DiLorenzo v. The Socialist Liars

I just finished rereading Thomas DiLorenzo's How Capitalism Saved America.

It's like a breath of fresh air, even after a second read. If you haven't read it, do so. Afterwards, pick up Lorenzo's other great book: The Real Lincoln.

For decades, revisionist historians and quack economists have sought to strip us of the elements of fact that make us human, but DiLorenzo and others have struggled to show that the human spirit is one of triumph, not of defeat, one of glory, not of shame, and one of goodness, and not of evil.

Surely humans are capable of evil, but it is not evil for which we were made. We were made perfect and with the capacity for perfection. We stray from this capacity too often, but it is not inevitable that we must be reprobate. Hipocrites like Pat Robertson will cite scripture to defend their purposes, but I decline to do so. I only ask that you consider reason.

If human beings were made to be free (and who could imagine any other purpose?), then we are supposed to be free (it's really a matter of definition). If we were meant to be controlled, then by whom? An intellectual elite? Those appointed by the majority?

In truth, the intellectual elite (a class that has made a business out of producing nothing) and the appointed majority (i.e. politicians who promote nothing true but only what the winds suggest) have conspired to anoint themselves has the heroes--no, the saviors--of humanity. And yet, they are the damnation of it.

Consider the "Global Warming" camp. Did you know that twenty-five years ago it was the "Global Cooling" camp?

Seriously, check it out!

You see, climate is a fickle thing. It's long term, but those who wish to use it immorally for their own purposes must cling to its short-term implications. Thus, we are not now in danger of global cooling, but we are in danger of global warming. The only thing that has changed is the variables necessary for the unworthy to attain power over otherwise free and rational beings.

The politicians who cling to the "human consumption is causing global warming" rant are either terribly ignorant of what CLIMATE is or very insidious in their intentions.

If you don't know what insidious means, then grab a dictionary.

But at least scholars like DiLorenzo are willing to show the truth plainly. Before you doubt it, read the book.

Cluster F@#k

For some reason, by primary computer decided to take a vacation. All of a sudden it decides that it cannot find BIOS (which is crap, since I can run the BIOS setup utility). The guy who built the computer thinks that it might actually be a Windows problem (Steve Jobs must be so happy), but it'll be until Saturday that he can get here.

Personally, I think that my computer has joined a union.

It doesn't realize that it performs no special functions, that I can get a new computer or even use a really old one (like this vintage 1998 model upon which I'm now writing), so it's trying to throw its weight around. Instead, it's going to find itself out of work because dammit, it's not that freaking special. Here's news for you folks, if a union is necessary for your job security, then it's because your job isn't all that special. There's no neurosurgeons' union because not just any fool can be a neurosurgeon. There are unions for factory workers because anyone can work on the line. There are unions for carpenters because even a chimp can use a saw. There are unions for electricians because a kindergarten kid can tell you which wire is blue and which is red. Hell, teachers have degrees, but most secondary level teachers are pathetic novices in their subject areas.

I'm hereby issuing my computer an ultimatum. You have until Saturday to get this little strike over with. If you don't listen to reason, I will not only replace you; I will replace you with an iMac.

Berlioz

Symphonie Fantastique, by Hector Berlioz. Listen to it. Enjoy it. Feel it. Be human.

Islam=Peace?

If Islam is a religion of peace, then why don't so-called mainstream muslims decry the violence of its supposedly mistaken breathren?

If Islam is a religion of peace, why do all Islamic states act so abhorrently?

Why is there no decent Islamic state in the world?

Help me out, for I don't see this happening.

One of My Favorite Movies

In 1972, director Sydney Pollack teamed up with actor Robert Redford to make Jeremiah Johnson. It's a remarkable film in many respects. While the movie is very deep, with a rich plot zig-zagging with complications and character development, there is very little dialogue. Pollack's eye and Redford's talent combine to tell most of the story silently, if not always peacefully. Shot entirely in Utah, Jeremiah Johnson helps me understand why a Hollywood elitist like Redford would buy up thousands of acres and live on the outskirts of civilization. The natural beauty of the place is beyond description. Adjectives like "majestic," awesome," and even "spiritual" come to mind, but they only scratch at the surface and hint at the essence. It's also a heartbreaking and inspirational story. It starts off with a brief (and perfect) narrative intro. It's done as a voice over, following Johnson as he arrives at a town that is more of a camp:

His name was Jeremiah Johnson, and they say he wanted to be a mountain man. The story goes that he was a man of proper wit and adventurous spirit, suited to the mountains. Nobody knows whereabouts he come from and don't seem to matter much. He was a young man and ghostly stories about the tall hills didn't scare him none. He was looking for a Hawken gun, .50 caliber or better. He settled for a .30, but damn, it was a genuine Hawken, and you couldn't go no better. Bought him a good horse, and traps, and other truck that went with being a mountain man, and said good-bye to whatever life was down there below.

It then follows him as he heads into the Rocky Mountains as a disenchanted fool, the kind who needs to learn that the rest of the world, especially mother nature, could give a damn that he's pissed off or depressed.

He begrudges civilization and assumes that he'll find what he's looking for in the solitude of the mountains. He does so almost arrogantly, and quickly finds that nature is apathetic, and sometimes downright hostile. His struggle to survive early on in the film makes me recall Stephen Crane's short poem (which is really not much more than a musing):

A man said to the Universe,
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the Universe,
"The fact has not created in me
"A sense of obligation."

However, with a healthy dose of determination and some good luck, Johnson manages through his first winter.

I don't want to spoil the film for you, so I'll sum up the rest quickly.

Johnson, who came into the mountains "Bettin' on forgettin' all the trouble that he knew,"* to be alone, ends up finding much more than solitude, only to lose it, and then avenge it.

In many respects, the movie is as vicious as it is beautiful (though not visually), and that is part of it's allure. It's humanity in a nutshell. All that a man can do, good and bad. All that nature is, good and bad. Life and death, love and hate, joy and pain.

Ultimately, the film is triumphant, not just in its protagonist, but in its message and overall quality.

Rent it this Friday night.

*From the ballad that runs throughout the movie.

Pancreatitis, Climate Change, and a False Dilemma

My good friend is ailing with a case of pancreatitis (inflammation of the pancreas).

Pancreatitis can be caused by excessive alcohol consumption or pregnancy.

So my friend is either a drunk, pregnant, or a pregnant drunk (gasp!).

On the other hand, this is merely a demonstration of false logic. While excessive alcoholism is perhaps the major cause of pancreatitis, and pregnancy is a possible cause of it, they are not the only possible causes. There are at least 18 other possible causes. I left them out because my purpose was to raise an eyebrow (especially when he recovers and reads this). It would have been just plain boring for me to say that it was caused by gall stones.

But when people want attention, they'll often create false dilemmas.

The climate is changing. This change (might) be linked to CO2 emissions. Therefore, CO2 emissions is causing the climate to change. Of course in the standard argument, they leave out the parenthesized "might" entirely.

Of course, if your real agenda is to exert control over how free people live, then you need to get them on board. The best way is to make them scared for their lives, so it becomes "Climate change will lead to death; CO2 emissions (might) cause climate change; therefore, CO2 emissions will lead to death!" Leave out all other possibilities (including the possibility that climate change is not caused by humans and that, even if it is, it may not necessarily result in our deaths). Stick to the story and ridicule all critics as either unscientific, illogical, unintelligent, uncaring, foolish, "twisted." or "laughable." Throw in a few clips of polar bears and penguins, and now even children will be upset. In essence, do more spin than science.

The most likely cause of climate change is the same thing that caused it thousands of years ago (when Earth became colder--the Ice Age--and when the Earth became warmer--from the Ice Age to present). Humans couldn't have caused those climate changes, so why are so many ready to pin the current change (which isn't even a change--we've been warming since the Ice Age) on humans? The answer is simple: money and power are at stake. Scientists get money if they convince politicians to fund their armegeddon studies; politicians get power if they convince voters that they must seize control over methods of production and consumption.

Of all the possible causes of the current climate change, this is by far the most likely. It contains not only actual evidence (e.g. the climate has changed before without human help), and it gives a rather likely argument against those who argue the contrary. All these things are true. The climate has changed before, and human beings will sometimes lie, cheat, and steal to get what they want.

Remember again that the stars never lie, but astrologers do.

For the record, my friend, while he really is suffering from pancreatitis, is neither a drunk nor is he pregnant.

Le Chanson de Roland

Betrayed, Charlemagne's brave nephew Roland and the tiny rear guard of the army face off against a Saracen army.

He and his men fight savagely against overwhelming odds. They slaughter and are slaughtered alike. During the fight, Roland injures the Saracen king, Marsilion, who then flees with the remnants of his army. But as the enemy cedes the field, Roland cedes his life.


From The Song of Roland, CXCVII

Beneath a pine was his resting place,
To the land of Spain hath he turned his face,
On his memory rose full many a thought
Of the lands he won and the fields he fought,
Of his gentle France, of his kin and line;
Of his nursing father, King Karl benign;
He may not tear and sob control,
Nor yet forgets he his parting soul.
To God's compassion he makes his cry:
"O Father true, who canst not lie,
"Who didst Lazarus raise unto life again,
And Daniel shield in the lions' den;
Shield my soul from its peril, due
For the sins I sinned my lifetime through.
He did his right hand glove uplift
Saint Gabriel took from his hand the gift;
Then drooped his head upon his breast,
And with clasped hands he went to rest.
God from on high sent down to him
One of his angel Cherubim
Saint Michael of Peril of the sea,
Saint Gabriel in company
From heaven they came for that soul of price,
And they bore it with them to Paradise.

Pick One

Which of the above photos is a sonogram of my currently in-utero son (no, Michael J. Fox may not kill him to make a stem cell smoothie), and which is legendary filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock? It's too close to call.

A Polemic on Climate Change

For good God's sake, one of the first damn principles in science and philosophy that I learned was that correlation does not equal causation. Similarly, the Romans recognized the error of thinking post hoc, ergo propter hoc (after this, therefore because of this).

And yet, so many scientists claim that the cause of global warming (which is, I admit, apparently undeniable--at least in the short term) is the result of increased carbon gas emissions since the advent of the industrial revolution (c. late 1700's). However, logic tells us clearly that just because these two things correlate (somewhat--check the freaking records!), neither can be construed as the cause of the other, for it is equally probable that they are either both results of an altogether different cause (which, makes no sense at all--that a warming climate led to an increased burning of fossil fuels is quite absurd) or completely unrelated (very likely, but not very dramatic).

Ockham's Razor--a basic principle in so-called "modern science" (I use quotation marks because the idea is about 700 years old)--tells us to look to lex parsimoniae (the law of parsimony/succinctness). Simply put, nearly one thousand years ago, William of Ockham pointed out that entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem (entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity). In layman's terms, this means that the most likely answer/cause is the answer/cause. Such reasoning is quite reasonable whenever solid, irrefutable evidence pointing toward a single answer/cause does not exist.

Knowing this, I ask you which is more likely:

That the climate has been steadily increasing since the Ice Age (thousands of years before the industrial revolution), and is therefore a natural occurrence, completely independent of human action; or that the Earth warmed naturally from the Ice Age but then stopped at some kind of arbitrary point and that human beings have managed to pushed the climate beyond that "naturally" arbitrary point?

Basically, it is irrefutable that the climate warmed thousands of years ago without human assistance. Those cavemen, while they might have been able to use Geico.com, produced as a whole over several millennia, fewer "greenhouse gasses" then I do after a trip to White Castle. So it is established that the Earth can warm on its own.

Considering Ockham's contribution, then, it is far more likely that the Earth is simply continuing what it started ten thousand years ago with only brief respites.

Let's not forget the motivation behind the Chicken Little's who cry that the sky is falling.

Some are politicians (e.g. Al Gore) who can use such fear to catapult themselves to the pinnacles of power. Many are egotists who are so pathetically lonely that they must use such fear to make themselves seem important. Still others have their eyes set on the money that keeps pouring in from ignorantly desperate governments who lack the wisdom to just say "No." Perhaps more insidious is the fact that many socialists who advocate a command economy have seized upon the issue in order to gain control over the modes of production and consumption.

But let us not forget that demagogues lead their people to Hell. Egotists care for no one but themselves. The greedy will do anything for money. And the socialists will sacrifice the lives of millions to see their collectivist schemes enacted. You don't believe me? Study the histories of the Stalinist Russia and Maoist China.

They tell us that it is likely that humans are causing global warming. However, with a complete lack of knowledge about what causes the climate to increase naturally, anything is a likely candidate. Imagine a room full of one thousand people. The room is dark. No one can see. A murder is committed. The lights return. Every person there is equally likely a suspect.

While the industrial revolution was underway in Great Britain and the United States, Ludwig von Beethoven composed his 9th Symphony, famous for its "Ode to Joy." Ever since it was first performed, it has been performed constantly. It correlates to the supposed advent of global warming.

Another factor that most people don't consider is that human beings could not come close to recording accurate temperatures until the early 1700's. Since the Earth has been around far longer than that, these so-called scientists are claiming that a mere 300 years (out of millions and millions of total years) is enough to establish supposedly "normal" climate patterns. You should not have to think long to see this as nonsensical. 300 years is not even one half of 1,000 years, and recorded history far exceeds 2,000 years. In a nutshell, 300 years is a completely insufficient sample. Add to this the fact that the climate has gradually warmed on its own since the Ice Age, and you can see even more problems with the "Sky is Falling" camp.

Still another point to consider is that whenever a major volcanic eruption occurs, the Earth (quite naturally) deposits far more "greenhouse gasses" into the atmosphere than man has ever produced in all of history. Check the data on Mount Pinatubo's 1991 eruption for actual evidence to this point.

If nature itself can outdo man's entire repertoire in a single volcanic eruption, who's the more likely culprit in global warming?

Remember, I'm not saying that overall temperatures have not increased since they've been recorded. What I'm saying is that there is no proof that humans have caused this increase, and that such a claim is baseless. Conjecture is not evidence. Possibility is not evidence. If it were, then every person in Dallas on November 22, 1963 could be a "likely" suspect in President Kennedy's assassination (for the record, it was Lee Harvey Oswald. Read Case Closed by Gerald Posner if you wish to disagree).

Mark's Haunted Room

Last night, Mark (age 3) lumbered out of his bedroom into ours.

"What's wrong, buddy?" my wife asked.
"I'm scared," he mumbled.
"Scared of what?" I added.
"I'm scared of my room," he said.

This confused me a bit because the kid isn't scared of anything.

"Why's your room scary?" I inquired.
"My room talks to me," he replied.

At this point, I started to chuckle a bit, but I must admit to being a bit uneasy. All I could think of was that kid in The Shining. For a moment, I wondered if Mark had written "Redrum" on the wall.

"Your room talks to you?" my wife asked.
"Yes. It says bad things."

At this point, I'm figuring that he'd either come up with a great excuse to climb into bed with us, or he'd heard some voice saying, "Kill them all!" Perhaps it was both.

"What does your room say?" I questioned, wondering if they made straight jackets in his size.
"It says a the S-word."
"The S-word?"
"Yes."
"Shoot?"
"No, shit."

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. I don't let my kids swear, but he wasn't cursing. He was just repeating (sort of, I mean, I don't think that his room actually said the S-word).

"Your room says shit?"
"Yes. I'm scared of my room, and I want to sleep with you guys."

I looked at my wife and mouthed "What?" She shook her head in uncertainty.

That's when it dawned on me. I have my Xbox 360 hooked up in my basement, and the TV is right below his bedroom. Whenever I play, it's clearly audible through the vent in his floor. He must have either heard dialogue from Gears of War, or perhaps he heard an inadvertent exclamation from me during one of the harder levels. At any rate, I no longer worried that the kid was schizophrenic. In fact, I was greatful that the only word "his room said" was the S-word.

"Mark?" I said.
"What?"
"How about if I take you to your room and tell your room to be quiet?"
"No, I'm scared!"
"It's OK," I assured, "I'll come with you."

So I took his hand, and we entered his room.

"OK, room, you need to stop talking!" I ordered. "If you say the S-word, then I'm going to spank you on the wall."

That seemed to work. I helped Mark into bed and covered him.

"Will you sleep with me?" he asked.
"No, buddy. I'm going to my room. But I'll leave your door open, and you come tell me if your room keeps talking, OK?"

He didn't even answer. He rolled over onto his stomach and was asleep before I left the room.

Oh Boy!

It's a boy! He won't be poking his head out until June, but we've confirmed that he has all of his appendages, including the masculine one.

Tom Waits

In 1978, singer-songwriter Tom Waits wrote and recorded "Blue Valentine," a brilliant album with more insight into the culture of lowlife urbanity. His cover of West Side Story's "Somewhere" is as poignant as it is different, but his original work of poetry set to music, "Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis," takes the cake.

It's a sad tune, with a light jazz-piano feel. It gets to the core of a typical "lost soul." While I think that such a person must sleep in the bed that he or she has made, I cannot help but feel the sad desperation of the narrator. Kudos to Waits for creating such a pathetic, sympathetic character.

Charlie, I'm pregnant,
Living on 9th Street,
Above a dirty book store
Off Euclid Avenue.
I stopped taking dope.
I quit drinking whiskey.
My old man plays a trombone
And works out at the track.

He says that he loves me,
Even though it's not his baby;
Says that he'll raise him up
Like he would his own son.
He gave me a ring
That was worn by his mother,
And he takes me out dancing
Every Saturday night.

Charlie, I think about you
Everytime I pass the fillin' station,
On account of the grease
You used to wear in your hair.
I still have that record,
Little Anthony and the Imperials.
But someone stole my record player,
Now how do you like that?

Charlie, I almost went crazy
After Mario got busted.
I went back to Omaha
To live with my folks.
Everyone I used to know
Is either dead or in prison,
So I same back to Minneapolis
And this time I think I'm gonna stay.

Charlie, I think I'm happy
For the first time since my accident.
I wish that I had all the money
I used to spend on dope.
I'd buy me a used car lot,
And I wouldn't sell any of 'em.
I'd just drive a different car everyday,
Depending how I feel

Charlie, for Christ's sake,
If you wanna know the truth of it.
I don't have a husband;
He don't play the trombone.
I need to borrow money
To pay this lawyer, Charlie, hey
I'll be eligable for parol
Come Valentine's Day.

Graham Bauer Is a Dead Man

Listen. In a few weeks, when Jack Bauer kills his brother, Graham, you will here me writhe--no, quiver--in joy. Given my current state of obesity, it should register at about a 4.0 on the Richter scale.

All of you old fogies who wanted someone to shoot JR, only to wonder, "Who shot JR?" here's a show that's really worth watching, and a character worth shooting (after he's been beaten, choked, disemboweled, castrated, forced to watch all seasons of Mr. Belvedere, and stabbed just beneath the patella in an upward stroke).

The writers. actors, and director of 24 have made me actually want to see another human being suffer unbearable pain. This has not happened since... never mind, it happened yesterday.

What can I say? I'm high strung.

Still, anyone who watches 24 but says that Battlestar Galactica is a better show is--how do I put this nicely?--retarded, crazy, or just flat out "happy" (search classical synonyms for the best word to put in those quotes).

Aristos, out!

Stardust

Eighty Years ago, Hoagy Charmicheal abandoned his career as a lawyer. He was at an important crossroad in life, and he decided to go far a walk in the solitude of darkness. Instead, he found himself strolling beneath a blanket of stars, and soon he was remembering long, lost loves. Soon after, he wrote a wordless but reflective jazz tune.

Two years later, Michael Parrish developed lyrics, and Charmichael revised the tune, opting for a more melancholy, drawn-out feel instead of the syncopated jazz. Together, the two men composed one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs in all of history.

It's been recoreded by many, including some of the most legendary singers of all time: Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, etc. For my money, Cole's is the best, followed closely by Willie Nelson's. I'm not joking. Nelson sings almost perfectly in his special way. I would say perfectly, were it not for Cole's flawless earthiness.

Sadly, I cannot include the music, just the lyrics. However, if there's an ounce of a poet within you, you'll take one look at these lyrics and get ahold of a recording (I recommend Cole and Nelson).

"Stardust" By Hoagy Charmichael and Michael Parrish

And now the purple dust of twilight time
Steals across the meadows of my heart.
Now the little stars, the little stars pine,
Always reminding me that we're apart.
You wander down the lane and far away,
Leaving me a love that cannot die.
Love is now the stardust of yesterday.
The music of the years gone by.

Sometimes I wonder why I spend
The lonely nights
Dreaming of a song.
That melody haunts my reverie
And I am once again with you.
When our love was new
And each kiss an inspiration,
Ah, but that was long ago.
Now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song.

Beside a garden wall,
Where stars are bright,
You are in my arms.
That nightingale tells its fairy tale
of paradise where roses grew.
Though I dream in vain,
In my heart it will remain
my stardust melody,
The memory of love's refrain.

Ah, but that was long ago
Now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song

Beside a garden wall
Where stars are bright
You are in my arms
That nightingale tells its fairy tale
of paradise where roses grew
Though I dream in vain
In my heart it will remain
my stardust melody
The memory of love's refrain.

United 93

My wife and I just finished watching United 93. I stand by my post from long ago, that it is not too soon (as the patheticos would have us believe) for filmmakers to portray the events of September 11, 2001 (as history, mythology, or both--as it appears).

It was a pretty good movie, except for the part where they left out what really happened at the end--when an Air Force jet shot the plane down over rural Pennsylvania.

The ending presented was great mythology, just the kind of stuff to keep us feeling good about ourselves, hating the terrorists, and being proud to be American.

The U.S. Government does not want us to realize two things: First, that all those tax dollars that they've taken over the years "to provide for the common defense" have been a poor investment. The feds themselves have made the troubles that now harass us.

Second, that after three successful attacks, the feds finally got their act together but had to shoot down United 93 (killing innocent civilians) to save the Capitol. Don't get me wrong: they had to do it. It was the right thing to do, no matter how tragic of a decision it was. However, they'll never admit it, just as they'll never admit to the ineptitude (and arrogance) that allowed the passengers of all four planes and the people at the WTC and Pentagon to die.

It's not Bush. It's the federal government in general. All governments are inefficient. All governments are tyrannical. All governments are inept. The bigger the government, the bigger the inefficiency, the tyranny, and the ineptitude. And the society that clings to a government as its guardian angel is autophagic. Get a damn clue, people.

Bad Men

Hugo Chavez and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad are the most dangerous people on the planet. Evo Morales, like Tattaglia, is a pimp.

The Sky Is Falling?

To the junk scientists who feed off of fear, particularly those "Doomsday Clock" guys: You're so phony that the more level-headed thinkers have been on to you for ages.

The Romans said, Astra non mentiuntur, sed astrologi bene mentiuntur de astris ("The stars never lie, but astrologers lie about the stars").

And that's all that you guys are, astrologers. You look at real things (e.g. stars, weather patterns, etc.), and pretend to foresee portents of doom. It makes you feel wise and important when so many duck and cover at your beck and call.

But you're not important. Your ability to frighten the masses makes you powerful (especially in places of universal suffrage), but for all of your power you are shallow, pathetic beings.

There were once many (and still are a few) people who knew that science is rooted in the Latin word for knowledge: the kind of knowledge based upon observable facts and without traces of bias or speculation.

I am not afraid. In my best Englishman mocking a Frenchman accent, "I fart in your general direction!"

Jack is Back!

24 returns with a furious four hour, two day debut. I cannot yet say if it is better than ever, but I stand in awe at the best show on television.

The only problem thus far is a philosophical one. By having the intel about the other weapons come from some of the prisoners in that illegal detention facility, it serves to justify fascism in defense of liberty.

Watch for a rising star. I don't see how Jack will be able to return for another season. He might make it physically, but the mental toll that he's taken over the seasons should be enough to reduce even a man of his magnitude.

The problem is not that the United States government launched an invasion of Iraq with insufficient troop strength. The problem is that the United States government launched an invasion of Iraq with illegitimate rationale.

Increasing troop strength will not erase this primal and gravest error. Seriously, we keep giving the feds more power, even though they're the ones who fudged things up in the first place. Any company would have fired the hell out of such employees or gone out of business for such practices. Instead, we make them stronger then ever.

For all of you who voted either Democrat or Republican, you're part of the problem, if not the actual core of the problem.

Hell yes, that's an accusation.

Wascally Wabbits and More

About a month ago, "PA" (akin to the A-Team's "BA") and I went rabbit hunting at my wife's uncle's farm in Emmit Township. I was carrying my new gun, a two barrel over-under that I had received for my 3oth (gasp!) birthday. I brought my beagle, and PA brought his two beagles.

I had never before fired the gun, so it happened that as I kicked a very nice sized rabbit out of some brush, I pulled the trigger and nothing happened. I still had the safety engaged. However, I vowed, such an episode would never recur.

Fast forward to yesterday, January 7, 2007. PA and I (aka "Hannibal"--the guy with the plan and the stogie) arrived at that same farm for an afternoon hunt. I had forgotten to call my wife's uncle with sufficient advance notice, so he was unable to attend (and for that I deeply apologize--even moreso if he reads this).

The two track between the road and the field was wet and muddy. So much so that I had a hard time getting traction. Thank God for four-wheel drive (I thought).

Once out of the car and into the field, it was a quick trip across to the half wooded and half wild grassy area. It was in this grassy area that I had tried to shoot that rabbit a month earlier. However, as I kicked the same pile of brush, no rabbit emerged, so we moved on to a piney area to the east and beyond some trees.

It was there that I flushed out the first one. "Rabbit!" I yelled as I let loose a quick shot.

"Did you get him?" PA shouted from the other side of the grove.

"I don't think so," I answered, but that was when I saw a twitch on the ground about five yards from where I'd pointed and fired.

"Hell yes I did!" I shouted back. And so it was that I took my first rabbit.

The feeling was exhilerating. I'd been hunting rabbits several times and missed once and had to hold my fire three times out of fear that I'd kill a dog instead of a rabbit. Other times, it was PA who was faster on the draw. This time, however, I was the champion.

I posed for the picture (above) and PA and I agreed that there was still at least two hours of solid daylight for hunting.

We criss-crossed through the woods for about an hour. It was during this time that I located several good signs of deer. I made a mental note for next October's bow season.

Soon, Roofus (PA's large beagle) began barking. The sound was unmistakable: he was onto a rabbit scent.

I moved toward him a bit, and a few minutes later caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my right eye. I turned and saw a rabbit shooting across. It was moving so fast that I could not even shout "Rabbit!" I just pointed and fired.

The rabbit flipped over and flopped about--I had only wounded it with a shot to its rear leg.

Roofus was on it within a few seconds, and that's when I noticed the screaming.

Apparently, rabbits scream. It sounds a lot like the combination of a pissed off cat and an upset baby. I ran to it and pulled the dog off of it. The rabbit was wounded but nowhere near dead, and it kept screaming and flopping.

"It's leg is busted. Should I put it out?" I yelled to PA. I was admittedly disturbed by the rabbit's screaming, for I did not know that they did such a thing.

"Yeah," he replied, "but do it without shooting," he answered, so I took aim and kicked the rabbit in the back of the head. It flew about three yards, but kept screaming, so I kicked it again.

As it turned out, all I was doing was kicking the crap out of it.

"Stomp it with your heal," PA said, closer now by about twenty yards, so that's what I did.

It took two stomps, but the rabbit stopped screaming and laid still.

In this picture, you can see PA's smaller beagle, Chloe, still trying to get a piece of the rabbit. My dog, apparently, is third man on the totem pole and only watches from afar as "PA's" bullies go far what was rightfully mine.

Soon after, we decided to hunt our way back to the car. We arrived at the car about thirty minutes later, only to find that my four-wheel drive as not working. We were stuck in the mud. I tried to get out, but we were stuck. PA--a good 100 pounds lighter than myself moved into the driver's seat, and I got out to push. I pushed us out of the first hole, but we only moved for about fifteen yards before getting stuck again, with ninety yards left to go. We tried every method available to get us out (e.g. filling in the rut with dry grass and wooden planks), but nothing worked. In short, we were screwed.

We walked a short ways up a dirt road to a friendly farm house: The Woodlands, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Wood--very good people about whom nothing but praise can be said. It was, however, their sons who five or so years ago took a ten point buck that I had been tracking, but that was their good fortune and my bad luck.

We knocked on the door and were directed to the back. Mr. Wood answered, and we told him our story. We asked if he had a tractor to pull us out, but he did not have one. He scratched his head and gave us a few telephone numbers, none of which were answered.

Nonetheless, the guy drove us in his Trailblazer (his four wheel-drive was working) to my Trailblazer and tried with a tow-rope to pull us out. It did not work. While he left to find a local farmer to help, I called AAA.

About twenty minutes later, whilst I was giving AAA the coordinates to our location, Mr. Wood pulled up with the news that none of the nearby farmers were home. He invited us to his house if we got too cold waiting for the inevitable tow truck. We declined for the moment but told him that we might take him up on his offer if we needed to do so.

The truck arrived about forty minutes later. Now it was dark. We were wet and cold. I pointed from the side of the dirt road to my car, about ninety yards down the muddy two track, and he followed me to it. I explained that my four wheel-drive had stopped working, and he knew it was true when he saw that I was stuck in mud that I should otherwise have been able to escape.

After hitching me up, he pulled me out bit by bit. Finally, after about forty minutes, we were out and clear. So ended a good day gone bad.

People Are Stupid (what's new?)

I just finished reading a rather dry article (so dry that I decline to take the paltry few efforts involved in posting it) that lamented how difficult it is to sue health gyms because you have signed waivers absolving them of everything from malfunctioning machines to theft of goods.

I hate it when people sign waivers and then bitch because something went wrong. What in the heck were you thinking when you signed the waivers? Companies have you sign waivers because there is a chance that something might go wrong, and they don't want to be sued.

If you cannot agree that you will not sue, then don't sign the stinking waiver. It was right there in black ink against a white background, something akin to "Company X is not liable in the case of any malfunctions or accidents involving proprietary equipment." If you sign such a waiver, then you can't sue. That's it. If you don't like it, then don't sign it. Look elsewhere. If you can't find such a place, then buy a home gym like the bowflex.

Do your research first. If an organization has a legacy of negligence or "accidents," then be wary. Sign waivers if it's worth the risk (worth it to you, that is), or look elsewhere. Once you've signed a waiver, you have no right to sue. In fact, I think that anyone who sues despite a signed waiver should be charged with breach of contract.

Fire Millen

Matt Millen won't quite because doing so will be an admission that he is a loser. While he is a loser, he's also an SOB unwilling to accept the truth.

I do not support violence, but consider this. In a city where innocent bystanders are killed by gunfire, and neighborhood thugs are whacked for a dime bag, Matt Millen walks safely.

Merry Christmas!

Well, I'm off to Seattle in just a couple of hours. I'll be away until the new year, so postings between then and now are unlikely.

During the interim, let's get some feedback on books in general. What are your favorite novels and why?

For me, any such list would include

Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand
The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand
1984, by George Orwell
Animal Farm, by George Orwell
Brave New World, by Alduous Huxley
Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

These books demonstrate the greatness and the depravity of humankind. They offer us hope while reminding us all of the most basic human frailties that so often prevent us from achieving our ideals. After reading each one, I felt enlightened. Atlas Shrugged, in particular, changed the way that I looked at the world.

So I bid you adieu. Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

My Kingdom for an Ounce of Talent

I've finally mastered picking arpeggios in various forms on my guitar. My current choice songs to practice include Johnny Cash's version of Bruce Springsteen's "Highway Patrolman," and a version of Bob Dylan's "He Was a Friend of Mine" combined with Willie Nelson's cover from the film Brokeback Mountain. Say what you want about the film (it was well written, well acted, and well made--to the point that only a low-class bigot can object), but none can deny the perfectly melancholy sorrow of Nelson's vocals:

He was a friend of mine.
He was a friend of mine.
Everytime I think of him,
I just can't keep from cryin'.
'Cause he was a friend of mine.

He died on the road.
He died on the road.
A thousand miles from home,
He never reaped what he could sow,
And he was a friend of mine.
(Dylan's version differs in this verse. In lieu of the third and fourth lines, he says, "He never had too much money / To pay his room and board")

I stole away and cried.
I stole away and cried.
'Cause I never had too much money,
And I never was quite satisified,
But he was a friend of mine.

He never done no wrong.
He never done no wrong.
A thousand miles from home,
And he never done no harm.
And he was a friend of mine.

He was a friend of mine.
He was a friend of mine.
Whenever I hear his name, Lord,
I just can't keep from cryin

Were it not for my only mediocre talent at the guitar, my slightly bad--but not stlyistic Bob Dylan bad--vocals, and my lack of stage presence, I probably could have pursued a career in music.

"Zoinks, like Scoob!"

I have been discussing scary books and movies with some people. I mentioned the novel The Shining as a very creepy novel (though I noted that 1984, with its realistic relevance is perhaps even scarier), and I talked about several creepy movies. Over the past few days we have examined the art of creating suspense and fear in literature and film.

For a coveted spot in the What I Hate (Usually) hall of fame, right above the name Science Guy (winner of the "I used to comment but am now too lazy and/or unable to challenge Aristos" award), post a comment about your scariest read or view. Don't just name it, but tell how it got to you. I'm not concerned if it "grossed you out," but if it really disturbed you on a higher level (e.g. the orginal version of "The Omen.").

Yadda, Yadda, Yadda

A recent article pointed to the fact that this is the time of year in which the smuggling of children across the U.S.-Mexican Border reaches its apex. Much was mentioned about children who suffered at the hands of their smugglers.

Is the fact that desperate parents wish to see their beloveds the real problem, or is the tyrannical immigration policy that makes "illegal immigration" a necessity the culprit? Think about it. Immigration policy essentially requires children to be chaperoned by less than respectable citizens.

Indeed, it's not the smugglers or the parents who are to blame. It is the United States Congress. How ironic that a nation dominated by the decendents of immigrants takes such a position against immigration. Or is it just that these immigrants happen to be Mexicans (Dios mio!)?

Been Busy ("Sorta")

In case you're wondering--and I flatter myself to think that you do--I have not posted much lately because I am a gaming neophyte.

That's right. I have become an XBox convert, having purchased an XBox 360 and Call of Duty 2.

As an XBox man, I am a converted Playstationist: a reprobate to some, I suppose, but perfectly happy as I now am.

Sony's Playstation3 had two things working against it. First, it was cost prohibitive when compared to the Xbox360. Compared to Nintendo's Wii--which I also considered--the PS3 is even worse. Second, it took too long. I waited and waited for the PS3, but there comes a moment when enough is enough, and that moment came on Thanksgiving.

So, the next time I go nearly two weeks without posting, you might wonder which new XBox 360 game I've picked up.

A Christmas Album

I usually dislike when musicians try their hands at original Christmas songs. Even some of my favorite singer/songwriters just seem to get it wrong.

Yes, I love the classics. On iTunes, I have over 50 versions of "The Christmas Song" (Chestnutt's roasting on an open fire..."), 25 versions of "Let it Snow," 80 versions of "Silent Night," 38 versions of "Winter Wonderland," 50 versions of "White Christmas" (nothing like a Christmas song written by a Jew), 20 versions of "What Child is This?" and lots of the other standards ("Jingle Bells," "Silver Bells," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," etc.

In all, I have over 2,500 Christmas songs, most of which are traditional songs like those above.

And yet, perhaps my favorite Christmas album is The Statler Brothers' Christmas Card. Yes, it has several old-fashioned Christmas songs, but the ones that I enjoy most are their original ones. Consider the lyrics on a few, and then go out and pick up a copy of this remarkable Christmas album.

To the following song there's a sincerity and a longing that is either grateful or melancholy, depending upon your mood.

"I'll Never Spend a Christmas"
The year you were snow queen
At the high school Christmas ball.
The night we got snowed in
And prayed it wouldn't thaw.

The year I bought your bracelet,
And you bought me one too.
I'll never spend a Christmas
That I don't think of you.

The year I helped your daddy trim
The outdoor tree with lights.
You worked part time at Penny's
And I took you home at night.

The year the senior class sold
Christmas trees and mistletoe
And we never thought that someday
This would seem so long ago.

The Christmas Eve you told me
You loved me, and I knew
I'd never spend a Christmas
I wouldn't think of you.

The night we planned the party
To decorate the tree.
It snowed so hard, no one could come.
No one, that is, but me.

The Christmas Eve I told you
I loved you, well I do.
And I'll never spend a Christmas
I won't be loving you.

The following song begins with a drawn out cello and 4/4 beat. It's mood is similar to the one above.

Christmas to Me
Christmas to me
Is wherever she might be.
Singing carols With the choir
Haning stockings by the fire.
Making Christmas bows.
Hanging mistletoe.
'Cause where she is, I want to be
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to me
Is as far as I can see.
Pasture fields covered with snow,
White Christmas on the radio.
Children and sleds
And momma's gingerbread.
At home with just the family,
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to me
Is a tall cedar tree.
Decorated and adorned.
With Christmas balls and strings of popcorn.
Tinsel wrapped with care
With webs of angel hair,
A final star atop the tree
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to me
Is the new born baby.
Lying quietly in the hay
When the angels came to say,
"Peace on Earth to men."
And I pray for peace again.
Scenes of the nativity
That's what Christmas is to me.

Christmas to you,
May it never be blue.
And may all your dreams come true:
Merry Christmas to you.


While the next songs is a bit hokey in some ways, it sounds very good at this time of year.
Something You Can't Buy

The greatest Christmas present
Is something you can't buy.

When World War II was over,
We trimmed the tree alone
But we saved the star for daddy,
'Cause daddy was coming home.
We bought mamma a new dress.
We bought daddy a tie.
But he brought us each something
That money couldn't buy.

The greatest Christmas present
Is something you can't buy.

I talked to pa this evening
For an hour on the phone
He said, "Don't spend your money on presents
We just want you here at home."
But we'll buy momma a new dress
And daddy another tie.
And we'll spend lots of time together
And that's something you can't buy.

The greatest Christmas present
Is something you can't buy.

Someday, and I know it's coming
When all of us won't be together every Christmas,
You know daddy's seventy-three.
And to pay back all he gave me,
I can't, but I will try.
I'll pass along to my kids
That something you can't buy.


Who Do You Think?
There are people who are whispering,
And the rumors are running wild.
There's a woman who's not married,
But she's gonna have a child.

Her name is Mary. She's a virgin
From down in Nazereth, now listen close.
She's gonna marry a man named Joseph,
But the baby's father is the Holy Ghost.

And who do you think could believe such a thing?
Could believe that this story is true?
And who do you think could believe such a thing?
Well, here's hoping to heaven you do.

Now they're saying she had the baby
In a barn in Bethlehem.
And a star moved round the heavens
'Till it stopped right over there.
Then some shepherds said an angel
Came and told them about the birth.
They always knew men went to heaven
But now God had come to Earth.

And who do you think could believe such a thing?
Could believe that this story is true.
Who do you think could believe such a thing,
Well here's hoping to heaven you do.

To Dear Old Aunt Mardi

I have been called an imbicile because I wrote in my own name on the ballot this past November. Alas, I may be. However, I must submit that I am far less the idiot than those who were listed as official candidates.

Until this greater issue is resolved, I will continue to vote for the man most qualified--even if it is a "wasted," and/or "absurd," and/or "inappropriate" vote.

It's Christmas Time (Call the Lawyers)

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15912456/

What does this guy think? That Christmas is a time of peace and love? What a freaking hippie.

Humble Pie

It's time to be a man and admit that I blew it. I cost my good friend his first buck because I was either selfish, foolish, or both.

So let this moment mark a moment in time.

I apologize, "BA." I shouldn't have shot at (and missed) what was rightfully your buck.

Still, I bought you coffee that morning, so I guess we're even?

The Hunt

I am a hunter. Many acquaintances act surprised when they learn this for the first time, as if a man so well educated and highly intelligent cannot possibly enjoy firing arrows and bullets into the hearts of defenseless animals--as if hunting can only be enjoyed by the ignorant and stupid. Nonetheless, I am a hunter, and it appeals to both my education and my intellect.

I really only hunt deer and rabbits, but given the opportunity, I would probably hunt just about anything.

In the formerly great state of Michigan, this is now "gun hunting" season for white tailed deer.

I went today, along with my sidekick, the boy wonder, whose secret identity must be kept. He can only be named by his super initials, "BA" He is called "BA" because a client of our place of employment once called him an arrogant bastard. Even though that should make him "AB," not "BA," we'll let that one slide--especially since we're letting slide that I am the most arrogant bastard at our place of employment. Instead, I am left with the nom de plume "Hannibal" because I apparently come up with the good ideas. So tell me, then, why do my ideas matter for crap when it comes to Election Day?

That's right, I'm confessing to being an arrogant bastard. What's more, since the "AB" is changed conveniently to "BA" in order to fit within the nomenclature necessary for an A-Team allusion, I am doubly more qualified to be "BA." Yes, my sidekick is an "AB", but he is not a "BA." I, on the other hand, am an "AB" and a "BA." However, I will bow gracefully, with just this trifle of an objection because at least "Hannibal" gets to smoke the good cigars.

But back to hunting.

"BA" and I went deer hunting today. "Murdock" wasn't there, because he is a wussy. "Face" wasn't there because the three of us are unable to forge friendships with enough people who don't mind being pigeonholed as members of the A-Team.

We went hunting on a farm in southeast Michigan, about 1.5 hours north of Detroit.

"BA" picked me up at about 5:25 AM. We stopped for coffee and reached our destination by about 6:25 AM. He looked decent in his mossy oak bibs and coat, and I looked stellar in my blaze orange camo jumpsuit. He carried an excellent 12 gauge rifled-barrel shotgun, and had decent skills to back it up. I carried an adequate 12-gauge smoothbore "slug" barrel shotgun, but I had peerless skills to back it up. Before you dismiss this description as merely the product of a "BA," note that I have killed three deer--two with a bow and one with a rifle--and he has killed none.

We had a short walk from the farmhouse to our tree stands, and we were both ready to hunt before dawn.

By the way, if you don't know what deer hunting means, it means being able to sit for long hours in semi-to-unbearable cold.

That's what we did.

He was on an "island" of small trees, centered around a giant oak, all of which were right in the middle of a large field of recently plowed soybeans.

I was on a medium-sized birch tree before a carefully groomed oasis of clover surrounded by brush and woods.

Not much happened as the sun rose around 6:50 AM. I heard many squirrels and bird, but I saw no deer. However, sometime between nine and ten in the morning, I heard a commotion in the brush. Shortly thereafter, I saw a very large doe bounding into "BA's" soybean field. She moved pretty fast, so he never got off a shot, even though we had a doe tag between the two of us.

I noticed something about that doe, other than the fact that she was very big. She seemed to be running away from something. In fact, when she reached the opposite end of the soybean field, she looked across from whence she came.

That's when I figured that there was a buck on her tail.

For those of you whose entire knowledge of deer hinges upon having seen Walt Disney's Bambi, I hate to break this to you, but male deer do not court female deer. Deer are not like people. When a doe is in heat, she gives off a scent. That scent triggers a primeval instinct in the buck--men, you've felt this before whenever you've been around an attractive woman or climbed the rope in gym class. When a buck finds a doe-in-heat, he simply takes her. She usually tries to run, but he catches her. I've seen it, and it's less than romantic.

As it turns out, there was a buck on her tail. He was a bit more cautious about running across the field, but he cannot be blamed. After a few days of gun season, he had almost certainly learned that there were dangers lurking everywhere.

This particular buck was huge. "BA" tells me that he had at least eight points to his rack. I was too far away to count his tines, but I could still tell that he would make a fine trophy and dinner for several meals.

The buck bounded toward the doe, and he stopped about twenty yards away from "BA." I could see it all, and yet "BA" did not shoot.

I wondered if perhaps "BA" had fallen asleep, for this tends to happen to hunters who wake up two hours before dawn.

I checked the buck out through my scope. He was a big one, that's for sure. Moreover, he was standing broadside to me. This means that I had a clear shot at his side--where both lungs and the heart are vulnerable.

"BA" still didn't shoot. I was about 100-120 yards away, so any shot of mine would be tough--given my gun. Still, I thought that a deer like this does not come around every day. And if "BA" wasn't going to shoot him, then, damn it, I was. So I zeroed in on the kill spot--right behind his right shoulder blade.

The shot was there, and I took it. Little did I know that my brother-in-law--to whom the gun belonged--had sighted the thing in at fifty yards. I was firing at at least one hundred yards, which meant at least a four-inch drop.

Three things happened when I fired. First, my right ear began to ring. Second, that deer jumped up and started to run. Third, "BA" opened fire.

I thought for sure that the buck was wounded mortally as it ran into the woods opposite the soybean field.

"Did I get it?" I shouted to "BA."

"Which one?" he yelled back.

"The one by you," I replied.

"The one about ten feet from me?" he countered.

"Yes!" I sang.

"I don't know," he answered.

I took my time climbing down from my ladder stand, for a good hunter knows not to chase wounded game before it dies. I crossed my clover field, through the brush and into "BA's" soybean field, and saw that he too had climbed down from his stand.

We spoke briefly about how big the son-of-a-gun was, and I apologized for shooting before him--since the buck was obviously in his hunting-zone. However, I maintained that my broadside shot was good.

We quickly found the tracks. They weren't hard to spot. However, as we followed them toward the opposing woods, I noticed that there was no blood trail. "BA" countered that it sometimes takes a while for a blood trail to show up, so we followed the tracks into the woods.

However, no matter how far we followed the tracks, we could find no blood. That's when I had to admit that I had missed. Since I was shooting at between 100 and 120 yards, I figured that the drop would be no more than an inch or two. That was why I had aimed between the heart and the spine. However, since my brother-in-law had sighted the gun in at 50 yards--which I only just learned--my shot passed just below the deer's torso.

To make matters worse, "BA" was ready to shoot but was only waiting for the dear to turn broadside to him--a straight-on sternum shot runs the risk of perforating the stomach and intestines, something that you want to avoid if you plan on gutting a deer (the last thing you want is to find a bunch of crap--literally--strewn throughout the otherwise delicious meat).

In an instant, after my shot missed, the buck ran. That made "BA's" shot miss. So even though the both of us shot at the same deer, we both missed. I confessed my part, and we both admitted that the buck had escaped unscathed.

While "BA" saw more deer afterwards, all that I managed to do was grow colder. I moved to a couple of other spots, but for the most part, I stayed in the same spot until dark.

We were skunked, and it was my fault. I am very sorry, "BA." Next time, I'll lay off for a second--just so long as you take the damn shot!

Willie Nelson

Willie Nelson has released a new Album called "Songbird." It is brilliant, and I suggest checking it out.Nelson has become a cross-genre legend, in the same way that Johnny Cash managed in his final decade. However, while Cash's "American Recordings" (his last five albums from 1994-2005) betray the artist's frailty--such that I was not surprised when I heard that Cash had died--"Songbird" betrays nothing but Nelson's genius.

By all means, the man should probably be dead, but he sounds great.While Cash's final albums sounded tired and weary, Nelson's sounds more poignant and reflective. He is tired, but not exhausted. He is old, but not ready to die. (Contrast this with the message and tone of Cash's final song--the last one he wrote--"Like the 309," in which he begins, "It should be a while before I meet Doctor Death..." but anyone listening knows that "a while" is measured in days, not years).

Since Elvis's passing, no one else comes close to Nelson's vibrato. And while Elvis sang vibrato like no one else, there is more lingering emotion in Nelson's. He sings his lyrics with a sighing "alas," but not necessarily a depressing one. His are the vocals of an aged man with, as Frank Sinatra sang so brilliantly in "My Way," "Regrets...a few, but then again too few to mention." For all of you youngsters out there, I recommend that you dip into Willie Nelson's discography.

Democracy, Shmemocracy

Today is election day, that day of the season upon which we all fool ourselves into believing in popular sovereignty--not unlike how those chaps fool themselves into thinking that they get a whole bunch of virgins if only they blow themselves and a bunch of Jews or Christians with them.

I went to vote for Proposal 4--to place restrictions upon the state's ability to seize one man's home in order to sell it to another (it's all under the guise of "eminent domain"). I ended up voting for Proposal 3 also (if you don't like dove hunting, then don't hunt doves), for Proposal 2 (I have a dream that one day my children will be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character), and for Proposal 1. I did not vote for any people, unless you count my having written myself in for governor and the state board of education. I also did not vote for Proposal 5 because I saw it as a conflict of interest at best. If I don't believe in forcibly redistributing my wealth to others, then I cannot ask for others to be forced to distribute their wealth to me. Furthermore, trapping the funding of education at the level of inflation is short-sighted and a bad idea. Again, I must reiterate that I did not vote for any people. I do not respect anyone who presumes to govern me.

But something happened at the polls that turned my stomach, and forced me out of my not-posting-sloth.

I was in line waiting for my ballot, explaining why I wasn't going to vote for Dick DeVos, even though mommy was going to do so. As Natalie and I stood in line, a slack-jawed 300 pound-er with a two sizes too small jacket and hair to make the rattiest of mops attractive approached and said to one of the equally pathetic (but "official") folks behind the desk (i.e. ugly folding table), "I'm in adolt edjicashon, an' I git credit if'n I kin prove that I voted. Kin you give me some kinda reseat?"

That's when my heart sank. It was bad enough being surrounded by obviously very blue (think navy blue x10) collar types who couldn't even define the word constitution, let alone identify provisions of the constitution. Now there's some adult ed. teacher who's encouraging his obviously "challenged" (i.e. stupid) students (let's be honest: there's a reason why they're in adult ed.) to vote.

If you want to say that everyone has the right to vote, then fine. However, that doesn't mean that it's right for everyone to vote. There's a reason why the founding fathers feared democracy, and I saw (and smelled it) at point-blank range.

My education no longer mattered. My careful reasoning and recognition of Natural Law was out the door. My disinterested approach--I didn't vote for or against Proposal 5--became a footnote at best. Because of universal adulthood suffrage, someone who in a scientific study could probably disprove Darwin’s theory of evolution canceled out my votes.

More and more, I agree with the original idea of restricting the right to vote to those who hold property. This would avert what Bastiat calls "legal plunder."

More and more, I believe wholeheartedly that anyone who receives federal or state monies should be disenfranchised, lest such people use their "right" to vote as a tool for theft.

Bravo, democracy. Ave Granholm. Veni, vici, deplori.

Ubi sunt?

La-di-dah

All is vanity.

I've been reading (and I'll read some more of) the King's wisdom.

Tomorrow I'll be more apt to write something worth reading.

Ahem!

My historical rant was not directed toward any particular individual. It was meant to combat an idea, not a man. Please keep that in mind, commentators.

A Blind Target

An organization for the blind is suing Target because its (Target's) web site is not user friendly for the visually impaired. http://msnbc.msn.com/id/15419164/wid/11915829?GT1=8618

Then don't buy crap from Target. No company should have to cater to the blind. If the blind don't like it, then they can shop elsewhere online or in any other fashion.

Whatever happened to a person's right to property?

Not a Tax Revolt

So some assert that the average colonist was just fine with the British, and that the war and move for independence were engineered merely by wealthy men who did not wish to pay taxes.

Bah.

It was not a crowd of wealthy men who threw stones and snowballs at redcoats in downtown Boston on March 5, 1770 (The Boston Massacre). There was no conscription (draft), so why did so many poor and modest Americans enlist to fight the British if they were essentially happy with British policy?

Americans of every class fought fiercely for independence. It was not to avoid paying taxes that wealthy men risked their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor; and it was not because they were hoodwinked that the middle and lower classes chose to suffer eight long years of war.

Had Hancock, Washington, Franklin, et alia been captured, they would, in Franklin's words, "hang separately." Wealthy men do not risk their lives for a few pence.

Remember that the Battles of Lexington and Concord happened because the General Gage was determined to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock. Hancock especially was extremely wealthy and would have stayed extremely wealthy without a war for independence. Actually, since Hancock was a well-known smuggler, he actually benefited financially by British mercantilist policies. Without all the duties on imports, Hancock would not have had any business in smuggling.

Many of the wealthy leaders during the war saw their fortunes suffer. John Rutledge, of South Carolina never recovered financially from his war losses. Are we to believe that he sacrificed the bulk of his estate because he disliked paying duties on tea?

Redcoats pillaged Francis Lewis’s home on Long Island, and his wife was taken prisoner for several months. John Hart suffered similar losses. Carter Braxton, whose massive wealth was heavily invested in commercial enterprises, lost a fortune over the course of the war as many of his ships were either captured or destroyed. During the war, the British occupied the homes of Samuel Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and John Hancock. Much of Philip Livingston's property was occupied and looted by the British.

Such fortunes are not risked by an aversion to relatively small taxes.

As far as sacred honor ("sacred Honour" in the Declaration of Independence) goes, let's not forget that had the Americans failed, they would have gone down in history as criminals and traitors. Had these men simply sat on their hands during the 1770's, they would have enjoyed status and privilege in the colonies. They valued honor far more than we do. They probably valued it more than their lives and their fortunes. The historical degradation that they would have suffered had they lost does not even approach equality with the tax burden they felt under the Townshend Acts et alia.

But perhaps a wealthy person might risk his life and fortune. However, what kind of father sacrifices his children to avoid paying taxes? Abraham Clark's son was captured by the British and imprisoned in miserable conditions on the HMS Jersey, and John Witherspoon's son was killed at the Battle of Germantown in 1777.

On top of this, let's not forget that once independence was secured and the Constitution ratified less than a decade later, these men who supposedly risked so much to avoid paying taxes to the British established a government that could tax them just as easily. If they really fought to avoid taxes, wouldn't they have made a government that couldn't tax them?

There's a well-known tribute that includes many of these names and similar details, but it is not a specimen of accurate research. Nonetheless, the point is that these men risked their fortunes.

Those who argue that this war was a mere tax revolt led by wealthy white men are stricken with Marxism: a disease of the mind that spreads to the soul. Marxism is often not fatal to those most stricken with it. However, it causes its victims to organize governments and economies that lead to famine and death. Millions of Russians, Chinese, North Koreans, Cubans and others have died due to Marxism. Some people need to realize that Howard Zinn is not a great historian, and that his "research" is biased toward socialist ends. Since socialism leads to poverty and death, and Howard Zinn promotes socialism, then it follows that Howard Zinn promotes poverty and death. Those who follow Zinn are either fools or villains. There is no in between.

Alan Jackson's New CD Sucks

I've got to tell you. If you're an Country/Western fan in general and an Alan Jackson fan in particular, you will utterly despise Jackson's latest CD: Like Red on a Rose.

Perhaps it has some artistic merit. Jackson certainly does step out of his pigeonhole for this one. However, I liked his little genre peg, and this one not so much.

A Historical Rant

In 1775, a group of farmers from the areas of Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts, armed themselves with their own firearms and faced a well-equipped and well-trained professional army of redcoats.

These farmers wanted three things. Two were immediate and practical. Governor/General Thomas Gage had deployed the redcoats with two objectives: arrest John Hancock and Samuel Adams (both "Sons of Liberty" who, in today's language, would be called either "terrorists" or "insurgents;" and to seize the local militia's arsenal in Concord, which would render that region's colonists unable to resist the continued revokation of their rights.

The third reason was more idealistic. However, contrary to popular "textbook" opinion, it was not revolutionary. Englishmen had valued the concept of limited government and a social contract for over 500 years, going back all the way to Magna Carta (1215 AD).

The Proclamation of 1763 deprived colonists of their liberty and property rights (in the Ohio Valley, for which they fought the French and Indian War). To enforce the proclamation line, thousands of redcoats were garrisoned in forts scattered along the Appalachian frontier. This standing army during a time of peace was meant only to intimidate colonists--and government should fear the citizens, not the other way around. On top of this tyranny, taxes were necessary to fund these very same soldiers' quarters.

A year later, Parliament passed the Stamp Act. A basically direct tax with no purpose other than to raise revenues for the British government. The problem with this was that it taxed Englishmen (colonists) who had no representation in parliament. Magna Carta prohibits this, as did hundreds of years of English/British tradition. Colonists resisted this tyranny via organized protests/petitions (e.g. the Stamp Act Congress), boycotts on British goods, and "extra-legal" forms of Civil Disobedience, including the physical destruction of stamps as well as the tarring and feathering of royal officials.

Parliament repealed the Stamp Act in 1765, but replaced it with the Declaratory Act, which served as an effective "Blank Check" for Parliament. According to this act, they could tax and govern colonists regardless of representation in Parliament.

The Declaratory Act was followed by the Townshend Acts, a series of tariffs that would probably have been accepted by Americans as necessary to regulate trade. However, in the wake of the Stamp Act et al, Colonists were quite angry with the Townshend Acts. That the Townshend Acts allowed for writs of assistence--basically these were search warrants which required no probable cause and virtually no limits--only hastened the conflict. These were enacted in order for royal officials to better police colonial commerce--to catch and punish smugglers. While this seems perfectly correct in terms of government's power to maintain "law and order," colonists saw it as a tyrannical jab at their property rights. Remember, these taxes should never have been put in place to begin with. Boycotts and protests led to the repeal of most of the Townshend Acts, except for the one on tea.

The British East India Company enjoyed a state-established monopoly on the colonial tea industry. However, like all government subsidized industries, it ran its finances inefficiently and was in trouble. The tax on tea was meant to support The BEIC, and even though the tea was to be sold at bargain prices, agitators in Boston knew the real deal. Thus the Boston Tea Party was born. While many saw the attack against private property as a crime that was actually detrimental to the principles by which colonists were resisting British policy (I'm sorry for the complicated verbage), most colonists saw it for what it was. A bold act of civil disobedience. It's not like the BEIC was acting alone. It was acting as an arm of the British government, a tryannical body that no longer respected colonists' rights.

The Boston Tea Party was followed by the Coercive Acts, a series of punitive measures laid mostly against Boston (e.g. The Port Act closed the Port of Boston until the Tea from the Tea Party was paid for). It also called for further quartering of soldiers in colonists' (mostly Bostonians' homes), and a Quebec Act, which threatened to rob New England's local communities of their relative autonomy by placing them under the French laws of now British Quebec.

As things got worse in Boston, this led to the hunt for Hancock and Adams and the militia's arsenal (what I mentioned in the beginning).

A month before the battles of Lexington and Concord, Patrick Henry asked the House of Burgesses in Virginia what the British Ministry had done in the past ten years that had not been tyrannical and aimed at depriving colonists of their rights. He also called for war. He wasn't a prophet. He was a student of history.

Oh for the times when men stood up for their rights and did not content themselves to essentially meaningless rants....

The More They Stay The Same

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

A recent article in the New York Times complains that immigrants are sending billions of dollars to support their families in other countries. The neo-mercantilists (i.e. typical pseudo-economists and politicians) condemn this.

At least real, old school mercantilists were concerned about real gold. These neo-mercantilists are concerned about worthless script.

Lull

I apologize for not having much in regards to recent posts. I have been busy. I will continue to be so until the weekend.

Alas.

A Quick Jot

My daughter is thrilled with the prospects of a new sibling. She wants a little sister--even though I told her that a little sister would place severe budget restrictions on weddings (since I would be obliged to pay for two instead of one). She says that will be fine. She'll just marry someone who has lots of money and can pay for it himself, someone like a doctor or a teacher. To her, apparently, I seem to be wealthy; for while she needs to save money in order to buy Slurpees, I just whip out the magical debit card.

My son doesn't quite get it. He thinks that the baby needs to get out of mommy's tummy. Asked if he wants a brother or a sister, he replied, "I want a toy gun."

A Mild Rant

I'm still pretty much in the dumps, so this is fairly brief.

People are complaining because some are paying more for their Medicare prescription drug coverage.

Perhaps the best way to deal with this griping would be simply to cut them off. Which is worse: more expensive drugs, or no drugs at all? Is it not enough for these people that young, productive workers already subsidize the bulk of their drug costs?

Need is not a justification.

I think that I'll head over to the grocery store and complain when they tell me that I've got to pay for the food. When production and distribution costs rise, I'll complain that I'm being ripped off with higher prices.

Down With the Sickness

There are such things as absolutes, but most of our experiences are relative.

For instance, I feel terrible. My throat is sore, my nose can't decide if it wants to be stuffed up or runny, I've got a mild cough, and almost demobilizing lethargy.

On the other hand, I was able to go to another room while my wife watched Dancing With The Stars.

I could have been so sick that I could not have moved, and I would have been forced to watch that rubbish.

It reminded me a bit of what Groucho Marx said (I'll quote it, but it's probably at least partly paraphrased), "Television is very educational. Everytime someone switches one on, I go to another room and read a good book."

I guess it's true. There's a silver lining on every cloud, though from here it looks as though my clouds might be lined with mucus.

Forward This If You Love God

This blog is entitled "What I Hate (Usually)," so this is the proper forum.

I hate those Goddamned chain-emails with a Christian message (Hell yes, I used "Goddamned" for its irony. "Hell" however, was just plain vulgarity).

So what's the real message with these poorly written pieces of trash that even the Pope would delete? If I don't forward it to all of my friends, I'm going to Hell? Is that it? If I do forward it to all of my friends (i.e. both of them), then there's a mansion reserved for me in Heaven? (This is what the last Christ-Chain-Link message implied). What kind of theological nonsense is that? When Jesus was on Calvary, did that one thief text to several of his friends that Jesus was awesome in order for Jesus to say that they will soon be together in paradise? Seriously, I'd rather blow myself up for 40 virgians than have a mansion, even if getting the mansion meant nothing more than pissing off everyone of my email contacts.

Often, these messages say, "If you love Jesus, then forward this to X number of people." What a scam. The next time that you get one of these, send a new one back to whomever sent you the original, but end it with "If you love Jesus, then sign all of your assets over to me and kill yourself with a dull butterknife." That ought to put the damn idiot in a real predicament.

Oh Baby.

Science has proven something, and it's going to cost me a lot of money.

In the words of Aerosmith's Steven Tyler, "...the rabbit done died."

I'm going to be a dad, again.

Let my experience be a lesson to all. It doesn't matter how smart, charming, and attractive you are. You can still have mishaps, and some mishaps are very, very consequential. These mishaps especially occur in conjunction with a few glasses of any given fermented beverage.

About two and a half weeks following just an occasion, I was cooking up some hamburger for lunch (I'm on a low-carb diet--down ten pounds in thirteen days). Suddenly, from the bathroom I heard the all too familiar "Honey, come quick!" Usually, this means that I am on bug stomping duty. Needless to say, I was somewhat annoyed at being called away from the stove to kill an insect that was probably the size of a pencil tip.

I stood outside of the bathroom door and asked "What's up?"

I expected to hear, "Big spider. Kill it." Instead, I heard, "Look."

Although I knew that she was late on her period, I was not prepared for what I saw when I opened the door. Her cycle is pretty regular. She should not have been ovulating, and I should not have had an entire army at my disposal--if you get my meaning.

There she was, holding a pregnancy test. Her hand was trembling, but I got the picture really fast.

"Holy crap," I said (actually, I said something else, but it was one of George Carlin's Seven Words That You Can't Say on TV).

Although there are no false positives when it comes to these tests (only false negatives), I went to Rite Aid in search of a second opinion. It also was positive. I'm pretty sure that at some point I uttered a few other words that cannot be said on network TV. Hell, I'll bet that even HBO would be squeamish about what I said.

In an instant, I saw my Harley riding away--being driven by a baby, no less. I am also certain that this baby needed its diaper changed and would eventually go to an expensive college.

In that same instant, I saw myself--as all soon-to-be-parents do--seated at the Nobel Prize Awards ceremony, watching my offspring accept an award (the category is irrelevant).

I was torn.

Oh well. It's unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. I thought that I was done changing diapers and such, but that's not how it's meant to be (which is an ironic way to put it, since I don't believe in fate).

We spent the bulk of the afternoon looking for a bigger house, one with four bedrooms, and discussing potential names. I immediately excluded any names in the top ten most popular of both genders. We're thinking, for a boy: Robert Frank (after two of our dads--I have two, as my biological father has been deceased since I was five, and I already have a son named after him), Nicholas Scott (I have a deceased cousin by the name of Nicholas, but that's not what draws me to the name), Thomas More (one of my historical heroes and my confirmation name--yes, I'm the dorky adult neophyte who chooses such a confirmation name), or Thomas Jefferson (another historical favorite). For a girl, we might be settled on Alyssa Danielle (Alyssa was the hottest girl whom I knew from eighth to twelfth grade, and my wife wants an "Ally").

It just occurred to me that the PS3 and big screen TV will probably have to wait a few more years [insert any number of words that you can't say on TV. The combination should be lengthy to the point of disbelief].

Blah

I'm in a pretty melancholy mood. I blame Neil Diamond for writing and performing, "I Am, I Said."

Damn it, I knew that I should have listened to "Brother Love's Travelling Salvation Show."

An Admission and an Observation

When I was much younger (late teens), I imagined a special, covert department of the executive branch that had essentially one purpose: to assassinate dangerous individuals.

I was, at the time, a hard core "conservative" who believed that, in the hands of the right people (e.g. other hard core conservatives), government could be good, and that decent from this "good" was, by definition, "evil." I was so deluded that I actually considered a "Domestic Affairs" branch of the same department. I admit this with a deep sense of shame.

I have since denounced my former state of ignorance (but it was bliss).

By the way, before my left-wing readers rejoice (e.g. my great-aunt, in particular), I am not in your camp either.

The problem with left-wingers, right-wingers, and even the indecisive centrists is that they still imagine a powerful state. History teaches us that no people are safe when the state is powerful. The people are not secure in their property--the sin of left-wingers (e.g. taxation and the redistribution of property).

The people are not secure in their liberty--the sin of both wings.

And they are not secure in their lives--the sin of both wings.

Secondary level social studies teachers are directed to praise the so-called "Social Contract" of John Locke, that government exists to protect life, liberty, and the ownership of property. Ironically, it's government that most threatens these rights. Quantify and qualify the loss of property, liberty, and life to "private sector" thugs. Do the same with government thugs. I'll bet that Stalin alone wins for the statists.