Posts Tagged With: Issac Newton

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 29 Pookie 0007 (December 12, 2018)

 

“I never liked trickle-down economics. It implies that there’s a leak somewhere.”
Pike, J. Zachary. Son of a Liche (The Dark Profit Saga Book 2) (p. 41). Gnomish Press LLC.

To everyone during this holiday season please have yourself a: Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Fabulous Festivus, Sublime Saturnalia, Joyous Juul, Serene Sanghamitta, Zoned-out Ziemassvetki, Lively Yalda, Crazy Kwanzaa, Cheerful Chaomos, Spirited Soyal and a Happy New Year.

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 
POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

 

The weekend arrived. Saturday the Morning Coffee at the clubhouse got it all started with announcements about holiday shopping and parties along with cream puffs and a Christmas cake oozing brandy. On Sunday, the HOA held its annual Christmas Party with music at the Nepenthe Club House. A two-person group, a pianist and a singer, tried to lead the guests in singing carols with little success. Naida, I and a few others sang lustily along with the musicians while most of the other forty or so attendees continued their conversations. The louder we sang, the louder they talked.
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The Welcome Ladies

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The Musicians
On Monday, I spent the day trying to nail down the start of my treatment. Despite promises made to me at the end of last week that it would begin this week, I was told that a procedure to insert a “port” in my chest would delay things a bit. The port is inserted into an artery in my chest. It’s intended to pump some chemicals into my bloodstream for about four days. Then I will need to return to have the pump removed. After three weeks or so they will test me to see if the treatment is working. They will do it all again for another three weeks. If I do not appear to be responding they will repeat the procedure. They can do this up to six times before giving up.

On Tuesday, I spent most of my day on the phone trying to get a final commitment to begin treatment. I succeeded in getting everything scheduled for Thursday and Friday next week. I also picked up three new medicines. The nurse explained that the first was to be taken to relieve nausea and vomiting that often accompanies chemotherapy. The second medicine she explained is for when the first does not work and the third when one and two fail. What I do then if that also failed she did not say.

Later that day, I drove into Oakland to assist Terry through his most recent crisis. I slept that evening in a motel on the seedy side of McArthur Bvd.

Hayden called to ask how my treatment went. I was touched by his concern. I told him that everything was put off until next week. He that said he had gotten me a Christmas present and hoped I would have a chance to visit him before he leaves to spend the holidays in Italy.

In the morning, I drove Terry and Campoy to the Court House. I couldn’t help picturing in my mind a movie starring Walter Matthau and some other aging actors playing elderly grifters setting off on their last con in an effort to avoid the boredom of the nursing homes.

The morning at the courthouse was anticlimactic. If you have never experienced pre-trial hearings, unlike the excitement one sometimes sees in the movies, in reality, they are more boring than the waiting room in a doctors office. At least the doctor provides out of date magazines that you would never think of reading otherwise. (you know, People Magazine, Field and Stream and so on. One doctor laid out for his waiting patients old issues of a bicycle magazine. Another one at least had aging copies of National Geographic. Not old enough to display the naked breasts of various so-called native teenagers that modern sensibilities banished from their pages and replaced with photographs of things like crocodiles devouring a deer. This all to the distress of teenage boys everywhere (and if truth be known to older boys also). I suspect that they appealed to women too (although I have no first-hand knowledge of it).

The idea of physical beauty has changed perhaps more often than we humans have changed overlords. In Ancient Greece, the male body was adored. Both men and women, I assume, viewed men’s bodies as the idealization of beauty (although Sappho may have disagreed). Men were usually depicted in sculpture with each ripple of the body etched out in detail. Their facial features, dramatic, deeply creased, and unique. The women, often clothed, their faces placid and their bodies smooth were almost indistinguishable from each other. In the Renaissance Michael the Angel painted his women on the Sistine Ceiling with a blocky sameness, their faces with a spooky similarity. On the other hand, his men featured rippling muscles. Each face distinguished and clearly belonging only to the body it adorned.

Later, men dressed up like peacocks and sported make-up and wigs. Women were forced to follow with a vengeance — compelled to wear ever more outlandish costumes, wigs and makeup that converted their faces from their natural individuality into a doll-like sameness. In portrait painting, unlike warts and all uniqueness of men, women, with few exceptions, appear to look strangely similar. Nevertheless, as they began to be shown more and more naked and as objects of men’s lust (rather than mothers of his children), the idea of the aesthetic beauty of the male body began to erode.

I think it was the movies that completed the change. Despite the efforts of advertisers and the fashion industry to make all women into an idiot replicant, movies proved they were not. They did not all have the faces and bodies of a malnourished sixteen-year-old. They spoke. They did not all spend their days lying naked somewhere or writhing in some man’s arms or holding a baby or a dead child in their own. Now, we are in an age where the beauty of the feminine in all its forms has begun to become the aesthetic ideal. Then again maybe not.

To move as far away from aesthetics as possible, you may recall me writing about the Turkey flocks in the Enchanted Forest. Well, it seems about 60 or more of those huge birds gather every night at the street corner near our house like teenage gangs of the 1950s. A few days ago we discovered the mauled carcass of a large turkey on our front lawn, actually only its massive breast bone with bits of meat still attached. We could not tell if it was just a leftover of someone’s Thanksgiving dinner or the remains of a local predator’s predations.

One day, we had dinner at the Olive Garden. I mention that here because much to my annoyance I actually enjoyed it. It shows the sad level to which good Italian restaurant cooking has fallen to in today’s America. It is probably Obama’s fault.

Now it is Christmas shopping time. I have mentioned before I hate Christmas. I hate shopping. Trying to decide what would not leave the recipient disappointed (except for something like a new Ferrari) and evidence your thoughtfulness and sophistication is as difficult and as impossible as suddenly growing wings and flying off somewhere — something I would much rather do than Christmas shopping. I decided to abandon everything I hold dear in my philosophy of life and try to do my shopping on Amazon. I expected to be exposed to an unlimited number of choices that I could wander though in happy distraction. Instead, I was presented with only a limited about of uninspired choices. I suspect it had more to do with my unfamiliarity with the platform than with Amazon itself. What I did discover, however, is that it did not reduce shopping time or irritation. It only allowed me the benefit of never moving from my chair, never seeing a department store Santa and never hearing Christmas carols over the murmur of voices in a mall.

Yesterday, Thursday, was a marvelous day. It began with Naida and I going our separate ways — she to doctors appointments and me into the golden hills to walk along the New York trail through the autumn leaf fall
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Fall Colors Fallen.

Later I picked up HRM and his friend Tall Long Haired Jake And
I drove them home, picked up my mail and my first Christmas present. I then drove back to the Enchanted Forest where Naida and I watched old movies and worked on our separate computers. We later watched a Highwaymen video (Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jonny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson). Naida took out her guitar and played along with them. We also sang. I felt like I was back in SF in the early 70s. At one point, we started singing Frankie and Jonny and noticed each of us was singing different verses. We checked online and found as many as ten different versions including one by Burl Ives of surprising bawdiness.

Frankie was a fucky hussy,
That’s what all the pimps said,
And they kept her so damn busy,
She never got out of bed.
But he done her wrong.
God damn his soul.
Frankie she knowed her business,
Frankie went to the front door.
She hung out a sign on the door:
She rang the whorehouse bell.
“Fresh fish cost you a dollar here,
“Stand back you pimps and whores
Fancy fucking cost ten cents more.”
Or I’ll blow you straight to hell.
He was her man.
I’m hunting my man.
He done her wrong.
Who’s doin’ me wrong.”
Frankie went looking for Johnny.
Frankie drew back her kimono,
She hung out a sign on the door:
Pulled out her big forty-four.
“No more fish for sale now,
Rooty-toot-toot, three times she shoot,
Go find you another whore.”
Left him lyin’ on that whorehouse floor.
He was her man.
She shot her man
But he done her wrong.

And, as the evening wore on things got even better.

The weekend rolled around again like time took a holiday. Hey man, I’m damned old now. I want time to move as slow as I walk, Slower even. I’d like to see time bedridden.

Saturday, Naida continued to edit her memoir in silence. Boo-Boo the dog yapped at the leaf-blowers until the noise drove me to contemplate mass murder. Naida seemed to weather it better than me. When it all quieted down, I went back to doing nothing except playing on my computer until midnight.

The days move quicker now even though I spend most of my time doing little more than writing here and watching the news. Today I saw something amazing and amusing. The dust-up in the Oval Office between He Who is Not My President and Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer over funding the border wall. Trump managed to conflate shamefulness with transparency. After Trump bragged at how much he had accomplished with the funds he had last year for border security, Schumer said fine we will give you the same amount this year so that you can continue with your good work (actually he had only spent 6% of the funds appropriated last year). Pelosi simply pointed out to him he did not have the votes — in effect either negotiate with us or sit on it.

Two more days until my treatment begins. My neck pains these last few weeks have gone from non-existent to irritating to aching. I do not think that is a good sign.

Last night while we were taking the dog on his evening stroll through the Enchanted Forest, Naida recited Longfellow’s Ballad, “The Skeleton in Armor.” The following is the first stanza:

SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest,
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?”

An apt poem to recite while walking through a dark forest. It certainly represented a departure from our usual singing of old show tunes as we walked along.

Tomorrow we leave for the beginning of my treatments. See you all later. Have fun.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Billy Shaking Spears

So it goes…

 

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

 
Draft first Chapter of a New Novel that will never be completed or published.

He nuzzled his nose against her neck and said, “Did we laugh before we fell asleep last night?” “No, We were too tired,” she replied.

He caressed her. Even at eighty, he marveled at her skin, feather lite and smooth to the touch. He tried to remember how long they had known each other. When did they first meet? He could not recall. About forty years ago she appeared in his life. Married to a friend. He died. He had held his friend’s hand that last day or so and they drank together his final whiskey and laughed.

He remembers the rest of that day and of a few thereafter. People, shadows mostly, moving about the room doing things that needed doing. He remembers holding her, grief-stricken and shaking. He recalled shadow cars passing beside him on the drive home.

Months later, when did the embrace of comfort lead to passion? Why? And now, almost a year more, worried about falling asleep in each other’s arms without laughing — without pleasure.

“How old” he thought, “must one be before love dies?” “Or does it. Yes, often. But this? No, I do not think so.”

He stroked her arm. Dry and warm. Soft so soft. “We look so much like crumpled cardboard when we are old,” the thought, “yet in fact, we are soft and delicate. Bones, the bones of birds, light and fragile. What has our flight of life seen so far? — Too much.” He snuggled closer. He did not want to get up that morning. He just wanted to remember the past, his dreams. His dreams, last night he recalled, he had washed up on the shore of an Island in a sea he had visited before — not in life, but in other dreams.

The natives in a little village took him in. “Was she there,” he thought? “No, Yes,” a wisp of a thought a longing. Who were these people, these natives? He could not understand their language and yet he could. He was not supposed to be there. It was not for him. Yet he was there and they needed him.

There were others, you see. Others on that island. Others that should not be there or should. They did not want him there. “Their world,” the villagers said or perhaps they didn’t, “is out of balance.”

Even during his dream, he could feel the warmth of her body pressing against him and remember her smell as she came to bed and folded herself into his arms.

Others came, they did not like the people in the village. “No,” he said to them “No.” He was on a ship. Their ship or his — he could not tell. The Island seemed to crumble before his eyes. “No,” he said again.

He woke up sweating and entwined in her arms. “Did we laugh before we fell asleep last night?” he said to her.

Late that morning, while sipping his morning coffee, he looked out the window. “Will it all crumple,” he thought? “for both of us?” “No, Yes, perhaps.”

He was dying, you see. He wanted more — years even days will do.

That day, he left the house they shared. One more errand. Once more a task he had done before. Then he would be free. They would be free. For what. To laugh before they sleep a few times and then no more.

 

 

 

 

MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES:

 

This and That…March 2012:

When I began “This and that…” almost two and one-half years ago I thought of it as merely a travelogue and tales of my missteps and foibles as I settled into retirement in another country and culture. Something with which to amuse me and a few friends and family.

Recently I have begun posting them into a blog and adding excerpts from my Diary and email exchanges with those of you who read them and choose to comment. Although I have entered a year or so of posts, I have completed entering everything, the posts, Diaries, and comments, on only the first quarter of 2010. In rereading it, I find myself somewhat disturbed, because I, as I see them for the first time all together, am meeting someone I did not know. Someone who I think even less of than I did. The Posts recorded my somewhat self-centered and self-indulgent adventures intending to be slightly amusing and to some extent artificial. The Diary entries reveal an even lesser person, perhaps even more self-indulgent and erratic. The exchanges of comments show, in my opinion, an insensitivity on my part that at times revolts me.

“Much of modern art often called serious by some, whether by those who benefit from the artists production or by artists themselves in their eternal struggle to break from the past and garner success of their own, has become not too much more than the so-called artists infatuation with his or her own experiences, assuming therein exists novelty. Alas, there is no novelty only recognition. As a society that no longer needs to move from cocooned comfort and travel the world like Burton or Stanley for physical or mental adventure, we now look within and wonder if we are different, unique and find too often we are not. In fact, we are less, less unique and less interesting than we feared. Does that make us feel better? Perhaps it is a cultural thing, the descent of Western man (and it is definitely both western and men) from their Procrustean cross into their all too soon to be despoiled grave.”

(I cannot believe I wrote that last paragraph. Worse, I cannot believe I let people see it for a second time.)

 

 

 

 

DAILY FACTOID:

 

 

1. Sir Issac Newton believed doomsday would be in the 21 Century, calculated from clues in the Bible.

2. Benjamin Franklin invented the flexible catheter in 1752 when his brother John suffered from bladder stones. Franklin’s catheter was made of metal with segments hinged together with a wire-enclosed to provide rigidity during insertion. I bet Ben’s brother never spoke to him again after that enlightening experience. Experimenting on others is a cornerstone of medical science.

 

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 
A. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

“Doing something incredibly stupid and getting away with it can make your whole week.”
B. Today’s Poem:

 

A Satirical Elegy on the Death of a Late Famous General
His Grace! impossible! what dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall?
And so inglorious, after all!
Well, since he’s gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He’d wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we’re told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
’Twas time in conscience he should die
This world he cumbered long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that’s the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that, his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.

Come hither, all ye empty things,
Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings;
Who float upon the tide of state,
Come hither, and behold your fate.
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing’s a Duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turned to that dirt from whence he sprung.
BY JONATHAN SWIFT

 
D. Adventures with Hayden:

CHRISTMAS SEASON 2016 — TOPPLING CHRISTMAS TREES AND SUPER GLUE.

One afternoon, we arrived home to find our fully decorated Christmas tree lying on its side amidst a splatter of broken ornaments and spruce needles. Dick the engineer hypothesized that the tree, despite out heroic endeavor three days ago to balance it properly, was, in fact, unbalanced and it took the tree this long to realize it. So, we lifted up the tree, rebalanced it, placed additional weights on the bottom, redecorated it with the remaining unbroken ornaments and hoped for the best.

On Saturday, a day of horrendous rain and fog, HRM happily announced he was going out to play in the rain. Noticing one of the eyelets in his boots was detached he decided to reattach it with superglue before flitting about in the rain. As misadventure would have it, rather than attaching the eyelet to the boot he managed to glue both his own eyes shut. HRM, Dick and I, then spent the next eight hours in the emergency rooms of two separate hospitals where the doctors worked to unstick his eyelids. One of the doctors, who was quite amused by it all, took me aside and asked, “We see this a lot, where children [usually in the 3 to 6-year range] glue one eye shut with super glue, but we have never seen anyone who managed to glue both eyes shut. How did he do this?”

“HRM,” I replied, “is a very special child.”

WWE blew in from SE Asia in concern for the welfare of her progeny and then promptly refused to accompany him to the ophthalmologist claiming she had more important things to do.

 

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

 

“The besetting vice of high office is the temptation to micromanage, to take direct control of a small, concrete, easily understood subsidiary operation and start issuing orders, to the detriment of the chain of command (and the neglect of the big picture). The reason micromanagement is a vice is that it’s a temptation to self-indulgence: it’s too easy to get carried away. Taking on a low-level coordinating role while retaining the full executive authority and fiscal responsibilities of senior rank is like playing a game you’ve mastered on the lowest difficulty level.”
Stross, Charles. The Labyrinth Index (Laundry Files) (Kindle Locations 4545-4548). Tom Doherty Associates.

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Categories: January through March 2018, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment by 3Th, November 26, 2011

In a study published by the journal Psychology, Crime and Law, Belinda Board and Katarina Fritzon tested 39 senior managers and chief executives from leading British businesses. They compared the results to the same tests on patients at Broadmoor special hospital, where people who have been convicted of serious crimes are incarcerated. On certain indicators of psychopathy, the bosses’sscores either matched or exceeded those of the patients. In fact, on these criteria, they beat even the subset of patients who had been diagnosed with psychopathic personality disorders.

I bet every one of the “senior managers” voted for and contributed to the Tory party. On the other hand, I would not be surprised if the Broadmoor patients voted Labor. [They probably contributed no money to Labor, however]

TODAY’S FACTOID:

A. The First Century AD:

1. Prior to the first century, most of what was written could be found on scrolls of parchment. But once the AD era started, the practice of stringing together wooden tablets into a “codex” began. The precursor to the book as we know it today, the codex became popular once it was co-opted by a new religious group — called the Christians — for their holy book: the Bible.

2. There are still variations in prices between urban and rural areas today, but nothing like it was in the first century. For example, fruit was three to six times more expensive in Jerusalem than in the rural areas surrounding it. Livestock was also costlier in the city, and doves (for sacrifices) were sold at a premium.

3. There were some strange jobs in the first century world. You could work as a camel driver, pigeon contest organizer, and dog dung collector. The list of jobs that were looked down upon by the general public included the shepherd, “the dealer in products from the sabbatical year,” butchers, and doctors.

B. Sir Isaac Newton:

Newton believed doomsday would be in the 21 Century, calculated from clues in the Bible.

C. Who is our enemy:

1957: Samuel Cummings and his US company Interarms, in a transaction sanctioned by the CIA, supplied weapons to the forces of Fidel Castro in Cuba.

Ah, the wonders of privatization and outsourcing. Wait this was during a Republican administration. They would never sell arms to an enemy and a Communist one no less. This factoid is clearly a liberal plant.

TODAY’S NEWS FROM AMERICA:

New American Art Form:

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN CALIFORNIA:

I have returned to SF for the Thanksgiving Holiday to spend it with as many of my family members as I can. I leave for Thailand Saturday morning. I arrived early Wednesday and since I am now living life as a homeless vagrant, I spent the morning in a downtown Starbucks waiting for my son to get off work so that I could spend the evening at his apartment.

There was a bit of an incident yesterday. Hayden had cut his finger (paper cut) earlier that day as we toured the local Toy’s R Us making a shopping list for Santa Claus. That evening before Hayden and I left for our dinner with Norbert and Stevie Dall, he took a bath. While bathing, apparently he got soapy water into the cut and it started to sting, providing him the opportunity to whine and cry in hopes of garnering some attention and comfort. It failed. SWAC upon hearing him assumed he had injured himself while playing in the tub and ah.. strongly remonstrated with him for being careless. He, frightened and insulted at the false accusation, denied he had hurt himself in youthful exuberance while in his bath. This led to an ever increasingly loud argument and even more crying from the boy. By the time I had intervened, he had suffered a nasty scratch on his shoulder where SWAC had grabbed him in her fury. After quieting things down, he and I set off for dinner. I tried to explain to him it was not his fault and that both of them had a misunderstanding. He said, “No,” he said. “It was all my fault. She said it was and therefore it was. She doesn’t like me.”

The morning before he and I spent a few delightful hours at Bill and Naida’s ranch next to the Cosumnes River in the middle of Rancho Marietta. Hayden and Naida visited Acorn, the pony he is so fond of, and they fed him. I talked with Bill who is recovering from open heart surgery and peppered him with questions about it. Later we all went for walk along the river. Naida mentioned that she was thinking of writing a prequel to her magnificent historical trilogy. It would be set at the time that the first people entered the Cosumnes River Valley. She also mentioned she had discovered new information about Perry McCoon’s (the evil bastard of her novels) death. She may include the new information in a revised version of the novels for e-book publication. Again, if you have not had the opportunity to read her novels, I urge you to do so. You will not be disappointed.

I returned to SF by train and spent the night at my son Jason’s apartment where I watched a seemingly unending run of reality shows on TV. Since I have not seen much US TV for the past 18 months, this came as a revelation to me. My son explained that reality shows are the new popular entertainment for the masses.

They are not the reality shows I was used to. You know a group of half-naked people in a jungle screwing each other literally and figuratively. Instead, for example, my son is fascinated by cooking shows, not some chef showing you his or her favorite recipes, but bizarre competitions among cooks; like competitions using strange combinations of ingredients (octopus, tortillas, kumquats and marshmallows) with which the featured cooks have to create something edible.

Jason explained to me that the cooks on these shows generally are all media stars in the foodie society, each owning their own string of restaurants, sharing appearances on each others cooking shows and running their own foodie empires. I could not help thinking that perhaps there should be an “Occupy” of these cooking moguls who control so much of our taste buds (octopus and marshmallow?)..

We also watched shows featuring realtors and home remodelers and I sat through shows featuring u-tube type video snippets of people and animals doing generally stupid things. I topped it all off by watching the most recent Shrek before falling asleep. I liked Shrek.

JOEY’S MYSTERY NOVEL:

RED STAR

Chapter: Another interlude.

“Ha,” squealed the Isabella character. “Hitting on the dyke. You must really be hard up.”

“Bisexual,” responded the Vince character softly while staring into the make-up mirror.

“Huh!”

“Bisexual, she is bisexual,” he repeated.

“Whatever,” she laughed.

“Tonight,” he said with a smile looking at her through the mirror.

“What’s tonight?”

“Our date is tonight. I am sure we get it on.”

“You wish,” she responded. “I’m your bodyguard, remember.”

“I see he killed off David. Good thing, I never liked the guy,”she continued. “When do you think he will get around to offing us?”

“We do not know if he is dead. We only know he did not cross the street. He could have been picked up by someone or have changed his mind about his dinner appointment or lying wounded in the gutter. He could show up again, like Charlie Bowman.”

“That seems stupid,” she opined and pouted.

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

a. Strange Apocalypses:

DEATH BY EUPHORIA

Many of us use drugs such as caffeine or nicotine every day. Our increased understanding of physiology brings new drugs that can lift mood, improve alertness or keep you awake for days. How long before we use so many drugs we are no longer in control? Perhaps the end of society will not come with a bang, but fade away in a haze.

Danger sign: Drugs would get too cheap to meter, but you might be too doped up to notice.

b. : What “Occupy” is all about and what it really wants:

1. inequality:

2. Waste in Defense Procurement:

According to Dina Razor, investigative journalist:

For decades, the DoD has decided what each new weapon will cost by looking at what historically similar weapons “did cost” in the past. So, if you decide to buy a new fighter plane, you look at what the previous plane cost as the baseline, and then add on more for all the new advances and gadgets you plan to put on the new plane. This has been disastrous because all of the contractor’s fraud, waste and fat that were tolerated in the past plane’s costs by the ever-appeasing DoD bureaucracy now become the baseline for the new plane. This makes every generation of weapon more and more unaffordable as the waste and fraud from generations before is rolled over to the new weapon. The result is that the bloated costs are expanded exponentially and we have fewer and fewer weapons for more and more money …

(In other words, military contractors and DOD contracting procedures are not making you safer, but they are making you poorer.)

c. Excerpts from Bill Moyer’s speech to Citizens United:

” I was one of the poorest white kids in town, but in many respects I was the equal of my friend who was the daughter of the richest man in town. I went to good public schools, had use of a good public library, played sand-lot baseball in a good public park, and traveled far on good public roads with good public facilities to a good public university. Because these public goods were there for us, I never thought of myself as poor. When I began to piece the story together years later, I came to realize that people like the Moyers had been included in the American deal: “We, the People” included us. It’s heartbreaking to see what has become of that bargain.”

d. How To Talk Like A Republican (the new American Lexicon):

From Frank Luntz Republican Party consultant in a memorandum to Party leaders and regulars:

Hmm, do Conservatives really like “international” more than “foreign?” 

e. Testosterone Chronicles:

• Women were twice as generous in a game that involved dividing $10 with a stranger (Eckel and Grossman).

Write your amusing and clever comments here _______________________.

f. Barry Goldwater, American:

“You don’t need to be straight to fight and die for your country. You just need to shoot straight.”
~Barry Goldwater

g. Department of abasement, apology and correction:

Recently, I have been criticized by some readers of these posts. They seem to believe that I have been urging radical redistribution of wealth or shudder, Communism by publishing such things as charts showing various inequalities in income and wealth, excerpts from Bill Moyers’ speech to Citizens United and quotes from such militant socialists as Dwight Eisenhower and Barry Goldberg. I assume that some of those who so criticize me can be included within that class defined by both Political Parties as Low Information Voters and unfortunately often mistake fact for opinion. As Low-information Voters, they flood the internet and my inbox with drivel usually written by conservative PR firms and that is often inaccurate, un-referenced, bizarre or usually all three. (I am amazed at how upset they get when I quote one of their own who, in periodic fits of self-awareness that sometimes strikes even the most hypocritical, express even the slightest criticism of the right’s madness.

Nevertheless, I noticed that among the changes that I have made to my posts over the past month or two has been to expand the “Pookie for President” section to include quotes by and comments on the current candidates for the GOP nomination for President. Since I assume that most readers give up reading after one or two sections anyway, I decided to spare those of my readers whose sensitivities are offended by my quoting the actual words of those whom they may believe alone represent the American heartland, by moving that section to later in the post.

Anyway, I am returning to Thailand for a while, and the obsession of the media with the minutia of American political dispute is thankfully absent, and the rich vein of humor contained therein, diminished. I now must settle upon writing about, Thaksin the Terrible, Abhsit the Unready, Princess Lucky Girl, the dastardly Military General Staff and Benetton inspired T-shirts of many different colors

Americans wrap themselves in the American Flag. Thais change the color of their T-shirts. After all, fashion is politics.

POOKIE FOR PRESIDENT:

Please see the blog: http://papajoestales.wordpress.com/

A. Republicans, in an email blasted around by House Majority Whip Kevin McCarthy (R-CA), identified “twenty wasteful spending programs” that they have proposed cutting in the new federal spending bill released this week. The GOP claims that it’s using the bill to “make hard but necessary cuts to help reduce the nation’s deficit.”

However, all 20 of the programs combined cost less than the tax loophole that allows corporate jet owners to write off the cost of their jet over five years (as opposed to seven years for a commercial passenger jet).

B. “He’s a fat, repulsive pig! I hate to be so harsh. You go out in the woods and find a piece of old, dead wood, you lift it up and underneath there’s a bunch of bugs crawling around and white stuff … that’s Newt Gingrich.”
Conservative talk show host Don Imus on this weeks flavor GOP candidate for President of the United States.

(Liberals, unfortunately, shy away from using such colorful language.)

C. Megyn Kelly, Faux News anchor person (apparently hired for her looks rather than her brains) recently insisted that pepper spray is “a food product, essentially”

I understand that a diet of pepper spray has been demonstrated to increase ones IQ up to 10 points. You should try it Megyn (does she really spell her name like this?), it may increase your IQ to as high as 80.

The blog TPM reports, One thrilled “customer” notes, “I used to have to exert my gray matter or work my mouth to keep people from saying anything I didn’t want to hear. Now I just shake and aim Defense Technology’s 56895 MK-9 Stream Pepper Spray, and half the time I don’t even need to depress the trigger! My teens and my dog all go silent when I merely lift the can–no more claims that I’ve suppressed free speech when they quake in fear and CHOOSE to be silent! Not just for intimidating students–it works on crabby old people, too!”

OMG, she must be planning to use it on me next; after all I am a COP (Crabby Old Person)

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“Harald had this stone erected in memory of Gorm his father and Thyra his mother—that Harald who won all Denmark and Norway and made the Danes Christian”
Translation of a rune on Gorm the Old’s grave erected by Harald in 958AD.

TODAY’S CHART:

Why, when cutting budget deficits are all the rage with the GOP, are they still supporting subsidies to the oil and gas industries? Does any one believe those industries cannot turn a profit without taxpayer money? Shouldn’t they get a dose of free market economics for a change? Why do self-styled Conservatives complain so loudly about a poor person who cheats on welfare and is silent when an energy company steals billions in taxpayer dollars? Now you may believe they so because the energy industry does so much for our economy we should look the other way when faced with their rampant thuggery, however, I suspect that if you believe that it is more often because a lot of people are paid to make sure you do.

TODAY’S CARTOON:

TODAY’S POSTER:

Categories: October 2011 through December 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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