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Now my wife has discovered landscape aspect photography. She’s watching the deerhound and greyhound playing together. Funny. Spontaneous. Just like this cut from Sticky Fingers. Made up in the studio.
The way I always do it. Unless I plan a little bit ahead.
Like with my Glossary, which was only 15 years ahead of its time.
The road may be long but it isn’t always winding. [Click for bigger on all these pics.]
We talked about Doom and Gloom yesterday. Today I went to the custard stand to get a black and white milkshake for me, a black and white cone for my wife, and a vanilla cone for my racist deerhound. On the way back I saw clouds. Clouds are supposed to be ominous, unless they’re really portentous instead. My state of the art iPhone refused to photograph them. I sent my wife outside to do it for me. But she thinks all photographs are portraits.
I therefore hauled my decrepit bones outside myself, and I sat them down on the road out here in the wilds of South Jersey to have a moment with God and country. Take a look. Why I’m calling this entry Hope and Faith.
This pic’s interesting on two counts. The beauty of God’s sky. And the fields below it, which we call the Mekong Delta because we are racist Anti-Asian types who have no regard for the 24/7 labor of the coolie-hatted ones who plow, sow, tend, and reap a proliferation of crops 12 months a year. (Note Raebert cloud in upper left.)
This one’s like proof of location. That’s our mailbox there on the right.
And this one’s a picture of God not too happy, and also of our mailbox again. We’re sending Him a letter of apology. You have heard how he hates being photographed.
Just another Sunday in the country.
He’s done everything you never thought of and he’s still alive.
Oh yeah. The Doom and Gloom thing.
I know we’re all supposed to give up. Justice Roberts is a tool of the left. Check. Boehner is a tool of the left. Check. McConnell is a tool of the left. Check.
But we still have the complete works of P. G. Wodehouse, Raymond Chandler, and Mickey Spillane to console us. White men will rule forever. Do not ever doubt it.
The U.K. and France have caught the lefty American fever to erase unwelcome moments of their history. It is now important to eliminate all triggers that might cause pain to former victims of depredations past.
The man formerly known as Cromwell.
No. 10 Downing Street has announced plans to evict Oliver Cromwell from the Brit historical record. All statues of the evil fundamentalist Christian Usurper will be dynamited, all books and movies about him will be banned and burned. No trace of him is to remain. Meanwhile Northern Ireland is demanding similar treatment for all artifacts and records of the War of Brit Aggression against the I.R.A.
The monster formerly known as Napoleon.
France has announced even more ambitious plans to scoop from the national consciousness all reminders of the French Revolution, the Directorate, and the subsequent genocidal rule of Napoleon Bonaparte. The Tomb of Napoleon will be demolished and transformed into a Muslim park. Moreover, all books about or referring to any of these sorry events will be rounded up and destroyed, as well as such movies and novels that depict any part of these events. Kiss Marlon Brando as Napoleon goodbye. and forget you ever heard about War and Peace or the Count of Monte Cristo. They never existed.
It’s going to be great. And I suspect this is only the beginning.
No, the three dogs and two cats didn’t get me a card.
Got one of these? I do.
Like an old time TV set, eh?
Like, it can do this from our bay window.
And it can fisheye the Scotty.
She does what she does. Don’t you wish you could too?
Nothing new. Raebert did this too a couple years ago. NatGeo did a special about a Doberman who did something like this, only even more exotic. They’re conscious, people. The last people to figure it out are the genius animal behavioralists.
An odd relationship at best.
The wall. All paintings by family.
My grandfather’s mother. All he remembered of her was her finger. My dad painted her portrait from a photograph. We’re all unfeeling old Scottish bastards.
Gabriel liked painting cows. Also composing music, surgery, and, well, living in Ohio.
Gabriel Miesse was a great man. Who gets to be like that?l
Death everywhere.
When I was young, I was a libertarian. Read Rand when I was 15. Fell in love. Then I got something smarter. You know. Sixteen brings wisdom you don’t get when you’re just a keening Paul. Problem I always had. You can’t dial back time to Zero.
So. Never thought you could just repeal every federal department you didn’t like. Never thought you could dial the clock back to Calvin Coolidge. But the libertarians thought you could. Why? Because they’re kind of autistic. Been reading about it. Even the women.
Worse. They don’t like us anymore. Us people. The educated, the smart ones, the unbelievably educated ones.
Yeah. We be dead. Hanging off the shelves of no account nothing.
You likin’ this dude, you big booty morons? Course you do. Nothing in life as worthwhile and gigantically great as a woman with fake buttocks.
Women used to ask if their butts were too big. Now they can’t even sit down.
Know what? I don’t care anymore. If I’d wanted a black woman, I’d have gotten myself one. That’s not racist. I just wanted an Irish one.
Bad bad bad. A trailer from an awful movie full of triggers and microaggressions, don’t you know. Like about being Irish and not Islamic. Awful.
This is a greyhound named Skippy, usually identified by his Winnie the Pooh toy.
Think I’m kidding? All the neighbors know Skippy because he never goes anywhere without Pooh.
Life consists of what one can bear. And no more.
But there are times when Skippy confronts the world naked. Meaning, there are times when he forgets Pooh in the car. (Greyhounds occasionally lose focus.) and then, even in his own neighborhood, odd things begin to happen. From the blog journal of Skippy’s most interesting life:
Skippy on a walk in downtown Mt. Dora. Today someone asked if he was an Afghan hound??? One day we were asked if he was a Great Dane, another day, a Dalmation, then a German Shepherd, then whippet, the list just goes on. He is a red fawn brindle, 70 lbs., how can he be anything but a GREYHOUND???? smile emoticon
Well, I can understand some of this. We had a black greyhound who looked to us like a small Doberman — yeah she weighed 65 pounds but we had a 100 pound deerhound which kind of spoils the intimidation factor — and she would never have attacked you for anything but your custard cone. (Truthfully, we did give delivery men a glimpse of her from time to time, our approach to home security. They seemed impressed.) The rest of these wild guess canine observers are hard to figure, except that people know nothing whatever about dogs.
Or any other mammal apparently. We were no sooner done exclaiming over the post above when we came across another greyhound owner who claimed that someone in the park asked her why she was walking a… What?
I was walking my Sasha and some workers asked me “why are you walking a deer?” I am not kidding. My husband was walking behind me with our afghan.
A deer? A DEER? Where do people get such absurd ideas?
Our greyhound Rikki heard the deer rumor. He’s gullible. He actually went looking.
We kindly corrected his misapprehension. He’s new here. We don’t expect the same calculus from him we’ve come to expect from Raebert.
He was dubious. You know, he was intrigued. Raebert just scoffed.
There’s no substitute for experience. Raebert’s lived in the country long enough to know where the deer are. Rikki just got here from Brooklyn. No wonder he can’t stop looking. Call it a greyhound thing.
“I think I see one. I really think I do.”
So we gave him another stuffed toy and a cookie, and everything was fine again.
When Putin or Khameini is threatening nuclear war.
Not that I’m not aware of all the female contributions to generalship, philosophy, science, mathematics, and literature that we all benefit from. After all, some people still read the novels of Jane Austen, I’m told. And elsewhere, I hear, some women have accomplishments as numerous as Hillary Clinton’s. As long as you can count successfully up to zero.
But they do look pretty silly and vulnerable when they’re peeing.
You can be sure Khameini is going to impressed by the first female president’s redline.
Am I trying to be politically incorrect? No. I AM being politically incorrect. C’mon, C’mon, C’mon, the prez is a firefighter, not a scolding kindergarten teacher.
Pretty much no one can appreciate that anymore. Not even our wives. Most of them have become scolds who don’t actually think before they decide who’s at fault and what must be done.
If youz’re the exception, let us know. Ha.
If you’re under 40, don’t watch. Over 40? It’s medicine.
Seriously. Staring at big boobs makes men live five years longer. So says a new study. Who cares where it’s from? It’s a study. It says look at boobs 10 minutes a day. Hooray!
Oops. Forgot to nominate them. But I’m getting older now.
I’ve got rules here. Don’t like the rules, don’t play. Every show that subsists on cheap sexual innuendo is out of the running. Every show that uses a laugh track to make normal growing up seem hilarious is out of the running. Every show that is based on some outrageous, impossible gimmick is out of the running.
I’ll begin with five nominees. You can add your own and then we will quarrel bitterly about them. Sound fun? At the end we may assemble a ten best list of all time. So don’t lose heart.
All of these have scenes and characters everyone remembers, lines that are still funny all these years later. Think about this as you nominate rivals or additions. I know the Lucy fans will attack, but “Waaaaaah” is not exactly a line, is it?
Put your thinking caps on.
They were hell on wheels in the old days.
Then they got modern. You know. Superior for good and ever.
Same place, different jerks. Humdrum Congregationalist/Calvinist architecture. Yawn.
So I know these two guys. Both from Yale. Different ages but both superior to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. They battle on Facebook all the time, but what’s surprising is how alike they are. One’s a righty, one’s a weird libertarian/lefty combo, but both are somehow disconnected from life itself. They do postures not poesy. You can almost see them imagining how they look when they patronize your inferior ideations. They don’t put any real ideas forward. They simply snicker at yours.
Been talking to these guys for a couple of months now. At no time has either of them articulated a coherent view of anything. They snipe, they deflect, they pose, they assume — all kinds of things but mostly their own distance from decision and consequence.
Funny. I always thought there wasn’t that much difference between Harvard and Yale. There is. Harvard has fire. Yale has snobs.
My wife wants me to name names, which I can, but do I have to? Uninteresting is a title earned by the poseurs.
Daniel Borchers
I have no proof. But I think he means to hurt Ann Coulter.
Look at his site. There’s more than one. Enter his name on Facebook. You’ll find one that describes him as a happily married Christian. You’ll also find one that is utterly obsessed with Ann Coulter.
He wants to destroy her. I have no desire to remove a man’s freedom of speech. But I also refuse to countenance a man’s desire to use Facebook as part of a plot to hurt a real human being.
Initially I sparred with him, noting that he was hitting on Coulter two, three times a day. Now I think he’s sick in the head. He doesn’t stop. Ever. Same drumbeat, day after day. If we don’t rise up against sickness, who will? Ever?
We’re afraid to wake him.
We had kind of a war here yesterday. I was practically supine with allergies but my wife decreed that my life was less important than Raebert’s and it was time to cut off his hair so he could breathe better than I can in the heat.
That’s not the war. I meekly surrendered to the inevitable and we trapped Raebert in the dog room with a set of electric horse clippers. Her job, as a lefty, was to cut off all his excess hair by pushing the clippers consistently in the wrong direction, and my job — as a righty on Zyklon-B or whatever that allergy med is which makes me into a Boris Karloff mummy — was to pin a terrified 110 pound deerhound in the corner and hold him still while his mommy made increasingly wild clipper passes at his privates and other body parts.
The good news. He never once flashed his famous teeth and threatened to tear our heads off. The bad news. When we’d finished, there was a compleat Mini-Raebert on the floor (shown above.)
I suggested sweeping him out into the dog yard. The missus scoffed at the idea and suggested we wait till he woke up and wandered out.
Does anybody out there need a deerhound the size of a cairn terrier? He looks a good deal spiffier than the deerhound we have left after the horse clipper adventure.
Had a picture but I’m not allowed to show it. Imagine a large beautiful dog suddenly beset by moths. Moths with tiny fingernail scissors. Lots of yelping and writhing and squirming later, a sorry dilapidated survivor emerges. That would be Raebert, hereafter designated as Maxi-Raebert to distinguish him from the tiny monster in the dog room.
We’re okay. Except it’s time for next anti-allergy Zyklon-B tablet. Are we good?
Yalie thinks I’m just like all other modern writers he despises. (Click to see bigger.)
You know. If you’re Philip Roth or William Styron or Kurt Vonnegut or who else, you wouldn’t dream of inventing an entire literary movement that actually hates you. Or all the other people they hate.
But here’s the thing. My work was not Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dos Passos, Sinclair, Camus, Kafka, Lewis, Woolf, James, Mann, Beckett, Grass, Cather, Lawrence, Solzhenitsyn, Maugham, Steinbeck, Joyce, Ford Madox Ford, Capote, Bellow, Heller, Updike, Cheever, Pynchon, Capote, Kerouac, Orwell, Marquez, Nabokov, or Waugh.
It was, completely, my own. I had more writers than all of them. And here they are.
The signatures of all the bands of South Street on the day they dedicated the Boomer Bible, the first written protest against the utter nonsense of modern writing.
You see. There is this document. Signed by all the punk writers of South Street.
And their whole purpose in life was to overthrow the illustrious list above. They didn’t believe in believing in no meaning. They didn’t believe that a story was a single line penned by a narcissist from beginning to end. They didn’t believe that a story ever had an ending. They didn’t believe that the beginning of a story began with the first sentence and couldn’t be questioned afterwards. They thought the story was always, perpetually, up in the air, and that you had to plot your own course through it, somehow, some way, to arrive at a meaning that made sense to more than a few elect individuals.
And they thought, unlike all the geniuses they were rebelling against, that the sense to be made of things might be divine.
I lost track of the Epistle Dedicatory during a tough period in my life. But I found it again and paid $10,000 to get it back. I have it now. What do you have in writing you’d pay $10,000 for?
This little guy, with nothing to say, steered an entire generation to ruin. No wonder he’s a recluse.
He’s seen himself in the Octagon since age 3.
Buster “Big Bob” Fairweather has been living in agony since toddlerhood. Despite growing to near adulthood as a puny, underweight male person lacking in any athletic ability whatsoever, he has always seen himself, felt himself, to be a snarling championship quality mixed martial arts fighter.
Lifting weights hasn’t helped. The local dojo threw him, literally, into the nearest dumpster. His parents don’t understand. They bought him one of the increasingly rare and illegal chemistry sets in the hope that his talent for remembering the periodic table might rescue him from his youthful identity crisis.
All to no avail. Buster has already sued his parents and the state and federal governments to procure him the massive surgeries he will need to contend in the Octagon with Rhonda Rousey. Sex change surgery is a willing sacrifice he’s making to offset his small stature and get his shot at the big time.
He has eighteen books about defeating the arm bar. He also has three about navigating the gender change. And more than a hundred about beefing up in the weight room, once he has the right female hormones and steroids to qualify for American sports celebrity.
Just last week, he gave his first press conference announcing Johnny Weir as his new MMA coach. His parents would have been there, but they had a yard sale they had to tend to, no doubt to fund their, uh, thing’s new career.
ESPN already has him/her signed for an initial exhibition bout. Sports Illustrated is saving its cover for his/her first bra fitting. Rumors already are swirling about an actual ESPY Award in 2016 or so.
Could the future possibly be brighter for any millennial athlete?
Golly. We’re betting Rhonda Rousey is really scared at this point.
Probably locked in her trailer and threatening never to come out. Wouldn’t you?
Anonymous sources are reporting that Tom Brady has been living a secret life as a B-movie action hero. For years.
Tom Brady and actor Casper van Dien are the same person. Both married to supermodels, both so pretty that women swoon in their presence. The question is, how many supermodels is Brady married to, under how many names?
I leave it to the MSM vultures to follow this story to its no doubt squalid conclusion.
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