Tuesday, December 06, 2016

I get two Christmas trees every year. This is the second one. They are undecorated right now.

Did that "read" well to you?

When I read that this afternoon, I didn't think it "hung together" well. Starting with the first sentence. Waves don't unfurl. You know? Flags unfurl, which is where I thought he was going with Britain and America, waves don't; waves "crash." I read that first paragraph a couple of times. It just didn't "read" well to me.

The second paragraph: I don't think that "hangs together" well. Classically, the paragraph is to start and finish a thought. That one starts with victories, war, and then,

The distance between metropolis and periphery grew into a cultural chasm.

That does not complete the thought, that does not continue the thought--That is a completely different thought.

Another fun thing you can do with paragraphs is aid the reader's attention by breaking up the page. You pick up a book and see a page with no paragraphs, you're like, "Unless this is 'Remembrance of Things Past,' no." Everybody but Proust does that, this guy does it, but the paragraphs here are of an unusual, unnatural, uniformity in length. That was the second thing I noticed when I got near done reading this article. The paragraphs were "boxy." It was weird! 

The third box does what the second one does in reverse. Starts out on jobs and then goes to war. Same paragraph, same "thought." No!

The article as a whole does not hang together well. "NATO will grow weaker..." is the start of the seventh paragraph; "Fossil fuels will make a comeback..." is the start to the eighth.

When you finish the entire article--What do you think it is about? What do you think the title is?

"The Rage of 2016."

The article is by Roger Cohen of The New York Times. I thought the article dissembled and I thought Roger Cohen's mind dissembled there. I think that the article is revealing of a mind that is "unfurling." I thought Roger Cohen was paranoid in an article he wrote, in 2015 I think, where he tied Scotland's coming independence vote to the coming Brexit vote to fears of a revanchist Russia to worrying about the safety of his grandparents' native Lithuania. He got some of those wrong and some of those right, but didn't foretell Trump. You know? It was all "over there."

So thinking these thoughts of Roger Cohen's mind dissembling, thinking of the Times' editorial board's clinical depression when they wrote that "America has seen worse than Donald Trump" editorial, thinking of David Brooks' personal crises, thinking that the entire glass box on W 41st Street was unfurling and crashing, leaving only Charles Blow standing, I then went back and read Conehead's last column before "Rage."

His mother was manic-depressive. (You can also emphasize a point by making of a single sentence a paragraph.)

Times people might want to check on Roger more frequently than they do.

Good night. Good night, Roger. Get a good night's sleep, K?

Would you do me a favor and read this?

The long wave unfurled at last. Perhaps it is no surprise that the two societies that felt its furious force — the United States and Britain — are also the open societies at the hub of globalized turbo-capitalism and finance. For at least a decade, accelerating since the crash of 2008, fears and resentments had been building over the impunity of elites, the dizzying disruption of technology, the influx of migrants and the precariousness of modern existence.

In Western societies, for too long, there had been no victories, no glory and diminishing certainties. Wars were waged; nobody knew how they could be won. Their wounds festered. The distance between metropolis and periphery grew into a cultural chasm. Many things became unsayable; even gender became debatable. Truth blurred, then was sidelined, in an online tribal cacophony.

Jobs went. Inequality thrust itself in your face. What the powerful said and the lives people lived were so unrelated that politics looked increasingly like a big heist. Debacle followed debacle — the euro, the Iraq War, the Great Recession — and their architects never paid. Syria encapsulated the West’s newfound impotence, a kind of seeping amorality; and, in its bloody dismemberment, Syria sent into Europe a human tide that rabble-rousers seized upon.

And so the British voted to quit the European Union, symbol of a continent’s triumph over fascism and destructive nationalism. Americans voted on Nov. 8 for Donald J. Trump, who used much of the xenophobic, fear-mongering language of 1930s Europe to assemble an angry mob large enough that he triumphed over a compromised Hillary Clinton. Neither victory was large, but democracies can usher in radical change by the narrowest of margins. To give the Republican president-elect his due, he intuited an immense disquiet and spoke to it in unambiguous language.

A quarter-century after the post-Cold War zenith of liberal democracies and neoliberal economics, illiberalism and authoritarianism are on the march. It’s open season for anyone’s inner bigot. Violence is in the air, awaiting a spark. The winning political card today, as Mr. Trump has shown and Marine Le Pen may demonstrate in the French presidential election next year, is to lead “the people” against a “rigged system,” Muslim migration and the tyrannical consensus of overpaid experts. The postwar order — its military alliances, trade pacts, political integration and legal framework — feels flimsy, and the nature of the American power undergirding it all is suddenly unclear. Nobody excites Mr. Trump as much as Russia’s Vladimir V. Putin, who is to democracy what a sledgehammer is to a Ming vase. Strongmen and autocrats everywhere — not least in Egypt and the Gulf states — are exulting at Mr. Trump’s victory.

It is too early to say what Mr. Trump will do and how many of his wild campaign promises he will keep, but it’s safe to predict turbulence. Irascibility, impetuosity and inattention define him, however curtailed they may prove to be by his entourage and the responsibilities of power. He is, for now, in over his head.

NATO will grow weaker. Baltic States will feel more vulnerable. Syria’s Bashar al-Assad, backed by a Putin-Trump entente, will grow stronger. Chinese-American trade tensions will sharpen, in approximate sync with military tensions in the East and South China seas. The Iran nuclear deal, painstakingly negotiated by the major powers, could unravel, making the Middle East exponentially more dangerous. Any jihadi attack or other assault on America will not be met with restraint; Mr. Trump seems to regard nukes as an underused asset.

Fossil fuels will make a comeback. The world’s Paris-enshrined commitment to fight climate change will be undermined. The approximately 65 million migrants on the move, about one-third of them refugees, will find shelter and dignity scarce as xenophobic nationalism moves into the political mainstream across Central Europe and elsewhere. Technology’s implacable advance, and the great strides being made by artificial intelligence, will test Mr. Trump’s promise to bring manufacturing jobs back to America. Some forms of employment are gone forever, and not even a self-styled savior can conjure their return. The Trans-Pacific Partnership already looks dead; other trade deals, including the North American Free Trade Agreement, which symbolized the ever-more-open trading system of past decades, could be nixed or substantially diluted.

Will all this assuage the people’s ire? Perhaps Mr. Trump really does have some fairy dust he can scatter for a while. But of course “the people” were only part of a divided population, millions and millions of whom did not want — and will resist — the global nationalist and authoritarian lurch. They will do so on the streets, in the courts, via the press and through the checks and balances the framers of the Constitution created precisely to rein in a demagogue. Still, Mr. Trump has enormous powers, a Republican-controlled Congress and a mission to make America great again, whatever that means or takes.

The struggle to preserve liberalism will be long. It may well be led now by the likes of Angela Merkel in Germany and Justin Trudeau in Canada. The mantle of custodian of the well-being of the free world sounds like a rip-off to Mr. Trump, who thinks deals and little else. It could well be that America has passed the torch.

Western democracies are in the midst of an upheaval they only dimly grasp. Virtual direct democracy through social media has outflanked representative democracy. The impact of the smartphone on the human psyche is as yet scarcely understood; its addictiveness is treacherous and can be the enemy of thought. Mr. Trump hijacked the Republican Party like a man borrowing a dinner jacket for an evening. His campaign moved through Twitter to the aroused masses; it had no use or need for conventional channels. The major political parties in Britain and the United States will have to prove their relevance again.

Democracies, it is clear, have not been delivering to the less privileged, who were disenfranchised or discarded in the swirl of technology’s advance. A lot of thought is now needed to find ways to restore faith in liberal, free-market societies; to show that they can be fairer and more equitable and offer more opportunities across the social spectrum. Germany, with its successful balance of capitalism and solidarity, its respect for the labor force and its commitments to both higher education and technical training, offers one model. The rage of 2016 will not abate by itself.

The liberal elites’ arrogance and ignorance has been astounding. It is time to listen to the people who voted for change, be humble and think again. That, of course, does not mean succumbing to the hatemongers and racists among them: They must be fought every inch of the way. Nor does it mean succumbing to a post-truth society: Facts are the linchpins of progress. But so brutal a comeuppance cannot be met by more of the same. I fear for my children’s world, more than I ever imagined possible.

Charles Blow Again

He is choosing to push America further apart rather than bring it closer together.

And be clear: It is not the job of the defiant to conform to a future president who makes them completely uncomfortable. The burden of unity lies with Trump, not his detractors.

“Just wait and see.” “Give him a chance.” But what if what you’ve already seen is so beyond the pale that it’s irrevocable? What if Trump has already squandered more chances than most of us will ever have?

What if Trump has shown himself beyond doubt and with absolute certainty to be a demagogue and bigot and xenophobe and has given space and voice to concordant voices in the country and in his emerging Legion of Doom cabinet? In that reality, resistance isn’t about mindless obstruction by people blinded by the pain of ideological defeat or people gorging on sour grapes. To the contrary, resistance then is an act of radical, even revolutionary, patriotism. Resistance isn’t about damaging the country, but protecting it.
Trump and his agents of idiocracy are now engaged in an all-out crusade to exaggerate the scope of his victory, rewrite racial history, justify their vendettas and hostilities and erase the very distinction between true and false.
The truest measure of a leader is as much about how he or she attains power as how he or she wields it; while the latter is yet to be determined, the former has been revealed in devastating clarity.
And to add insult to injury, Trump surrogate Scottie Nell Hughes uttered this jaw-dropping line last week on The Diane Rehm Show:

“One thing that has been interesting this entire campaign season to watch is that people that say facts are facts; they’re not really facts. Everybody has a way, it’s kind of like looking at ratings or looking at a glass of half-full water. Everybody has a way of interpreting them to be the truth or not true.” She continued: “There’s no such thing, unfortunately, anymore of facts.” Folks, Dimwit-ism is a disease easily spread and denigrators of the absolutism of truth are its vectors.

This is why resistance isn’t only principled, but essential and even existential.

We are not in an ordinary postelection period of national unity and rapprochement. We are facing the potential abrogation of fundamental American ideals. We stand at the precipice, staring into an abyss that grows darker by the day.
That is so a handball.

"Capital One Bowl Mania"-ESPN

you're the football league bowl mania now lol stupid

"What if there were an eight-team College Football Playoff?"-ESPN

what if your face.

Monday, December 05, 2016

Oakland tragedy: Why you should be your own fire marshal -CNN

Oh, man, that is so right.

Ells and Gees, I work in a fire trap. Some of you do too. I have been my own fire marshal many times. 

The courthouse that is my main haunt was built in 1960. It has nine stories. It has escalators which funnel people zig-zag from the first through the sixth floors. The escalators would also funnel smoke and fire into a tornado. When this was realized about ten years ago they installed swinging doors that automatically swung shut when the alarm sounded.

The courtrooms, every one of them, are carpeted. 

Wooden bench seating. 

Where there are windows, they are barred.

No sprinklers.

The building is so old that it has been built onto as the population exploded. There are now courtrooms on seven of the nine floors. Many days of the year there is a long line of people outside to get in.

There is one courtroom in particular that has inspired my inner fire marshal. To get to it you take the escalator up to the fourth floor. You are deposited out into a long, wide linoleum hallway (If this is sounding too opulent for you, get over it.). You are in the middle of the building. If the courtroom opened out onto this hallway it wouldn't be so bad, it would still be bad but not as bad, but it doesn't do that. To get to this courtroom you have to walk a few steps down the long, broad hallway and then make an abrupt 90-degree left turn down a short, narrow corridor. Then make an abrupt 90-degree left down a longer, narrow corridor. You are now at the very front of the building. Off this longer, narrow corridor are an office facing the street, another courtroom facing the long, wide linoleum hallway in the middle of the building but back-exiting (for the judge and lawyers) into this longer, narrow corridor, there is a judge's chambers on the street side and the corridor dead ends in the courtroom that made me a fire marshal. There are two standard handle office doors sandwiching the most absurdly small "foyer" you've ever seen. People get bottle-necked there. The courtroom is like all the others carpeted. 

If there was a fire in this area during court rush hour, say 10 o'clock on any week day, and everyone in this area started moving post haste out of their offices and courtrooms and chambers into this longer narrow corridor, there would be mass casualties. 

But wait, there's more. The courtroom in question is, for some reason, always crowded, more crowded than any other. All the seating is taken. People are standing. They turn the air conditioning down low before the start of court. When I've been in there 15-30 minutes early it is freezing. Give it an hour-hour and a half and it will be warm with body heat, there are so many people in there. 

It is on those many occasions of warm and getting warmer with overcrowding when I have played fire marshal. I have said on a couple of occasions to colleagues sitting next to me, "Man, if there was a fire in here now, we'd never get out."

There is no "Seating Capacity ---" sign like you see in restaurants, movie theaters. I'm trying to picture in my mind's eye that courtroom when it's jam-packed to estimate the number of people... Three or four, four, wooden benches...How many people to a row?...20? Okay, go with 20 people per row, four rows, eighty people in the audience. The public defenders, 1-3; the prosecutors, 2-4 or five with interns, 3 clerks, the jury box filled with police officers, two rows, I guess six or seven seats per row, the judge, bailiff, and, say, 10 private attorneys. How many is that? 110-115. Everybody not in the audience, so 30-40 attorneys and cops, defendants when their names are called, and witnesses, have to make their way down a narrow aisle with people standing against the wall to get to the front of the courtroom, before the judge, or to exit the courtroom. There are two points of ingress and egress, the one I've described and one that is used almost exclusively for the judge and the bailiff. If you exited through what I'll call the judge's exit, you're in hallways that empty you out at the very end of the main long, broad hallway. You've gone half-way through the building. Nobody uses the judge's exit is the point. Every uses the bottle-neck.

But wait. To the left and behind the judge's bench is another room. It's where the jury deliberates when there's a jury. It's where the lawyers go to talk or use the bathrooms when there's not. There's always somebody in that back room, not many, I'll say two or three at a time. There is NO EXIT from that jury room. If people, during a fire, saw that door, they might head for it. And be trapped. If they headed for the main exit, they'd be crushed and trampled. If they headed for the judge's exit they'd have their best chance. Depending on where the fire is. If the fire is off the judge's exit you'd be running into the inferno; if the fire is anywhere other than in this courtroom, you are literally toast; any way you exit you are running into the fire. And before you get there, you'll probably be crushed, trampled and suffocated. Enjoy your courthouse experience.

Ghost Ship Fire

Oakland fire puts spotlight on lack of affordable spaces for artists

                                                                  -USA Today


Artists Say Sky-High Rents Are to Blame for Oakland Warehouse Fire

"To blame." I like putting a spotlight on it rather than putting the blame on it.

Oh my gosh, I hadn't noticed the mannequin body parts before. 

The Ghost Ship: 36 Ghosts


There's this thing in America called the "Big XII Conference," okay?

The Roman numerals are to give it an aura.

The Big XII has the aura of lol. It only has X members. It needs Aura U and Aura State to join.

The Big XII wanted to get to XII members and auditioned something like three dozen U's to get to the magic number...And then decided, "Nah, we'll just stay at X."

Four Big XII universities are located in the state of Texas. Two in contiguous Oklahoma, two more in contiguous Kansas, one in contiguous Iowa. So the Big XII makes sense contiguous-wise. But that's only IX. The X'th school is West Virginia which is four contiguous-es away from the Contiguous IX.

Yesterday, the College Football (tackle) Playoff committee announced the four schools it had chosen to participate in the national championship playoff. For the second time in three years no Big XII school was chosen.

Big XII commissioner "Bob" "Bowlsby" didn't understand:

"I'm not sure what I advise my members right now, because we've been telling them that nonconference schedules matter, and one of the four
[Washington] has an exceedingly weak nonconference schedule. 

"I'll have some questions to ask when the time is right.

"We've told our schools you shouldn't be surprised if you don't get in if you play a weak nonconference schedule, and then somebody with a weak nonconference schedule does get in. It's just another case in which we need to seek clarification."

This is what makes the Big XII lol-able! The conference's champion, Oklahoma, did indeed play a strong non-conference schedule:

Sat, Sep 3
L 23 - 33
Sat, Sep 10
W 17 - 59
Sat, Sep 17
Ohio State
L 45 - 24

And LOST two of the three non-conference teams they played, one at home by three touchdowns. No team that made the final IV had more than I loss. So, the "clarification" that Master Bowlsby needs is, "Just win, baby."

The Banality of Sport

Contender kryptonite: Big weaknesses on the top 15 teams-ESPN

There are only 32 teams in the NFL, now.
Swine Chelsea's Cesc Fabregas apparently did not get grabbed by the neck by Fernandino for nothin' on Saturday.

"...TV replays appeared to show the Chelsea midfielder provoking the Brazilian's angry reaction with a slap to the face." 

That'll do it! 

Still, Fernandino is gone for three matches, Aguero for four and Fabregas may get his own three-match ban. So we lose two of our best players for three and four matches. Nice. What a disaster.

Fuck Trump.

Sunday, December 04, 2016

33 Dead in Ghost Ship; Criminal Investigation

30 Dead in Oakland Artists' Building Fire

Reality, Artists

Here is an artist [Mark Rothko] who tries to capture his notion of reality, his idea of truth, in every painting...
...the notion of reality he expresses is so vital and internal...
The pictures must have their own reality--they are not a mimicking of the visually perceptible world around us...
What a dream to paint what one saw and felt, one's own sense of the truth...And this is what Rothko wished for: to paint the truth as one feels it...(emphasis mine)
...he makes clear that the self-centered work of the artist--the expression of his or her personal truth--...
The very title of the book, The Artist's Reality, speaks to this desire. As Rothko emphasizes repeatedly, the essence of painting is, to him, the artist's unique perspective on the world and the communication of that perspective to the observer. To enter a painting is to enter the artist's reality...
3. It is our functions as artists to make the spectator see the world our way—not his way. (This is from the 1943 Rothko-Gottlieb letter to The New York Times.
When he speaks of abstraction, he apparently means...the distortion of the subject matter to conform to the artist's notion of reality rather than to that perceived through our vision. (emphasis mine).

The Artist's Reality Philosophies of Art, introduction by Christopher Rothko (2004) edited edition of Artists Reality, Mark Rothko circa 1940-41.
How did Christianity develop from a small community of Galilean fishermen to a movement that conquered the Roman Empire and ultimately the rest of the world? Why did the idea of a compassionate God race through the Roman realm, taking root nearly everywhere it touched, blending with native cultures? (emphasis added)
                       -National Geographic. Jesus and the Origins of Christianity
11/8: the binding moment.

Saturday, December 03, 2016


-naked women body parts name

These things embarrass me and drive me to distraction.

A fire broke out at a party at an artist's collective called "The Ghost Ship" last night in Oakland, California. At least nine and up to two dozen young people were burned to death.

The Ghost Ship was located in a converted warehouse--which is typical of what young artists do. They took the place over and subdivided it into their own little spaces. Jam-packed it with their stuff, all very flammable--look at all that. It's all very ad hoc. I have been in many artists' spaces that sound just as The Ghost Ship is described.

How could that have passed a fire inspection? It couldn't! I don't know this for fact but I will you bet you $1000 The Ghost Ship never was inspected. That's par, too. The space is abandoned, almost always in a derelict area of a city. Starving artists look at it, see cheap space, and occupy it. The city is too glad to have them and don't want to hassle them, and one artists' building can often lead to an enclave. Voila! You just got Cool.

Fucking tragedy. Fucking tragedy.
Alabama held off the "Gators."
The ba-bump made it 16-9 Alabama. Tis now 33-9 near end of Half One.

College Football Is So Fun

Here is an illustrative example of why. I ask viewpagers to note #44 in orange-orange and for convenience I have circled the lad in the first frame:

Now: Maybe there should be another orange-orange in front of that menacing looking individual at far right. Or maybe not! Maybe #93 is designated responsiblee for the menacing guy in white. The point here is, however, that #44 is playing this exactly correctly. He is right in front of his man who has far the shorter path to the punter, #19 there, Thompson Townsend (apologize for any inconvenience to Townsend. #44 is NOT going to allow his man to block that punt.

Another look. In a millisecond the ball will be snapped. #44 is on it.

The ball is on its way to Thompson Townsend but What is this?! #44 has turned away from his man to the menacing guy. NO MY LAD, NO!

And now #44's man is on his way to Thompson Townsend. This is not going to end well. Good grief.


Blocked punt run back for a touchdown, Alabama.

Fun! Fun!


"Everything last season was right, starting with luck; this season, everything is wrong. "-Claudio Ranieri

Sunderland 2
Leicester 1

The EPL defending champions are now 15th in the table, 3 wins, 4 draws, 7 losses, 13 points from 14 games, two points above the relegation zone.
Oh! I forgot. My son sent me a link to the BBC report: Yaya Toure, who played today, was arrested earlier this week for DUI. In 2012 Yaya had refused champagne as man of the match because of his religious beliefs.

City 1 Chelsea 3

Man. I just watched the highlights on ESPNFC. Sorry Sorry City That was a disgusting performance by City. Kun Aguero clearly dived in the 29th minute--and then followed that up in injury time with a clear red card; Kevin De Bruyne missed an open net; Chelsea's attacker out-worked City's defender when they were one-on-one for Chelsea's first goal; Chelsea's next two goals were breakaways so similar I had to watch again to make sure I wasn't seeing a replay, and our player grabbed Cech Fabregas around the neck and shoved him--twice--, the last sending him over the boards.

Totally disgusting. Never ever remember seeing Manchester City play like that.

City 1 Chelsea 3

Things went from bad to worse for City deep into stoppage time when Aguero was sent off for a wild lunge on Luiz, with Fernandinho then also shown a red card for grabbing Fabregas round the neck and shoving him over an advertising board.

That's diving!

Manchester City 1 Swine Chelsea 3

You mother-fuckers.
I just got up. Good morning. Fuck Trump. We ought to start that as our standard greeting, the way the Nazis did Heil Hitler. Every time they answered the phone, "Heil Hitler." Ring, ring, ring. "Fuck Trump, may I help you." I like it.

Friday, December 02, 2016

Okay, now that one. If you told me that was America at top center...The Bering Strait leading to China at top-middle left, Central America via the isthmus of Panama and South America at bottom, I could go for that...But you'd have to tell me how Hawaii became so fucking big...And you'd have to tell me what that humongous thing is off South America's coast. AND YOU CAN'T FUCKING DO THAT CAN YOU. So get the fuck out of here. You think you know where shit is COME OVER HERE AND FIND DAD'S FUCKING NOTE! You make me sick. Good the fuck night.

Oh yeah, that's a good one, I know exactly where that is.

Go ahead. Make my...night.


Really? Then tell me where that is ("Earth" doesn't count). Pick out your fucking house.


PR No. 298 PM TELEPHONES PRESIDENT-ELECT USA Islamabad: November 30, 2016

          Prime Minister Muhammad Nawaz Sharif called President-elect USA Donald Trump and felicitated him on his victory. President Trump said Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif you have a very good reputation. You are a terrific guy. You are doing amazing work which is visible in every way. I am looking forward to see you soon. As I am talking to you Prime Minister, I feel I am talking to a person I have known for long. Your country is amazing with tremendous opportunities. Pakistanis are one of the most intelligent people. I am ready and willing to play any role that you want me to play to address and find solutions to the outstanding problems. It will be an honor and I will personally do it. Feel free to call me any time even before 20th January that is before I assume my office.

On being invited to visit Pakistan by the Prime Minister, Mr. Trump said that he would love to come to a fantastic country, fantastic place of fantastic people. Please convey to the Pakistani people that they are amazing and all Pakistanis I have known are exceptional people, said Mr. Donald Trump.

Sounds authentically Premier Trump. Pakistani official interpreter Azamot Bagatov with the translation.

Was It Not Real?

Doesn't the Big Three era in Miami seem surreal now? All are gone.


This week:

-beret hunks
-british slim amature milf

Thursday, December 01, 2016

"How Nike's Self-Lacing Shoes Became a Reality"-ESPN

See, self-lacing shoes are, suposably, reality?

All kinds of shit are supposedly reality. Leicester. Trump. Scottie Nell Tits.

I refuse to accept the reality of all that shit.

I'm going to go look for dad's note again.

A great man.
Thursday December 1st, 2016
After midnight, when the kids are down and the streets are still, LeBron James asks his wife if she wants to go on a cruise. That’s the term he uses, and because Savannah has been with him since high school she knows he is not referring to a yacht in the Caribbean. They head to the garage, grateful somebody can watch the children, and select one of the more inconspicuous cars from their fleet—usually the pickup or an SUV. And as Northeast Ohio sleeps, they turn out of their gated mansion 20 miles south of Cleveland and continue another 20 miles down Interstate 77, through the darkness and into the past.

The cruise does not follow a defined route. It can start in West Akron or North Hill, Merriman Valley or Lane-Wooster, but it always traces the same stops on a boy’s urban odyssey. There’s no need to fire up the GPS. “I don’t know every address,” James says. “But I can find the places I’m looking for.”

Hickory Street, where Big Mama’s house used to sit high atop the hill, before the city tore it down. “My first home,” James says. His mother, Gloria, who gave birth to him at 16, raised him there with her mother, Freda, across from the low-slung lawn maintenance center. All that’s left on the property is an asphalt driveway in the woods and railroad tracks running through hickory trees in what used to be the backyard.

Overlook Drive, up the block, where he and Gloria lived with the Reaves family after Big Mama died and they struggled to pay the electric. “The Reaves cut out the bottom of a crate and nailed it to the telephone pole,” James remembers. “I hooped all day on that crate.” Now the neighborhood kids have a real portable basket and a trampoline on the corner of Overlook and Hickory.

Silver Street, where he moved in with Uncle Curt and ran alongside Mount Peace Cemetery, a block away on Aqueduct. “I dreamed of being Batman, of making the NBA, of buying a house for my mom, of being the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air—the Fresh Prince of Akron,” James laughs. “It was as big as I could dream.”

The Elizabeth Park projects, two hulking concrete buildings in the basin under the Y-Bridge, down the street from the single-story Baptist Church with the brick fa├žade. “That’s when things got really tough,” James winces. “It was a mess. It was survival. There was violence. I saw so much I wouldn’t want my kids to see.” The blighted structures have since been leveled, turned into the Cascade Valley Apartments, a collection of two-story condos with multi-colored wood paneling.

Woodward Avenue and the three-story white house with green trim flanked by twin maple trees out front. James walked the two blocks to Harris Elementary School, also since razed and turned into parkland. “It was nice being that close to school, but you start to wonder, ‘How many more times are we going to do this? How many more times are we going to move?’ But I wasn’t going to ask my mom those questions. She was making the best choices for us that she could.”

Frederick Boulevard, Crestview Avenue, Moon Street. There are others he forgets. The order blurs. Did he sleep on a couch or in a bed? Did the place belong to an uncle or an uncle’s friend, a cousin or a friend he just called a cousin? “I know Moon Street was fourth grade,” James recalls, “when I missed the 82 days of school because I couldn’t get across town.” He’d often stay inside and eat from the same box of cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner. “A bag of potato chips was like a steak.”

Hillwood Drive, the green-and-white traditional with peeling paint and a tiny teddy bear hanging from the roof of the front porch, where youth football coach Frank Walker opened his doors. “Here is a married couple with a son and two daughters,” James says. “Here is structure. Here is stability. It was the first time I’d felt that since Hickory.”

Spring Hill Apartments, a six-story white shoebox on Rentar Lane, with units tucked behind sliding glass doors and vertical blinds. Gloria and LeBron were on the top floor above the playground. She made him leave his sneakers on the deck because they smelled so bad after school and practice. “That was it,” James sighs. “Finally, just me and my mom, united. Friends came over, wanting to spend the night, and I was like: ‘You guys have moms and dads but you want to stay with us? I thought that was so cool. I got there in sixth grade and didn’t leave until 12th. So for all the painful memories, there are bright ones. That’s a bright one.”

The cruise, which he takes about every six months, ends back at the mansion gates before sunrise. “Blessings on top of blessings,” James says. “It makes you appreciate them all.” Among professional athletes, and particularly NBA players, James’s childhood journey is not unique. But he clings to it as a subject of reflection and a source of inspiration.

“When you grow up the way I grew up, I don’t think you ever really get past it,” he continues. “I think it’s part of you forever. Life is like a book and I think you have to go back and read your book sometimes, to learn from it. Maybe I’m at Chapter 8 right now, but you can’t sit down and start reading a book at Chapter 8. You have to go back to Chapter 1.”

With 2 minutes and 27 seconds left in the first half of Game 7 and the Cavaliers trailing the Warriors by three points, Tyronn Lue called timeout. “Bron, you’ve got to be better than this,” the Cavs coach implored.

Oh! That is absolutely brilliant writing by Lee Jenkins of Sports Illustrated. That is an example of why SI writing actually was taught in English writing classes when I went to college. Brilliant work, Mr. Jenkins.
A couple of years ago I had a case against a particular prosecutor and we were in court arguing something. On that occasion the prosecutor was making scurrilous allegations to the judge against the reputation of my client for peacefulness in the community and was walking back and forth for emphasis. I was taking great umbrage and was preparing a decisive reply when of a sudden she pitched headlong to the floor in front of me. It was frightening. "Oh my God, are you okay?!" as I went to help her up. She was. She had caught a pointed heel of her shoe on the carpet.

Today I was in a different court on a different case when she walked in--on a different case also. The courtroom was crowded, the judge was calling cases, the prosecutor was in thought preparing more spoken outrages against other wrongfully-accused and I rose from my chair unnoticed and walked, gravity with every step, over to where she was standing and said sotto voce "I tell everyone now Julie Menard fell for me in court one day" and then walked away.

"You wouldn't be lying either!" she called after me, not quite sotto voce.

"QUIET please! Mr. Harris. Miss Menard."
my asshole's an outie but some judges use it as an innie

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

"A crowd throwing mazel tov cocktails.”


Do you see that? Her mouth is open and what?...C'mon, c'mon, c'mon... There's no...what? D---, DI--... There's no DICK in that mouth!  That is what's missing. See, what Ma-Me misses is the dick.

What Scottie Nell has is an INNIE not an "outie," that's what Ma-Me doesn't get. No facts EVER come out of that mouth. "Mazel tov" cocktails come out. You see Scottie Nell like that you go, Whoop! Whoop! Dick on set three, STAT!  Unforced error on Ma-Me.
Oh yes! There were other people on the show. James Fallows, Margaret Sullivan of The Washington Post, Glenn Thrush, POLITICO, and Mark Baldwin executive editor, Rockford Register Star and The Journal-Standard of Freeport..."Mark Baldwin executive editor, Rockford Register Star and The Journal-Standard of Freeport"? I did not hear Mark Baldwin speak. Diane Rehm did not mention him in her introduction, I do not see "BALDWIN" in a quick scan of the transcript...And I would like to ask a question: Rockford, Illinois? Freeport, Illinois? I've heard of Rockford, Illinois, I've heard of Freeport, The Bahamas, I've never heard of Rockford, The Bahamas nor Freeport, Illinois.

First I've got to pick my jaw up off the floor here. There are no objective facts? I mean, that is -- that is an absolutely outrageous assertion. Of course there are facts....

So there are matters of opinion -- I think that it was very revealing, an important thing that Scottie Nell Hughes is saying, which is that there are no facts. I think it actually is an intended result of this campaign and administration to think, well, really there aren't any facts, it's all opinion, so we're going to sort of manipulate the things that we care about.

I believe that the job for the media and civil society now is essentially to say there are such things as facts. So the line may be drawn here.

Yes, Scottie Nell, with due respect, if you identify as a journalist, you cannot also be saying there are no facts, which you did just say....

And I think one of the really interesting things that I'd like to see to push this forward, because this isn't about beating him up or calling him a liar...

I do agree with Scottie Nell Hughes that we're all in the middle of making things up here, figuring out how we're going to deal with this because if the pose in the administration is what we're hearing, there are no facts, it's all biased, then we need to reconsider what we're doing.

The bolded portions are what I object to.

Starting at the beginning, I object to the mainstream media giving more voice to those who should not have been heard in the first place. You have a constitutional right to speak in America. You have no right to be heard. The Ma-Me should have relegated the Trump gong show to their entertainment sections, as the Huffington Post did for a time.

Ma-Me gave the Trump $2 billion in free airtime in the primary season. In their coverage of him in the summer they have convinced themselves that they were "too hard" on him.

Not true.

Now the Diane Rehm Show, part of Ma-Me, is making up for being "too hard" on Trump by giving voice to a white woman with blonde hair and big tits named "Scottie Nell," a bimbo with an IQ at least the equal of her cup size, and Trump "surrogate" (duh).

I object to that.

Then I object to Margaret Sullivan saying "Scottie Nell, with due respect" as if a white, blonde, big-titted bimbo named Scottie Nell is due any respect (Note: she is not. They are not: All white, blonde,
bimbos with big tits named Scottie Nell are created equal as morons who should have their voice boxes permanently removed so that whenever they open their mouths it's only to suck my dick.) and I object to Glenn Thrush saying that "this isn't about beating [Trump] up or calling him a liar" when that is what it should be about.

Note my objections.

The mainstream media are doing an excellent, truly excellent job of making it all up to Trump since he was named premier. CNN showed the rest of them the light when they hired Corey Lewandowski.

Heard this with my own ears today on The Diane Rehm Show:

"There's no such thing, unfortunately, anymore of facts."
                    -Scottie Nell Hughes former Donald Trump surrogate; political editor of RightAlerts.com; contributor to CNN.


Pageviews in November, which just ended Google Stats time. Highest monthly total since Google has been orocideng stats, July 2009.


Bigger'n Houston, #4. 48.2%-46.4%
The World Chess Championship is going on in New York City (?) and they're into overtime :o .

I have not kept up on the World Chess Championship over the years, but there was a time that I did. The whole world did. That time would have been a long time ago, 1972. For pageviewers under 44 years of age that may be hard to imagine, like 2015 is hard for me to imagine.

1972 was a Cold War year and, like this year, a presidential election year, ergo, Americans were more insane than usual, and pitted Cold Warrior incumbent Richard Nixon against the prairie populist George McGovern.

While that election was heating up the summer of '72 saw two Cold War proxy wars break out. In September was the Summit Series, named for era head of state meetings. That was in hockey and was between America's proxy Canada and the Soviet Union. As bitter and as intense ("We were playing for our way of life"-Phil Esposito) as the Summit Series was it was still between Canada and the USSR.

The World Chess Championship in mid-July through August however was between the erratic, brilliant American Bobby Fischer, the challenger, and the stoic, professorial holder Boris Spassky, a genu-eyne Rooski with bushy eyebrows and everything. "Just like Brezhnev, see!"

I didn't know a frigging rook from a pawn in June, 1972. Well, by August, I was castling and en passant-ing like all get out. All of America was. As I type these words, it is embarrassingly laughable.

The media coverage was intense.
Good likeness of Abraham Lincoln.

Shortly after 2 p.m. on August 8, 1972, WNET/Channel 13 in the New York metropolitan area was swamped with phone calls protesting the station's programming. Irate viewers repeatedly asked the television producers to drop the coverage of the Democratic National Committee meeting in Washington so that they could resume watching the play-by play of a World Chess Championship game.

Do NOT switch that dial.

In 1972, the national edition of the New York Times, the major newspaper that most consistently deals with chess coverage, published 241 articles that dealt specifically with the game. 

Bobby Fischer became a rock star.

The American (and Canadian) way of life triumphed in the summer of '72. Spassky resigned on September 1, Team Soviet Union succumbed to Team Canada on September 28. Bobby Fischer died in 2008 at age 65. Fischer's erratic behavior got worse with time and his later years were marked by, in the words of a biographer, "a mind completely cut off from reality."

Boris Spassky is still alive and kickin'. 

I continued to read those New York Times chess articles occasionally for many years; bought a book, The Art of Chess, by James Mason, but have rarely played since. Nobody to play with. After the 1972 frisson nobody I know played chess regularly. (I sucked anyway.) Chess, somebody once said, is too serious to be a game, and too much a game to be taken seriously. 

Today the Cold War is long gone (especially with Premier Trump) and the World Chess Championship is being played by, as I understand it, a Norwegian, and a Ukrainian born in Crimea who is now a Russian loyalist. As if. The fate of the Norwegian way of life is now in "overtime." If the matter is not settled there they go to a "sudden death" game of rock-paper-scissors-shoot. As I understand it. 


Trump has taken only two national of the daily national security briefings since election.