June 2016

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What was Topless Day about? Prying your millennial kids off your lactating breasts? No? Prove it.

What was Topless Day about? Prying your millennial kids off your exhausted lactating breasts? No? Prove it.

We keep hearing about Free the Nipple. How about Free the Infants? Some thoughts. Teach them to cut their own damn food. Teach them to do their own laundry. Teach them to mow the lawn. Teach them to clear the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Teach them to turn off their cellphones during dinner. Teach them to sit down to dinner like a human being every night. Teach them to BE a human being.

And teach them to let go of your damn teat. The best possible way to Free the Nipple.

What was Topless Day about? Prying your millennial kids off your lactating breasts? No? Prove it.

What was Topless Day about? Prying your millennial kids off your exhausted lactating breasts? No? Prove it.

We keep hearing about Free the Nipple. How about Free the Infants? Some thoughts. Teach them to cut their own damn food. Teach them to do their own laundry. Teach them to mow the lawn. Teach them to clear the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Teach them to turn off their cellphones during dinner. Teach them to sit down to dinner like a human being every night. Teach them to BE a human being.

And teach them to let go of your damn teat. The best possible way to Free the Nipple.

Can a fat man dance? Yes.

Can a fat man dance? Yes.

Limbaugh’s been talking about all of it in his usual clever but heavy way. Nobody but me could see he was not saying anything really, just waiting for the rhythm to kick in.

Tap dancing his way to the convention. But Limbaugh moves well for a big guy, no?

We can make it all the way to the convention in our dance shoes. And we don’t even have to listen.

You know who they are. The "Hillary will win" and "I am woman" crowd. Plus the fat lumbering male assholes. You know how to find their pic.

Images too. They’re a pain, these FB harpies. You know who they are. The “Hillary will win” and “I am woman” crowd. Plus the fat lumbering emasculated males out there. But you already know how to find their pic.

You know. Somebody says something so ridiculous or stupid or unworthy of response that words fail you. You want to make a comment but you’re smart enough to know that this whole emoji thing is like a bunch of rubber ducks tossed into a bathtub with infants who have never even seen a duck. What’s needed is something visual, arresting, and final. Here are your best bets.

And a bonus about me. I keep trying to leave this arena to publish my books, but…

I think you’ll find these are great time saving devices and collectively an arsenal against all kinds of FB idiocy. Comments you don’t need to make or explain or worry about PC issues.

Because I’m only here to help.

Now if you want to jump in on the question of dismissive images, we’re happy to entertain your nominations. No foul language though. We’re really really tired of that. Let the image speak for itself, like the example up top. Other vidclips are also welcome with the same stricture. Don’t want to hear any of George Carlin’s dirty words. Got it?

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Saw this yesterday and went WTF? Here’s a lefty who at every turn wants more government control of everybody but his sacred self and he fancies himself as an anarchic outlaw. WTF.

But it makes sense when you think about it. The dirty secret of quasi libertarian lefties is that they’re as totalitarian at base as the Stalinists. They want to tell the rest of us what to do, what to think, how to behave in order to let them do whatever the f**k THEY want to do, because they’re just better, smarter, and born to be in charge. The mask is appropriate too. Don’t ever show your real face to the proles. They wouldn’t like you.

I have an easy rebuttal for Max’s pronouncements and profile pic. Veteran or not, he’s a control freak jerk. Here’s what a real libertarian looks like.

I WILL go all the way...

I WILL go all the way…

...to HERE, if necessary.

…to HERE, if necessary.

Because no matter how much I say I don't care, I care all the way. And I'm still standing here, Humongous. Without any mask.

Because no matter how much I say I don’t care, I care all the way. And I’m still standing here, Humongous. Without any mask.

Well, we had a lot of white privilech in our part of town, Edna. Something you other worldser’s probly wouldn’t a appresiated. Like we had this FM raddio, which got the Sinatra twice a week. Cool, man, cool

We're talking one huge high output speaker here. Sinatra sound as close as the next county.

We’re talking one huge high output speaker here. Sinatra sound as close as the next county.

And we had them Readers Digests two.

I learned everything about my favorite character and all the ways you can get cancer.

I learned everything about my Most Unforgettable Character and all the ways you can get cancer and die in agony.

But that warn’t all.

Because my starched grandfather was only eleven when this was published.

1896. First bare breasts published in a magazine.

1896. First bare breasts published in a magazine.

After that we had every issue of every year of the National Geographic on file and I enjoyed them all as much as my third reading of Kidnapped and my second reading of Black Beauty. We never talked about it. The 50 years worth of Nat Geo were neatly filed on a shelf in the attic, right next to my grandma’s box of String Too Short To Use. Why I’m as literate as I am today.

The gaps are mostly in New Guinea. You know. Being honest.

The gaps are mostly in New Guinea. You know. Being honest.

I’m a eddicated guy now, Edna.

For many millions of us, the first sugar was the dream of Brown Sugar. Hallelujah.

Robert Laird

Robert Laird

The Reagan supporter of 40 years ago resented my listing of Hillary’s lifelong crimes. Resulting in an FU and branding me an “Ugly Fuck” before she ran away with all her relevant comments, leaving my tamer responses orphaned. Proof that the millennial generation of the ignorant and thoughtless began long before the millennials. About which I am abundantly on record.

Tell you what we need from you, honey. The Sound of Silence.

Disturbed.

Or you could learn more about yourself here…

Swarthmorons.

Or here…

Mawrites.

Which do you prefer, FU 3rd wave feminist Reaganite oxymoron Lisa McAllister?

Just imagine. Punk City, the book, is coming. St. Nuke is Schroedinger’s Cat. Alive AND dead at the same time.

You have no idea who the punk writers were.

Yeah. Punk City. We rule. Always did.

Yeah. Punk City. We rule. Always did.

Just imagine. Punk City, the book, is coming. St. Nuke is Schroedinger’s Cat. Alive AND dead at the same time.

You have no idea who the punk writers were.

Yeah. Punk City. We rule. Always did.

Yeah. Punk City. We rule. Always did.

Ellen Foley. What it takes to make it.

Ellen Foley. What it takes to make it.

On a comment thread miles away from here I had to bop a feminist who was defending the indefensible Jennifer Rubin. She said my comment was stupid. All she said. So I laid Ellen Foley’s Cover of Mick Jagger’s Stupid Girl on her. More combined talent there than she’ll ever experience in a lifetime.

Thing is. Ellen Foley was a great singer. And she still didn’t make it. Except that I know she was great, and so should everyone else. Here’s a heart stopping ballad of hers I sometimes wake up in the night remembering. Funny how life, real life as opposed to fantasy feminist life, actually works.

Can you hear the scratches? We had records in those days. So I still wake up at 3:38 in the morning hearing this song. So many times I want to let go. And she won’t let me.

When it comes to stupid and futile gestures, there’s no substitute for the half of the English island with no human beings in it.

Without Scotland, England looks like a dog without a head. Pretty much the truth of it.

Without Scotland, England looks like a dog without a head. Pretty much the truth of it.

The Romans learned the hard way. The English learned the hard way. Then they invented golf, capitalism, the worst cuisine on earth, the steam engine, women who talk like something’s stuck in their throat, and men with no underwear. The world has never been the same. All part of the same stupid, futile gesture which had no other purpose than giving the middle finger to the rest of the world.

World, you’re about to get the bird again. Hallelujah.

The new plan. Vote Scotland out of the U.K. Join the EU. And then the surprise military Conquest of Brussels.

The Ladies from Hell. They'll be bringing their own Scottish hell to the bureaucratic inferno of Belgium. God save them. If He can.

The Ladies from Hell. They’ll be bringing their own Scottish hell to the bureaucratic inferno of Belgium. God save them. If He can.

So the Brits are deciding to save the family jewels. Good for them.

Iris and Raven on Day One in February.

Iris and Raven on Day One in February.

Creativity. People ask how it works. It’s not that magical. Somebody says something that kicks your brain in a different direction. Then you do the work. The old one percent inspiration, 99 percent perspiration equation. Except substitute listening for inspiration to make it correct. Not too impressive from that angle, right?

Supposedly they’re sisters, but it’s increasingly hard to believe. And harder to explain without automatic punning. In personality they are night and day. Raven, the black one, shows every sign of being a true feral, afraid of people just because. Iris, the impossibly white one, is a cuddle bunny now after six months of reluctance to be touched. Now she leaps up onto the couch and purrs like a Bugatti with no muffler. At the change of seasons this year we had a renewed mouse outbreak. Iris killed it, literally, in about a week. Her peak was three in one day. She’s Clint Eastwood with a loving purr.

Raven lives mostly by herself. She positions herself in our bay windows front and back of the house and watches the birds. She no longer runs at the sight of you but a single pat is all she will allow. My wife has made more progress with her than I have. She’s unferalizing herself. Very slowly.

The two of them have a complicated relationship with each other, sometimes chummy but more frequently competitive. They chase each other upstairs and downstairs, wrestle like they mean it, and use all their cat brains to ambush each other.

Happened again today. Raven was in the bathroom. Iris was in the hall, squinched up for a surprise attack when Raven emerged. Only it was the ambusher who got ambushed. Raven rocketed out of the bathroom, bashed Iris in the face and disappeared downstairs. Which is when my wife said, “And the White Queen gets taken.”

Aha! Eureka! All those creative interjections. And like all creative people in this day and age I knew I could make myself cool by doing a post about cat chess by pinching pics that were obviously already on the Internet. So I searched.

What I envisioned, what I believed I would find was a cat populated version of this.

You know. A great big chess board with black and cats enacting the game.

You know. A great big chess board with black and white cats enacting the game.

Didn’t find that. The best you get is this.

If this were about our past ferals Mickey and Cassie, it,would be great. But not for Iris and Raven.

If this were about our past ferals Mickey and Cassie, it would be great. But not for Iris and Raven.

So then you try cat chess black and white. Which gets you only this.

Yeah. We see the black and white theme. Cats? Not so much.

Yeah. We see the black and white theme. Cats? Not so much.

So then you think, okay, I’m not specific enough. Cat chess Black Queen White Queen.

Now we're getting somewhere, Imthought, right before I thought Oops! The missus won't like having inspired this, right?

Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought, right before I thought Oops! The missus won’t like having inspired this, right?

So you keep looking.

Better. But I dunno.

Better. But I dunno.

Uh, where were we when we started?

Uh, where were we when we started?

So then I’m thinking, cats don’t play chess. Queens don’t play chess. They just knock stuff over and attack things. They don’t care about no damn board full of tidy squares.

I go where I like.

I go where I like.

I do what I do. Like it or lump it.

I do what I do. Like it or lump it.

Can’t improve on that. Cats 100, Creativity 0.

Where it's all falling down.

Where it’s all falling down.

Millionaires just hate billionaires.

Millionaires just hate billionaires.

Yes, the woman who wrote a series of goofy children’s books while on the dole in the U.K. has an ax to grind with The Donald.

“British Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling unloaded on presumptive GOP presidential nominee Donald Trump in an essay posted to her website this week, calling the candidate a ‘fascist’ who possesses ‘the temperament of an unstable nightclub bouncer.”

We’re supposed to believe her because some clothheads think the Harry Potter books amount to some kind of social satire. Like, she really really hates Margaret Thatcher, who wanted to reduce the number of freeloaders living on the dole. Get tough on the lower classes and they’ll man up or some such thing Rowling really hates. Her not so subtle avatar for Thatcher is Dolores Umbridge.

You know. Disciplinarians are mean, mean, mean.

Except that Dolores Umbridge is actually more a symbol of the socialist welfare state than a stand-in for Thatcher.

And it’s all crap, even in her own terms. The Potter story has nothing to do with politics. She has nothing whatever to say about politics. Rowling’s books are harmless children’s fare, mostly. She is harmless as a spokesperson for anything. Yet another woman who can’t think. Why children’s books are children’s books. Written by children who haven’t ever gotten over their mommy and daddy issues and have to keep inflicting them on the rest of us.

Dolores uses magic but insists that her students don’t. Gun control, anyone? She is not the voice,of liberty and individual responsibility. Harry Potter is. Harry is more Thatcherite than most in Britain are today. Though we’ll see, won’t we, if the state succeeds in snuffing out the Brexists?

It’s not politics that’s driving Rowling’s antipathy to Thatcher. It’s the domineering mother figure. Just as her male nightmare, the phantom Voldemort, the abusive father who might still return, is the exemplification of her other terror: the absent abusive father who might yet return.

So Rowling hated her parents. Fine. Her response is to conflate them into a conception called the Dementor. Who steals the life from children.

There’s fictional life and there’s real life. In fictional life, Rowling wants to set the kids free from their oppressive abusive parents. In real life, she aspires to be the Dementor-in-Chief. Taking control of the state and everybody’s lives until there are no lives left worth living.

Good thing we can dismiss it all as a children’s yarn, eh?

There’s a line. There’s always a line. Push it too close to people’s feet and they’ll cross it. As I just did.

Two things. Obama’s approval rating is over 50 percent. The worst president in the whole history of the republic and more than half of you approve of him. The only president who actively hates his country and never does his job without sneering at every worthwhile citizen from the 14th tee.

Thing two. Everyone knows the MSM is corrupt but they still buy the lies. Trump tells us we’re at war. Which we are. And you disapprove. You think he’s Hitler.

Fuck you.

I’m done.

From now on, I post only about pet peeves. Which happen to include 300 million of you. No political correctness. When they shut me down, as they will, be advised not to approach my bunker. You don’t want to meet the Naked Ape that is me. He’s your nightmare. Old, white, Celtic, accomplished, highly educated, full of wrath against all of you who are willing to see the greatest nation in the history of nations flushed away by your narcissistic tantrums and moral failures. You have no idea (no, you don’t) just how much disgust I feel for you. But I’m the,product of what you call white privilege. Which means…

Where I am.

In a previous post I told you about Gross Bob. [Scroll. 2nd post down.]

We got away with it, you see. I had two problems. Or three. I wasn’t really in business school to be a business guy. I was trying to please my dad. I had an instinctive conviction that if I followed his true wishes, me going to law school, I would have had my mind destroyed. So business school seemed the lesser of two evils. Cornell the same. My dad went to Cornell. He never forgave me for going to Harvard (to his dying day). My sis was there for the same reason. It did certainly destroy her life, all those years in Ithaca. But I was playing the game. I was, despite my general uninterest, in the top third of my class. I could do it. Finally got on top of math for the first time in my life. Two week pre-enrollment course. One week of Algebra. One week of Calculus. All day, every day. How simple can things be?

The two problems the writer in me had. We got away with trashing a bar working class people depended on for a living. AND most of us were willing to leave one of our own behind to save our own necks. I can still hear the car revving in the parking lot: “Leave him! Leave him! We gotta get out of here.” The elite I was supposed to be joining didn’t have an ounce of honor among them. Or an ounce of common decency. I knew it was a bad deal all round.

I should have done something. I didn’t. I was still twenty years old and way behind where I was supposed to be emotionally given my board scores. I did what kids do. I flopped out.

I dropped out with one semester to go for my vaunted Cornell MBA. What did I do? Nothing. Took a County job publishing an historical magazine. Produced a reenactment of the weird little episode called The Skirmish at Quinton’s Bridge. Wrote road signs about it for God’s sake. Some of which are still there.

And I taught myself to write. Not Harvard writing. But writing writing. Typed and retyped and retyped and retyped the same paragraph with changes sometimes as small as a single word. My government office was up to my hips in discarded typescript.

They fired me eventually because I never even attempted to do my job. And then I started waking up to the song above. You know. It’s probably already infested your brain even as I’ve been talking drivel. I started hearing this song all night long in my dreams (along with this sleep mugger), a song I’d cued myself in countless Ithaca area bars.

And so I went back to work. As a proofreader, editor, computer analyst, corporate manager, management consultant, speechwriter for Fortune 10 executives, and consultant trainer for the pathetically undereducated drones who are expected to do work they can’t do.

But it’s a lie. I can’t help. I can only shine. And that’s never ever good enough.

There’s Frank Bogage and my wife and then there’s nobody else.

The overstuffed gray suit. With no face and no fingerprints. I was grand.

The overstuffed gray suit. With no face and no fingerprints. I was grand.

Thus was born Daniel Pangloss, eternal rider of the subway in Shuteye Town.

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Who vented my frustrations and failures to make any difference in a world of fools. Which was, of course, only Shuteye Town, locus of rails and trains and whistle wails.

The Lounge Conversations

God help you all. God save you all. I can’t.

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Okay, so I’m driving along in Pennsville on the way home from an expedition to Delaware, and sick of talk radio, I switch over to WMMR, home of the original progressive DJ Pierre Robert, who never goes home anymore but sits at the microphone reassuring old Boomers with Classic Rock.

Where was I? Driving home from Pennsville. Pierre starts one of what he calls his Workforce Blocks, meaning they’re meant for people who actually work for a living, plus musicians and writers. Led Zep. Chili Peppers. And then I hear this.

Good God Almighty. I LIVED through the sixties, every pretentious, bloody, snotty, drug-infected POS moment of them. I heard Simon and Garfunkel in girls’ dorms till I thought my ears would bleed. All my life, till today, ask me what Sound of Silence was about and I’d tell you a hippy moonbeam chick was so stoned she thought she could hear the sound of silence. Which for the rest of us meant the sound of her not talking for once.

This is a magnificent performance. We all know that heavy metal vocalists do their obligatory ballad to prove they can and aren’t just rapists who didn’t get drunk enough to do it yet. They growl and roar in their hits and simper in their love songs. Yadda yadda yadda.

But here we have both voices and more in between. He begins in what is obviously an homage, not a mockery, of Art Garfunkel, but then he transforms the song, turning it into an emotional recapitulation of Ravel’s Bolero, which repeats and repeats, growing more insistent in every frame, until we experience the full-throated grief that must lie at the heart of every heavy metal head. The roaring is an attempt to defeat the silence. And it concludes, fittingly and humbly, with a diminuendo played by those same husky guitars. Kettle drum? Good God Almighty.

I’m crossing my fingers, just hoping they don’t dump us to a commercial after the song ends. The song ends. They dump us to three or five commercials. But the Pierre, bless his heart, returns and tells us who we’d been listening to.

Disturbed.

Why I’m sharing it with you. So you don’t have to drive with crossed fingers. Thank you, Pierre.

Pierre. Robert.

Pierre. Robert.

Oops. Forgot, like a lot of other people (though I really didn’t) the number one original voice of progressive rock, an adenoidal nerd who could play the hottest music of the sixties all night long and never let a drop of stardust befoul his plain black suit. WMMR in Philadelphia. Your host of the century? Michael Tearson.

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All of which is a long way of saying, the antique radio station called WMMR made me feel twenty again for a quarter hour today.

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