMR? About five minutes. Makes me sad. I hear them all the time. Don’t need ancient DJs to play them for me. But it’s better than hearing lame brained radio hosts pretending they know what they’re talking about. Just a shot away from hearing sense.
Can’t watch news, can’t listen to news or commentary anymore. Any. More.
Your face and your neck can be okay. Your tummy can be flat, or flattish, and you don’t have to look at your own butt. You might not be bald yet. But the hands. You see them every day. And they keep getting more gnarly. Turning slowly into claws. How you know you’re getting up on seventy. How you know you’re old.
But guess what. They’re your hands. Knuckles have been sprained, digits have been broken. They did the hard work, the punches, the caresses, the good and the bad. They’ve done amazing things for you. Been everywhere, explored everything, felt everything with the most exquisite touch, hard and soft and hot and wet. No wonder they get old. It’s okay. They’re yours. Don’t sweat it.
It was Shakespeare who said it best: “Life is a bitch and then you die.”
Oh. He didn’t say that. Well, he should’ve.
“Why are you rooting for New Orleans? You like Andrew Luck, all Stanford and everything. You said the Redskins should never have taken their first draft pick to choose a quarterback who’d have a knee injury in his first season. You said Luck was the natural heir to Peyton Manning in Colts Kingdom, where you’ve always lived as far as I can determine. And now, today, you’re cheering on Drew Brees and the slapped-ass Saints.”
Taking this rationally and in order. Don’t like Andrew Luck’s beard. Plunkett established the rule that Stanford quarterbacks don’t have to be as good looking as all the other quarterbacks are. But there’s a limit.
And where did we get the rule that no Colts team can ever have a running game? Is this some religious thing nobody told me about?
And I’m not nearly as anti-new Orleans as I sometimes seem. Because I do love Zydeco. If you don’t know what that is, look it up. No, I won’t be visiting Nawlins anytime soon. Not fond of the smell of sewage in a modern city. But I do love that music.
So, today, I’m rooting for the “Who Dat” bunch. Ça va.
Why the Brits do better gardening shows than we do. No bras. Charlie not only knows her plants and things, but she also goes slinging and slonging through the garden like a mesmerizing force of nature. Haven’t watched HGTV since Ground Force went off the air.