This movie includes one of the cruelest acts by an “officer and gentleman” you will ever see. Ask Ursula Andress why.

The Lady Barbara has questions about the NASCAR controversy:

“I await your comment on this weekend’s NASCAR incident. It seems cruel (and ridiculous) to me, all the online speculation about its being an intentional killing — or at best, something easily preventable by Stewart — but I know nothing about the men involved and almost nothing about racing. I’m eager to hear your insights.”

My wife can attest that I’ve been feeling obligated because I took a cheap shot at NASCAR in this post.

My opinion about the current controversy. It’s all nonsense. There are a lot of professions and callings that require borderline sociopaths. Which is not to say criminals. These are people with less empathy, less fear, more aggression, and less foresight of consequences. It’s a bigger club than most people realize. Most of them are not criminals. Fighter pilots, NFL quarterbacks, successful political leaders, race car drivers, scientists, explorers, and, to be honest, many artists and writers. It’s not narcissism per se. It’s the drive to win in competition. Which means there are losers. And those for whom the human consequences matter less than the objective achieved. Think Winston Churchill. Think Isaac Newton. Think MacArthur. Think Robert E. Lee. Think Shackleton of the Antarctic. Think, for all his rhetoric to the contrary, J. Robert Oppenheimer. Think Richard Dawson. Think Picasso (all those exploited women) and even Leonardo (all those stolen dissected corpses).

These are people who hover right on the line between good and evil. Despite their small numbers, equivalent to the 1.6 percent who are homosexual and eternally cool, these are the people who accomplish most of the great outcomes, for good and ill. They live on an edge few people ever get close to.

Which explains part of the media dudgeon. By definition reporters watch while other people do. They can’t stand the idea that there in flyover country are fearless competitors who want to win more than anything and are willing to sail very close to the wind to do it. Not at cocktail parties but on the high seas of life, in reality.

The other part is explained by progressive cultural bias. NASCAR is everything they hate: southern, loud, fossil fuel intensive, macho, white, popular, beloved by the military, hard drinking fans, proof against propaganda, endowed with long history, heavy metal in music and in fact, and attractive to big breasted bimbos who don’t know they should be NYT reporters.

Perfect storm. So somebody died. Never mind that he stepped out aggressively into the line of traffic on a dirt track with the intent of registering his own anger. He’s a victim now.

Because the owners of all cultural truth know that everyone is a victim. Even a hothead accidentally killed by a hothead.

The inside betting is that Stewart wanted to spray him with dirt from the dirt track for his reckless advance onto the track — and miscalculated.

I dunno. I’m a motorhead by birth. Responsibilities on both sides. I push you, you push me. Miscalculations aren’t crimes. They’re consequences for sure. But not crimes. Why women continue to love bad boys more than New Yorker writers.

Does that help, Barbara?

No? Let’s see if I can add to the picture with another sense. I have never seen a NASCAR race in person, but NASCAR has an even lower class cousin, drag racing. I have been to a national drag race competition in Englishtown, New Jersey. Friend of mine insisted. I remember lots. Arnie “the Farmer” Beswick. Shirley “Cha Cha” Muldowney, “Big Daddy” Don Garlits, and “The Hawaiian.” Rails, funny cars, double A fuel dragsters, the people in the stands who couldn’t afford NASCAR tickets or much of anything but gas for their clapped out ’68 GTO…

But what I remember most of all is the SOUND!!! Zero to earsplitting, soulsplitting, forget ZZ Top forever, inside out wail of internal combustion divinity in a split second.

NASCAR fans talk to me about sound. They explain that they can hear more than they can see at tracks like Dover. I nod knowingly. Because they don’t know shit. My sources tell me that compared to the NHRAs, NASCAR is the merest whisper. Which doesn’t sound good for Tony Stewart.

Then again, I’ve never owned a Volvo. So what would I know about appropriate sound? And what it does to the human mind?

What it’s like. more or less, today. Monaco. She’s captivated.

Maybe it’s just possible some of you are getting tired of the NFL. My wife isn’t. But I am. Sometimes you revert to the pastimes of your childhood. Seems backward, I know. I’m encouraged, though, that the missus has suddenly developed an interest in the current season of Grand Prix racing.

It’s not the World Cup, where nothing happens at great length. It’s an older and cruder sport, but perhaps now the most technologically advanced in the world.

The good news is that people haven’t died in it in a while, though they were doing so at regular intervals when I first fell in love with it. Most of the drivers I admired and idolized died. Most of the history I inherited about the sport when I first started following it was worse. But when did I ever pretend to be civilized?

I actually drove the Monaco circuit when I was young, when it was still mostly in black and white. Like this:

NASCAR is the big oval, cars with fenders bumping one another in left hand turns.

Indy racing is another oval, open wheeled but endlessly iterative. Grand Prix is curves, straightaways, open wheeled, intricate gear changing, even more intricate passing strategies, and historically far more deadly. Not about steering but driving.

I remember the first year when a gap in the schedules allowed Grand Prix drivers to compete at the Indy 500. All the Indy drivers figured they would intimidate the European pansies. It was a blood bath. No one giving way to anyone, open wheels climbing over open wheels, fuel explosions as cars careened into walls. Multiple deaths.

Why, perhaps, I don’t get as concerned as some about the possibility that maybe, one day, there will be a fatality in the NFL.

Last week we watched the most elemental kind of battle in the Grand Prix ranks. Beat this if you can. Two members of the same car team have traded wins all year. They are neck and neck. One has had some mechanical failures of late and fallen behind. The other is coming on strong. (Oh, okay. Let’s get demographic. They both work for Mercedes Benz. One, the one presently behind, is a black Briton named Lewis Hamilton. The other is a German named Nicki Rosberg, charging to the front on his German team.) at the Hungarian Grand Prix, Rosberg won the pole position. Hamilton had a car fire in qualifying and had to start not from the grid but the pits.

For a time it seemed that Hamilton might do what no Grand Prix driver had ever done — win the race from the pits. It was not to be. But he came all the way way from last place to third, and Rosberg finished fourth. Exciting and dramatic, no? They’re driving the same cars, they’re faster than the competition, and what they’re fighting is each other.

The next race is the Belgian Grand Prix on August 24. You have to start watching early. European time you know. 8 am.

If you got to have it in American, here it is:

But still not the real thing. You have to have all of them — French, Brazilians, Italians, Brits, Germans, Swiss, Americans — which is the real World Cup. No Russians in Grand Prix. No guts, no glory. Or — no talent, no Tattinger.

It was American driver Dan Gurney btw who first sprayed champagne as a victory celebration. Americans have always been the first and the best. Don’t forget.

Did a tongue in cheek post about Sharknado not long ago. Social networks loved it as an ultimate example of bad movie made good. The producer was a company called Asylum, which makes lots of bad movies for the SyFy Channel. I enjoyed it and said so. No redeeming value whatsoever. But I’ve just found a better/badder one. One that’s actually worth talking about, heaven forfend.

To set the scene, I was avoiding the news that Obama might or might not finally do something in Iraq. Who cares what he says? What he does will be invariably lame, too little, too late, and ultimately, however it sounds at the outset, ineffective.

So I found an Australian TV series on Netflix I’ve never heard of and watched two episodes of it. Typically somewhat slow, complicated, nerve wracking, and then, what the hell, not what I was in the mood for.

Not ashamed to say I plunged for the lowest common denominator, an Asylum production called Airplane Vs Volcano. Here is my report.

It beggars Sharknado in terms of violating every acceptable convention of disaster movies. There is no filmic sin in this genre it does not commit. It is, despite a ridiculous premise, almost entirely humorless. A commercial airliner stumbles over the airspace of a brand new population of Hawaiian volcanoes which could have and should have either burned it to a crisp in a moment or jammed its engines into shutdown with pyroclastic ash, also in a moment. The characters are undeveloped, the script many times mawkishly sentimental, the actors B-level at best, the CGI incredibly bad, the plot twists even more impossibly unbelievable than your worst imagination, the on board casualties carelessly excessive, the science and technology cited absolutely, unutterably laughable… Never seen a lower average User Rating for a movie at IMDB.com (uh, approximately zero.)

But, this morning, I enjoyed every minute of it. Yes, there was the standard SyFy plot structure of a lone senior military officer dealing with an apocalyptic event (ostentatiously eschewed by Sharknado, don’tcha know…) But this time there was also a lowly sergeant who gradually took over the movie by insisting that the passengers on a stricken plane were worth every conceivable sacrifice to bring home safely. The hero did not miraculously heal the rift with his wife and family. Mass civilian casualties were not averted.

Leave no one behind. Wrung out to the last drop in this otherwise atrocity. It used to be part of our cultural and military tradition. In the days of Obama it’s become a comic book fantasy. One I was willing to escape to on this August Friday.

I’ve reached the point where I’d rather have cartoon bubblespeak than a single other word from this travesty of a president.

Hate me all you want, RJD. He’s a hero.

Have to do this. I have Ohio roots. Deep roots. I’ve sometimes dissed Victor Davis Hanson. Not today. He’s right about William Tecumseh Sherman. The March to the Sea was a nation saving event.

One hundred and fifty years ago this September 2, William Tecumseh Sherman took Atlanta after a brilliant campaign through the woods of northern Georgia. While Grant slogged it out against Lee in northern Virginia all through the late spring and summer of 1864—the names of those battles still send chills up our collective spine: Spotsylvania, the Wilderness, Cold Harbor — Lincoln’s reelection chances were declared doomed. All summer, General George McClellan reminded Americans that he had once gotten closer to Richmond than had Grant and at far less cost — and promised that, under his presidency, the war would end with either the South free to create its own nation or to rejoin the Union with slavery intact … but that in either case the terrible internecine bloodletting would end. Then Sherman suddenly took Atlanta (“Atlanta is ours and fairly won.”); McClellan was doomed and the shrinking Confederacy was bisected once again.

What was to be next? Southerners grew confident that the besieger Sherman would become the besieged in Atlanta after the election, as his long supply lines back to Tennessee would be cut and a number of Confederate forces might converge to keep him locked up behind Confederate lines.

Instead, Sherman cut loose on November 15, 1864 — despite Grant’s worries and Lincoln’s bewilderment — and headed to the Atlantic Coast in what would soon be known as “The March to the Sea,” itself a prelude to an even more daring winter march through the Carolinas to arrive at the rear of Robert E. Lee’s army, trapped in Virginia at war’s end.

After daring Sherman to leave Atlanta, and declaring that he would suffer the fate of Napoleon in Russia, Confederate forces wilted. The luminaries of the Confederacy — Generals Bragg, Hardee, and Hood — pled numerical inferiority and usually avoided the long Northern snake that wound through the Georgia heartland. Sherman’s army had been pared down of its sick and auxiliaries, but was still huge, composed of Midwestern yeomen who liked camping out and were used to living off the land. Post-harvest Georgia was indeed rich, and Sherman’s more than 60,000 marchers soon learned that they could live off the land in richer style than they ever had while occupying Atlanta. In their wake, they left a 300 mile-long, 60 mile-wide swath of looting and destruction from Atlanta to Savannah.

Yet there was a method to Sherman’s mad five-week march. He burned plantations, freed slaves, destroyed factories, and tore up railroads—but more or less left alone the farms and small towns of ordinary Southerners. His purposes were threefold: to punish the plantation class, the small minority of Confederates who owned slaves, as the culprits for the war; to destroy the Southern economy and remind the general population, as Sherman put it, “that war and individual ruin were now to be synonymous”; and to humiliate the Confederate military, especially what he called the cavalier classes that boasted of their martial audacity but would not dare confront such a huge army of battle-hardened troopers from Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Michigan, and other Midwestern states. In this context, the message was not lost: Unionists were not just New England Yankee manufacturers, but farmers who did their own hard work in harsh, cold lands more challenging than temperate Georgia; material advantages and repeating rifles were not antithetical to martial audacity, as a Michigan farmer with a Sharps rifle was more than a match for a plumed Southern cavalryman who boasted of killing Yankees.

Sherman was hated not so much because he killed Southerners: in comparison to Grant’s bloodbath in northern Virginia, probably less than 1,000 Confederates were killed during the March to the Sea. Rather, he humiliated the South by having supposedly less-audacious Northerners taunting the South to attack them on their own turf, and exposing the plantation class as hollow, showing them more willing to flee their rich and hitherto untouched plantations than to die while protecting them.

Read the whole thing.

Love the song and the singer. Hate the sentiment. We always need heroes.

I. Love. Sherman. There. I said it. He refused to run for office. He was as screwed up and conflicted as I am. He hated war. But when he had to wage it, he figured out the smartest way to do it. What God expects of all of us and rarely gets.

Not a nice guy. Neither am I.

I dare anyone to nominate a photograph more revealing and evocative than what we have of William Tecumseh Sherman. He is not posing. He is permanently, deeply stricken. I can’t not look at his face. For hours.

My boys. The ones who keep trying. My hand is out, but they’re frightened.

WILLIE.2.1-6. Many years have passed. I’m aware that for most of you the number 69 is itself magical. Brings back lost youth and all that. But when youth seems lost, it is lost. I know. I am Harry. I wrote the truth nearly ten years ago. Now you can read it again.

PSONG 59
Father,
2 I have broken you, ignored you, killed you,
3 But you do not fade away; you turn toward me in my dreams as you never did in fact,
4 And I am not shocked or shamed,
5 But matter of fact;
6 We are the same cup, drunk by different faces.
7 Some are poisoned, some are fed,
8 Some are, of course, indifferent or indignant.
9 I have looked into your cup, you into mine;
10 My liquor is older than yours, and younger.
11 What I see in its liquid skin is the world of me,
12 Me a transparent tattoo on its slippery flesh,
13 All evaporating, waiting to be consumed,
14 Pregnant intoxicant mirage.
15 But when I ask you to look,
16 You’d see you, the shimmering skin of a world ago,
17 And there I am only an unreflected memory of mine.
18 Why, then, do you smile in my dreams?
19 Is that my memory again, my wish, my punishment?
20 Or is it the blending, at last, of the dregs of our final draught?

PSONG 60
I could give up sleeping,
2 But for the alarm of morning,
3 Which wants to surprise us awake,
4 With a brand new ancient lesson.
5 Every morning is everywhere,
6 The center of being undraped and unafraid,
7 On display for its satellites.
8 When I was in Rio, I flung open the broad smiling horizon built upon my balcony,
9 And I squinted the darkness away.
10 Today I roll out under the roof of morning,
11 Trusting a sun I can’t see,
12 Imagining the boastful light above the trusses and timbers and shingles of our conceits,
13 But I do not dare to look at the blush of retreating night,
14 That pink behind we all must show,
15 In impotent flight.
16 Darkness always loses courage in the end,
17 And dawn wins every day.
18 So must I,
19 But more slowly now than then,
20 When I was young.

I am still not who you think I am.

You think you can win. Nobody does. All you can hope for is a close fly-by. Which I watch for every day from my balcony. In Rio. Only a handful have the guts. And most of those who do crash.

Don’t send me a card. Send yourselves one instead. Be kind.

I’m frequently accused of being a male chauvinist. Perhaps justly. I don’t think women should be in combat, police officers, firefighters, or Grand Prix drivers. But I don’t think that makes me sexist. I don’t think skinny little Jewish guys should be obsessed with playing one-on-one basketball, either. It’s icky. But that doesn’t make me anti-Semitic. It just makes me opinionated.

My wife, who endures my grumpy observations that there are no female Leonardos, Mozarts or Einsteins, will also affirm that my views are complicated and not one-sided. She’ll tell you I detest the Hollywood tropes on both sides. The cliche that 80 lb Asian women can routinely kick the asses of 200 lb men with military and martial arts training disturbs me because it makes women think that self defense courses can protect them when what they really need is a gun in their handbag. An average out of shape male can break a woman’s jaw with a single punch.

She’s equally fatigued with my resistance to Hollywood insistence that the best computer hackers are women, which is so patently ridiculous that even I find myself tedious on the subject. Just because a woman wears horn-rimmed glasses doesn’t mean she has the driving obsession to burrow through endless layers of machine code to execute tricky, anonymous attacks on every kind of bureaucracy. Mostly, women are the bureaucracy, which is historically, inveterately, depressingly female. It’s the ultimate definition of passive-aggression. And women never aspire to be anonymous. They just settle for it when their need for attention goes unnoticed. But their preferred weapon in that case isn’t computer code but legal documents. Or poison.

By the same token, my wife is tired of hearing me rail at the Hollywood trope that when in danger, women ALWAYS:

— Can’t start a car
— Can’t run away without falling down
— Can’t hang onto a gun they’ve fired without immediately throwing it away
— Can’t be quiet when silence is a matter of life and death
— Can’t ever, ever, EVER do what they’re told without saying, “What?,” “Why?,” Or “Huh?” Just before the machete explains.

Which is all bullshit that consigns women, more than laws or regulations, to second class status. Where they don’t belong.

I don’t dislike women. More than boys, they need and respond beautifully to a good father. When they catch fire, as they often do, more now than in the oppressive past, they are luminous, numinous, inspiring, and ineffable.

Last week, I showed you a girl who sailed around the world and wished I had a daughter like her. Today I’m giving you a raft of Netflix Girls, all of whom I admire and would be proud to claim as progeny.

Wild Eyes: The Abby Sunderland Story. Another teenage girl who had to sail around the world.

Zero to 100. A surfing prodigy. Head-snapping footage of a born natural whose mother had been advised to abort her. (See video above.)

Ballerina. Showed you this a while back. It’s a profession as demanding as the NFL, and at the moment I’m liking it better.

First Position. More ballet. Get over yourselves. Oscar Levant once called ballet “the fairies’ baseball.” Now that ESPN wants baseball and football to be the fairies’ national pastimes, you have some catching up to do.

Sarah Burke. She bulldozed the sport of freeskiing to include women. Then she died pushing the envelope.

Karina Hollekim. Base jumper. Crazy girl.

Ready to Fly. Ski jumping. Women are as fearless as men. Sometimes.

Soul Surfer. Sometimes they’re even more fearless.

This post could be longer. A lot longer. But if I hurry, I can finish the last of the chicken cacciatore before my wife gets home. Just remember. Whatever men say, they know that women can be brave and fierce and spectacularly beautiful in action. As long as they don’t catch you polishing off their chicken cacciatore. Which can get ugly fast. Don’t ever think I think otherwise.

Cleaning up in the social networks. Scary whirling air. Boo. We’re fans.

So we watched the Sharknado sequel, having missed the first one. My wife hates gore, but having started we couldn’t stop watching. Repeatedly, she exclaimed, “I can’t believe I’m watching this movie.” I explained that it was my blog duty to keep up with what’s “trending.” We both laughed throughout. A lot. Blood colored cotton candy.

Imagine my surprise that there could be anyone so humorless as to consider the Sharknado franchise sinister. But here’s the proof (h/t Hotair):

Last year, Flavorwire’s Jason Bailey argued that Sharknado is bad for people who love bad movies. “For those of us with a genuine love for bad movies, who seek out treasures of terribleness,” he wrote, “the Sharknado social media storm was kind of like when everybody discovered rap music via Vanilla Ice.” Bailey made the case that the appeal of so-bad-they’re-good gems like Manos, Miami Connection, or The Room is that they weren’t deliberately manufactured to be bad. Those cult hits came from people who truly believed they were making good art, and the gulf between their visions and the reality of their work was what made them enjoyable. The same cannot be said of the Sharknado films — “a plastic, artificial, manufactured substitute” made with “snickering, ironic snark-viewing in mind,” Bailey wrote.

But that doesn’t get to the bottom of why Sharknado is so pernicious. Imagine that you’re a top Hollywood executive — the kind that calls shots and greenlights projects. If you’re searching for the Next Great Box Office Smash Hit — especially one that’s cheap and likely to put butts in seats — you’d be crazy not to see the cultural phenomenon of Sharknado as an instant money-making opportunity. Hire some washed-out, B-movie stars on the cheap; attach a no-name director; commission a hastily written screenplay; and don’t break the bank on your cheesy, cheap special effects. If it’s half as successful as Sharknado, it’s a recipe for some serious cash money.

But what kind of precedent does that set? If studios succeed by making bad movies, other studios will follow suit. Social media buzz becomes more important to Hollywood every year, and it won’t take many more Sharknados before studios, filmmakers, and writers race to the bottom, creating terrible lowbrow art for the sake of irony (the one thing that we do not need more of these days).

If you read the comments, there are few additional points to be made. My own unique observation is that no other movie could make Snakes On a Plane look, comparatively, like Citizen Kane.

And there’s another link between these two titanic productions. Behold:

As Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And sometimes fun is just fun.

Have yourselves a fine day. But keep your eyes peeled for sharks. You can never tell where they might be lurking.

I’d read about it for years, so when it showed up on cable, on the Independent Film Channel, my wife and I watched — not from the beginning — for 20 minutes before bedtime, just to see if it was as interesting as other Scandinavian productions we’d enjoyed. But we’d been spoiled. The English dubbing was as ham-handed as old Japanese Godzilla movies, too loud, oddly Ohio, and offputting.

But we were intrigued enough to find the Swedish original on Netflix. Which pointed up the problem IMDB reviewers had had. Multiple reviews of the IFC version got sidetracked in the same way this one did:

Oskar is lonely. His parents have separated, neither one wants him, he is alone a lot. He hangs around outside in the snowy Swedish night. One night, he meets a kid named Eli (Lina Leandersson) who is about his age. Eli is lonely, too, and they become friends. Oskar is at that age when he accepts astonishing facts calmly, because life has given up trying to surprise him. Eli walks through the snow without shoes… They decide to have a sleepover in his bed. Sex is not yet constantly on Oskar’s mind, but he asks, “Will you be my girlfriend?” She touches him lightly. “Oskar, I’m not a girl.” Oh.

Oh. Some of the reviewers concluded that girl vampire either/or boy vampire was, attractively, somehow the point. Cultural melding metaphor. Except it’s a dead wrong perspective. “I’m not a girl” means “I’m not a girl but a vampire.” The original Swedish version makes this unmistakeably clear. Footage was amputated from the dubbed IFC version no doubt because it would upset the new politically correct Hays Office. It’s a criminal offense to see (for a micro-second) the privates of a thousand year old vampire who is stuck at twelve.

Not highlighting this for any point other than that the theme of the movie is actually a positive view of humankind. The climax is driven by the vampire’s insistence that her human friend share, however briefly, the difference between the human desire to kill and the natural predator’s absolute need to kill in order to survive. They lean into one another out of opposite desires.

The love affair is real. The point of convergence is the urge to kill. The boy, ceaselessly bullied, wants to kill his persecutors. The vampire, ceaselessly pursued, wants to be more than a cold predator in mindless pursuit of prey.

It’s not a slasher film. The violence is sparse but intense and in the end dramatically just. (Also cinematically kick-ass.) The finale is philosophically thought provoking. And the girl Eli is, ultimately, more terrifying than Count Dracula.

I’m still thinking about it two days later. Never gave a moment’s thought to any other vampire movie after the credits rolled.

See for yourself.

Face of the New Media. His name is Jazz Shaw.

I’d like to be going to bed now, but I’m so mad I can’t. The Hotair website is like Paris, a place instantaneously and completely abandoned in August, left to a partially deranged half writer who derives his credentials from the fact that he’s as obsessed with NFL football as the putative site daddy, a Pittsburgh Steelers lunatic from Minnesota named Ed Morrissey.

Sick of it. Sorry. Sick of all the half and quarter writers who actually make Allahpundit look good. Where did this new guy Noah Rothman come from? He actually began a post with a fifty word sentence fragment last week. He can’t construct a logical sentence. But he’s New Media. Mary Katherine Hamm has sentence diagramming and usage problems, although thankfully the last female Hotair writer (Erica something?) has already resigned to assume a much more important position in the Republican hierarchy. I’m sure she’ll muddy the message fabulously going forward.

Still. Everybody on staff in righty American blogs is speeding to the Hamptons for their summertime vacation. (I hear Erick Erickson is going to have a spread as monumental as his waistcoat.) Which means it’s all up to the Ted Baxter types who are left, meaning, ta da, Jazz Shaw. Who has the following posts in a row at Hotair.

Hall of Fame Football.

Slow March to Gun Control.

Ellison’s Vote against Iron Dome.

Rand Paul Busts a Rhyme.

U.S. Spy Plane Evades Russians.

Russia about to Invade Ukraine?

All of which display generic conservative/RINO semi-professional writing with occasional syntactic and grammatical lapses, perhaps better than barely literate Breitbart bigwig John Nolte, but enough to satisfy the comparatively smarter Hotair faithful — until this:

Scarborough Chides the Simple Minded on Israel.

The Hotair faithful suddenly discovered that Jazz was not really Jazz but Old Ragtime, an archaic relic with a big hat and a Teutonic mustache. I wrote him this email about his Scarborough defense:

Brave but obtuse. Joan Rivers was more on point. If NJ was firing missiles at NY, tunneling into NY, NY would retaliate.

I know you media veterans form personal friendships. In the old days (love your mustache) understandable. Now it’s important to see blind ambition for what it is. Scarborough is a latent accomplice in the annihilation of Israel. Sad you can’t see it. Sometimes you make sense.

Go see IP.rflaird.com and Instapunk.com for a period spanning more than ten years. Don’t know any of you guys. How I can be honest.

Regards,
Robert Laird

To which he has not responded. Don’t expect him to. The august of the new right wing media never respond. They’re the august, don’t you know?

I’m NOT Jazz. I’m the punk who’d tear Jazz and various Joe’s a new asshole.