Tag Archives: ThoughtsTooLazyToFinish

WordPress Annoyance, Pt. 87

I know I’ve whined about this crappy screen that seems to make an appearance on an irregular basis someplace or other, but some topics just never grow old.


Or at any rate it used to be on an irregular basis. Now it seems to pop up every time you log in. Why and what for, in the name of heaven? I’d rate it as useless to downright confusing if asked, but, alas, I’m hardly amongst the Powers that Be at WordPress.com.

Which brings me to my second irritant: This.

I made the mistake of following the link from that screen. And, ummm, WTF? What exactly are they looking for here? Someone to admit that they chopped up their grandmother in the backyard and baked her remains into a yummy casserole of Grandma Pot Pie? And to note that, nope, nobody’s caught me yet, but I’ve still got some leftovers in the fridge. Do ya think I should leave ’em be or eat ’em up yum as late lunch? (Note to the anal out there: Both of my grandmothers are long deceased, one in 1971, the other in 1985. This is an example, not an autobiographical sketch.)

All about the “art and craft” of blogging, too. Should I expect some Elmer’s Glue and little shiny bits so I can make a coaster, like I did back in the day at the YMCA day camp? One of my resolutions for the New Year was to try to be a bit less cynical and skeptical towards my fellow humans. But, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, how can I be expected to hold myself to such a task in the face of twaddle like this? Is it even possible?


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Incoherent mumbling

Embarrassment # 1: I have yet to check in on that request I made at Goodreads regarding getting the CSV file they excrete digested properly by MS Access. Good gravy, how much time did I spend writing the silly thing? I s’pose I wrote it as much for myself as any other reason. Having a document that sets forth in detail all the rooty-tooty/twisty-turnys involved in getting done what is needed can only be a good thing. But…I did ask for help. And for all I know was offered some. So, I’ll have to check in today. And offer a groveling apology

Embarrassment # 2: Sometimes [Only sometimes? Eh, let’s put that discussion on hold for now, worthwhile as it might otherwise be.] I can be a grade A turd. How much am I paying for using Goodreads.com again? That would be, umm, zero, right? As in nothing. As in moocher, freebie, tragedy of the commons zero. Indeedly do, that’s the answer.

Yet, I was all set to climb up on my high horse, the one equipped with a 2×4 embedded into the saddle, so’s it’ll slide right up yer rectum and help along that feeling of righteous indignation, which along with caffeine, lack of sleep and what may or may not be an incipient mental breakdown would doubtless have fueled this post.

And had that post been written:

  • None of it would have been fair
  • Very little of it would have made all that much sense
  • And, yup, mebee just mebee I should have ASKED if what I was trying to do (and in all honesty would still like to) is in fact possible
    • Which I didn’t do and have yet to do
    • And, duh, I guess I should

I suppose I should be slightly reassured that, incipient mental breakdown or no, there are in fact still a few functioning circuit breakers in my skull, that’ll throw when I overload the antique and very likely defective wiring in my skull, and stop dead in its tracks such a mountain of nonsense.

So, circuit breaker reset. And, curiously, all that has occurred in this post up until this point should simply be declared an extended meander. Technically, none of it is the subject I planned to discuss, high horsey or no. But it is going to be most of the text. Bit of a dilemma. But the meander gets the chop right now.

Here’s what I’m trying to do:

Actually, forget it. I’m bored to tears w/this whole business. Save it for later.

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Nordic Tropics or Tropic Nordics or…

whatever. This is from a few pages I scanned from The Causes of the Civil War, which should show up at some point or another in my “drafts” as a written review. But I was afraid if I didn’t strike while the iron was, umm, luke-warm I’d forget all about this quite amusing twaddle. And boy is it something else, I’ll say that for it.

Whaddaya call it Skydrive said I could embed it, but no dice on WordPress. But it is a link to a publicly accessible PDF document, three pages long IIRC.

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Utterly Unnecessary Post

Edit: A widget. ‘Course that’s what it is. And ‘course they don’t actually say that (well maybe they do, and I just didn’t look closely enough. That can happen too.)

I’m just curious what the heck a “featured image” does. Does it sit on top of all your other posts? Tap dance across the screen like Jimmy Cagney? Well, I’ll know when this gets posted, at least as far as the “sitting on top” if not the tap dancing…

Oh, and speaking of my man Leon Trotsky, somehow I jarred loose a memory of him in a comic book with a guy sneaking up behind him w/a pickaxe. Durned if I actually didn’t find it. I usually suck at searches where I have to fumble around for the correct terms. Not this time. 🙂


Though I must admit I don’t remember the guy doing the sneaking looking like the Frito Bandito, in an ensemble including sombrero and serrape.

To give credit where credit is due, the entire comic can be found here:

This Godless Communism, though it was kind of irritating how it loaded (slowly) as a slide show. But the foreword by none other than J. Edgar Hoover makes it an almost priceless artifact. Here’s the cover. I dig it, man.


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Ten Years After [What?]

Everywhere is freaks and hairies
Dykes and fairies, tell me where is sanity[?]

Ten Years After, I’d Love to Change the World, 1971

Could a song with opening lines like that ever reach the “Top 40” of popular music, USA style in this, the Age of the Panopticon? Since the question is of course, rhetorical, shut up. I ask, but don’t give a hoot what the hell you think. One must do one’s best to stay within the boundaries of discourse, American style. Thus my small contribution to the cause.

And since the question was rhetorical, it can only have one possible correct answer: of course not. Especially as one of the titans of the “entertainment industry,” David Geffen, is a rather outspoken “fairy” himself, and could very likely squash like a bug any musical group daring to stray into such territory. Such is the world we live in, with the masses fed pablum poured down the food trough by someone who seventy-five years ago would have been seen as a deviant (by “liberals”) or as a degenerate (by “conservatives.”)

So it goes.

In any event, I suppose what fascinated me enough to hold my attention for the maximum anything is capable of these days (about six and a half minutes) were the following:

  • This seems to be an interesting example of that  quote I will now proceed to mangle about the heart understanding things the head knows not. Obviously the song’s author had been completely and fully indoctrinated in the peace, love and “grooviness” of a 1960s mentality, and equally obviously some inchoate, unspoken bit of his subconscious mind was gagging about the whole thing.
    • The result being the confusion palpable in the lyrics, which of course makes the song interesting, far more interesting than the tedious dogmatic nonsense of other songs of that era
    • And might serve as some kind of strange footnote to the idea that a small group of the ideologically pure and sure can often rout a far larger though far less committed group
  • That at some point the “dykes and fairies” realized that the road to power requires they cease being “freaks and hairies.” And to their credit they have grabbed and achieved power on a massive scale via that route. Certainly to a point few in 1971 would have credited.
  • And perhaps most amusingly of all, the Wikipedia entry about the song hyperlinked in the block quote. The first two lines are mentioned nowhere, by whomever it was wrote the entry. No, the furthest the anonymous soul dared go is to declare “irony” in the chorus. To which I say nonsense. I think the song’s confusion is both genuine and rather depressing.

Still, one of those songs I’ll stumble across on the ol’ external HD every six months or so and givve a listen to.

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Glory, glory, hallelujah!

I am on the receiving end of spam porn texts. WTF did I ever do to deserve this garbage? Before I go through and delete the ones I’ve missed for whatever reason I figured I’d post them in all their glory here. I limited myself to five, and then two shots of the text listing pages, so the full telephone number shows in all its glory.

The thumbnails are links to photobucket. Click the thumbnail and you’ll get taken to a version of the image that is about 50% of full size. Cursor over the image and you get a magnifying glass. Click again. Then you can read them in their full glory.

Boy, when a phrase enters my pea-brain it sets up housekeeping, doesn’t it? The sad/depressing part being, of course, that Your Humble Narrator hasn’t the foggiest idea that this landlord/tenant relationship has been established until long after the fact, possibly to the point where said tenant could assert some sort of “squatter’s rights” and claim legal title to what remains of my brain.

I “glory” this and “glory” that three times in a mere 113 words, and had not a clue I was doing so as I was doing it. Even better, since each “glory” is part of a three (or possibly four) word phrase, call the total “glory” a glorious  eight percent of the text of the two paragraphs.

The only possible defense I might offer is that I was distracted by my flat-bed scanner. But I’d rather not go there, since it actually works fine. The temper-tantrum, flavored of course with a dollop of righteous indignation, that was building inside me when I couldn’t get it to do what I wanted it to resulted from my own stupidity. And nothing else. Meaning trying to blame that tedious prose on it is rather akin to saying, “No, your honor, I really didn’t mean to run those people over. But you see I was drunk at the time, so I was having difficulty with that staying between the lines thing.”

I’ve often wondered why I find it so difficult to keep a blog on any level at all. Finally marked it down to laziness, pure and unadulterated. But now I’m thinking there’s at least a tiny li’l element that with each entry I confirm my prose as being every bit as hackneyed as I’ve long suspected.

Why am I put in my mind of this particular Ani DiFranco song? Without plumbing — or more appropriately, roto-rootering — my subconscious, I’m saying jealousy. Jealousy at people who can actually do writin’, story-tellin’ and so on, and make it interesting, coherent, or hell, something other than embarassing.

Amusingly, if DiFranco and I ever crossed paths I’m guessing it would be about 14 seconds before we were screaming in each other’s faces. I would imagine that good-looking males of the species* can sometimes finagle such things into a horizontal bop session. I mean, you raise the passions, you raise the passions. But unless DiFranco has some deeply buried fetish for Jabba the Hutt look-a-likes, that ain’t anything I’d need to worry to much about§.

* – Particularly those with the ethics of a shark and the morals of a tomcat.

§ – Not that I give a shit at this point, come to think of it. Thanks to the cornucopia of pills I’m on whatever libido I once had is now long-gone. Or maybe uncured depression is at fault. Or maybe that low testosterone issue is worse that they previously thought? Or perhaps it is all of the above.¶ Rather depressing that I have already bred. Not that I don’t love the kid — in fact, if there’s a check on suicide, he’s it — but I’ve certainly done the child no favors genetically.

¶ – If I “don’t give a shit,” why am I mentioning it? I suppose I could burble some silliness about the hypersexualized society we’re living in, these last days before the Spenglerian/Toynbeean inevitable collapse that’s coming, but I’ll come clean. Must be from checking it at this blog from time to time. Fascinating stuff, in fifteen minute intervals. It is like a peek inside the head of someone whose existence is at such a vast remove from my own it is almost as though he and I are two different species.The difference is at some fundamental level that transcends politics, economics, or whatever other transient label that could be applied. Hard-wiring, “nature” not “nurture” here. Eh, I suppose I should do an entry purely on nothing but that blog at some point. I have no issue with the site that’s of any consequence, it is just so utterly alien to me I won’t even pretend to try to get my arms around it.

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The most overrated military of all time is — without doubt — that of Sparta. It took them over twenty years to defeat Athens in the Peloponnesian War, and only managed that due to (a) Athens arrogantly turning former allies into client states, none of whom were exactly happy over this turn of events; (b) lots of naval help from Persia; and (c) [arguably] a traitorous betrayal from the aristocratic bloc within Athens itself.

The “War Nerd” doubtless sums it all up better than I ever could, in his review of the execrable “300”.

The second most overrated military of all time? I’d have to say Nazi Germany. They seemingly ran out of useful ideas sometime in early 1942, wasted resources on crackpot nonsense like the V-1 and V-2 rockets, neither of which could carry more than a bucketful of actual explosives, and don’t even get me started on garbage like the “King Tiger” tanks, especially since they actually had a useful tank with the Panther.

Of course, the fact that Hitler basically checked out mentally at some point, that he let his subordinates run amuck building little empires of their own and so on didn’t help much. Instructive to note that the one place Stalin didn’t interfere with his generals with on the tactical front, while that was the one place Hitler actually did continue to keep sticking his beak in. And Stalin would have tolerated the chicanery of a Goering or Himmler for about twelve seconds, before they’d have found themselves with their hands tied behind their backs and bullets in their temples.

Sidenote: Clearly the most successful fascist regime of all time was the USSR under Stalin. The moment the magic wand of “socialism in one country” got waved the USSR certainly ceased being anything Marx would have recognized. (Though IIRC Engels started making some very odd pronouncements toward the end of his life.)





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