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; 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.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Jeez, oh man, sorry about the original formatting on that last post, folks, I didn't immediately check it after I hit "publish." I don't know what the hell happened with the HUGE three three-finger images...It wasn't real. Good night.

'It's back to reality now.' Why Leicester City are struggling in the Prem-ESPNFC

Was it not real?

What the fuck happened in 2015? Leicester was another thing I could not believe was happening. Like Trump. Starting in 2015, Leicester won the damn league and Trump won the damn presidency! Brexit was on the immediate horizon, the dad note incident was jolting me and the Rorty monograph was coming. Honest to God, ell's and gee's, I have had the thought pass through my head, "Maybe I'm dead." "Maybe I'm in a coma. Maybe I got in a car wreck in 2015 and am not really here."

"We are fighting in a relegation battle."
     -Claudio Ranieri

The defending champs!

I knew Leicester was going to suck this year. They are in 14th place, 13 points, a point a game, two points away from relegation. W-H-E-R-E  T-H-E-Y  B-E-L-O-N-G. Where they should have been had they not taken some frigging magic potion.

"I don't think we will be allowed a Christmas party at this rate."
      -Danny Simpson, Leicester player.

Or like that. Most everybody else had some one-off party in never-never land, a Cinderella Ball, and it all went away when the clock struck midnight. I'm one of those who was not invited and had to watch from terra firma.

"Jamie Vardy hasn't scored for Leicester since the 4-1 defeat against Liverpool on Sept. 10..."

That is the real Jamie Vardy. Know how many goals he scored in 2014-15?

Know how many he has scored so far this year?

Know how many he scored in between, in 2015?


The glass slipper came off. The magic potion wore off. Something. Something not real.

What in the name of God came over the world in 2015?
Nobody should be allowed to burn the American flag - if they do, there must be consequences - perhaps loss of citizenship or year in jail!

Trump, go fuck yourself. America, fuck you.

"Pitt's Matt Canada a finalist for nation's top assistant coach"

O Canada!

Please do not leave Pittsburgh

Pitt: Pay him more, h
owever much it takes

With glowing hearts and bugged out eyes

We did watch your new O go

From far and wide you did run the ball

The D did not know what to do

God keep our Matt rich in Pittsburgh

O Canada, please stay and make your O go

Pitt, pay the man however much it takes!

Thank you. A composition of my own rendering. 

I was wondering: Will your new First Lady be giving any lap dances to VIP's at the Inaugural Ball?


The Constitution sets the floor for individual rights. The states can always, and frequently, do build upon that floor, providing more accommodation for individual liberty.

Immigration is a national, i.e. federal, concern. Even there, the state of California's college system has said they will not cooperate with enforcing federal deportation laws. There are also sanctuary cities that don't cooperate.

Trump has threatened to withhold federal funding from refusniks. The refusniks say "Knock yourself, Clownstick."
ever wonder what peanut butter on leftover pizza tastes like for breakfast? hmm, it's okay.

i like being a bachelor.
Short night...Long day, short night.

"Jose Mourinho's angry outbursts are not helping Manchester United"-ESPNFC

Oh stop. What has helped since Ferguson left? You want stoic Moyes back again?  Hey! Manuel Pellegrini is available for the price of an airline ticket from China.

Mourinho would light fires, constantly surrounding himself and his Chelsea team with smoke, but he had a team of winners...

Congratulations, you have stumbled like a drunk and unwittingly smacked your head up against TRUTH. IT'S THE PLAYERS! Stop now. Why are you still writing? 

He is acting like a badly-behaved child on a weekly basis, 

Wow. That's a change.

projecting a surly image to the world 


and seems to think that everybody is against him and his club. Yet this has become a tired old act and Mourinho is increasingly looking like yesterday's man.

There are a lot of good yesterdays in Mou's tired old act. Maybe if ManMou's PLAYERS tried his act they wouldn't be so tired.

Tellingly, there is a clear sense of devotion from the players at Chelsea, Liverpool, City, Arsenal and Spurs towards their managers. Watch the interactions between them before, during and after matches and the common thread throughout them all is a sense of unity.You do not see that unity and bond at Manchester United between player and manager right now, but perhaps that is because Mourinho is still playing to yesterday's rules of creating a siege mentality of "us against the world"...

The alcohol level in your blood has reached a dangerously low level. You're sobering up and just making glancing blows at the truth now. Put the pen down and pick up the bottle.

The problem is, players don't fall for that anymore.

Then the players must fall! Moyes, van Gaal, now Mourinho. When are you going to get it through your thick head that these players haven't fallen for ANY managerial motivation since Fergie retired? Answer: when you drink more. Alcohol brings clarity to thought. Insight. 

Mourinho's record is now officially worse than David Moyes after 13 games and the Scot was sacked after only 10 months in charge.


Oh my God, this article just goes on and on. MAYBE I'm a little more than half-way through. Enough. Mark Oden, S-H-U-T  U-P.

G-O-O-D  N-I-G-H-T.

Monday, November 28, 2016

Pleas for more diversity and inclusion are a mantra at the New York Times. For example, it demands more inclusion in the Catholic Church's clergy—women must be ordained—and rails against the glass ceiling in the corporate world that keeps women from reaching the top.

There is one exception: when it comes to hiring a new publisher at the New York Times, it throws diversity and inclusion to the wind. Not only does it confine its search to white boys, it only considers blood relatives. The New York Times is not only a patriarchy, its affection for hiring along patrilineal descent lines is boundless.

Mark Thompson, who heads the New York Times Company, announced today that Arthur Gregg Sulzberger is the new deputy publisher of the newspaper.
To elect Arthur Gregg Sulzberger, the Times erected a cement ceiling: the only other two candidates for the job were Sam Dolnick and David Perpich. All three are cousins.

No women were interviewed. No blacks were interviewed. No Latinos (including the undocumented) were interviewed. No Native Americans were interviewed. No Asians were interviewed. No Catholics were interviewed. No Protestants were interviewed. No Muslims were interviewed. No Mormons were interviewed. And to the best of my knowledge, no transgender persons were interviewed.

This triumph of patriarchy was not, however, equally distributed along descent lines: no one from the Ochs family, or any of the other branches of the family, was considered.
Thompson said the selection “was done in an extraordinarily careful, systematic way.” On that, everyone can agree.

Friedman must have photos of generations of Sulzbergers in compromising positions, ergo, no editor.

The stuff that comes out of that guy's keyboard...

"I’ve never disparaged Trump voters...they’re all fellow Americans."-Thomas L. Friedman

Anything else?

They're fellow Americans, ergo, you don't disparage them? But if they were Canadian!

Friedman, do you have any idea how stupid you sound sometimes?

Charles Manson, would you disparage him? Nah, fellow American. 

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Deja Vu*


Disoriented. That is maybe the best word to describe my reaction. I didn't realize the similarities in the incidents when I wrote the Rorty post. Never made the slightest connection.

I was alone in my apartment when I wrote both posts. The Rorty post was written about noon; didn't go back to it until about midnight. At that time I read over the days' posts and thought the Rorty post needed to be broken down into more paragraphs. So I opened it back up just to make those stylistic changes. It was in reading it over as I was doing that that I first noticed the similarities.

That was also similar to what I did with the dad post. The incident, if it ever happened, was on a Saturday. I didn't write about it until the next morning.

After being stunned--"Stunned," that is an excellent word here.-- by the similarities I think I went back to the dad post to recall exactly what I had written and how I had written it. I remember briefly google-imaging "surprised face" and "shocked face" but I was feeling a little frantic and couldn't be light-hearted.

I got up from the desk. I walked in my apartment. I walked a few steps, paused and stood.


At one point I remember walking into the bedroom and standing leaning against the wall, slightly bent at the shoulders. I put my hand up to my forehead. I rubbed my face. I muttered to myself, "How could this be?"

There is no one mot juste, frantic, despair, stunned are also juste but disoriented captures more.

Disoriented references reality, right? Like you're someplace real but you don't know where and you can't figure it out. In this case everything physical was familiar but I felt that the larger reality was obscured. Something had happened, twice now, in the close, small confines of my apartment. They both seemed real as a rock but over time I convinced myself that the first rock, the dad note, had not been there in reality.

That is difficult to do. It is difficult to convince yourself that that rock you stubbed your toe on was not really there, and that you hadn't stubbed your toe at all! It is difficult to do and it is embarrassing to do. It is particularly embarrassing to relate an incident to others and to publicly declare it, and then have to say privately and publicly that it never happened. You know?

If the dad note was a dream, what else am I so real-as-rock certain about that I could pass a polygraph test that it was real and still be wrong? It made me question reality, in other words. My answer to the reality question was that the dad note incident was not real. So, I altered reality, I erased the dad note incident from the real. I conformed a new reality, one that didn't include the dad note.

Now, the Rorty monograph incident occurs. Identical to the dad note incident. Except that I could physically prove the Rorty monograph was real. Like Dr. Johnson proving the physicality of matter by kicking a rock. I cannot refute the non-existence of the dad note by producing it. Ergo, the dad note was not real.

How many fucking things can you prove with physical evidence? Can you prove your name? How do you know what your name is? "Because my mum and dad told me!" That's testimony, that's not physical evidence like Dr. Johnson's rock. "Because it says so on my birth certificate!" That's written testimony. Somebody at the frigging bureau of vital statistics got your name from another document and put it on your birth certificate. Physical evidence of your name of the same rock-solid kind as Dr. Johnson's would mean something like you came out of your mother's womb with your frigging name tattooed on your forehead.

If you had to prove the real by physical evidence there is not much that would get proved. The law does not require physical evidence to prove--"beyond a reasonable doubt," too!--a criminal case in court. "Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence" is a maxim. But in the case of dad's note I altered reality by adopting the standard of proof of material non-existence that "absence of evidence is evidence of absence."

I did that after a year and a half. I looked for the rock on several occasions. I thought about the incident, talked about it with a couple of people, wrote about it: Under the particular facts and circumstances of the dad note incident it was reasonable to conclude that I had dreamt in and to banish it from reality.

And, of course, applying the same standard to the Rorty monograph incident I refute its non-existence as Dr. Johnson did Bishop Berkeley.

So HELD. I have to move on. In whatever reality I am in, and that there is, I have to move on.
Wrote an additional something on this longhand this morning at breakfast, also. Will probably post that as an updated update later.

How to describe my reaction to this: Beyond surprised but shocked would be too much. Frantic...I was a little frantic. Thoughts kept rushing into my head and disappearing just as quickly, like soap bubbles that appear for an instant and then pop, replaced by others. I couldn't organize my thoughts, they were just getting away from me and I was at their mercy. So if frantic describes in a word that, then frantic.

Despair. I had put the incident of the note from my dad to rest. It bothered me for a long time and it bothered me a lot. But I massaged it in a way that put it away. Like scar tissue that encapsulates an old wound, it was still there but the body isolated it and protected the rest from it and I was at peace with it, whatever it was.

Then to have an identical incident recur two years later and this one to be provably true, not dreamt, the protective covering around the earlier incident, well, that was gone now. And, yes, that caused despair! That movie, that Woody Allen movie with that blonde, exceptional actress, that I watched a couple of years ago. I forget her name now, famous, famous actress, married to a goofy-looking guy. Famous movie, maybe Woody Allen's best. Won an Academy Award. Caused Dylan Farrow to go batshit. I don't remember the movie now. But I felt as "unmoored," Friedman's word, as that character, played by that exceptional actress in that great movie, was, like reality was something I could no longer count on as real.

Like I was an unwitting part of, a pawn in, some larger reality of which I had only this indirect evidence even existed, like it was some "game."

"Was it not real?" the title to so many posts in the last few years. I have doubted some aspects of reality in the last few years. Really, have you ever doubted reality? WELL, I FUCKING HAVE! And it BLOWS to doubt reality, really. Some post about reality is what I started to write this morning.

It's time for bed again. Good night, again.

Smaller story, I am just freaked the fuck out, but maybe you will be interested. The beginning to yesterday's post, "Meandering Thinking" was this:

Yesterday evening I scanned my bookshelves to pull something to read, selected Pilgrim's Way and the KJV, and noticed wedged between two books a monograph-looking thing, I didn't know what it was, it appeared to be old, it was yellowed although printed on sturdy stock. I removed it and noticed that its two staples were rusty.

"Wtf," to self. I put the two books down and flipped through the monograph to see wtf.

"Rorty signed," someone had written in pencil on the inside of the cover on the first page at top.


I flipped to the end, no signature, and then took all three and put them on my kang bed for reading Mao-style but then became engrossed in the ominous east wind blowing from Eighth Avenue Manhattan. I didn't peruse the Rorty monograph until this morning.

An eerily, neerily identical thing happened to me a couple of years ago.

I picked an old book off my bookshelf; I would have gotten the book in 1977 or 1978. I was leafing through the book and there was what appeared to be a bookmark. It was a small letter, folded. Had no idea what it was. I took the small letter out and unfolded it and saw the blue of my father's business letterhead at top.  I was astonished. The letter was undated and typewritten and I read:


When you get down, pray a little to God. It really does help.


Dad was a good man. I have no memory of this letter, no idea why I was "down" in 1977-78, the happiest year of my life, but I must have been home on break from graduate school, something obviously was troubling me and when I left my father would have gone back to work and typed out that note at the office and mailed it to me. My dad was a good man.

I NEVER DID FIND THAT NOTE FROM MY FATHER. And it freaked me the fuck out until a few months ago. I concluded that there was no note, that the entire incident NEVER HAPPENED, that I had dreamt it.

Now I don't the fuck KNOW! BECAUSE I DID NOT DREAM THE RORTY MONOGRAPH! And if I LOSE the Rorty monograph at some future date this will serve as documentation that I HAD IT AND DID NOT DREAM IT!:

I am FREAKED the fuck out.

And I'm going to sleep now, too. God knows what the fuck I will dream. Wish me dreams that I don't remember. Good night.

"No Mr. Trump, We Can't Just Get Along"-Charles Blow, NYT

You don’t get a pat on the back for ratcheting down from rabid after exploiting that very radicalism to your advantage. Unrepentant opportunism belies a staggering lack of character and caring that can’t simply be vanquished from memory. You did real harm to this country and many of its citizens, and I will never — never — forget that.
I will say proudly and happily that I was not present at this meeting. The very idea of sitting across the table from a demagogue who preyed on racial, ethnic and religious hostilities and treating him with decorum and social grace fills me with disgust, to the point of overflowing. Let me tell you here where I stand on your “I hope we can all get along” plea: Never.
You are a fraud and a charlatan. Yes, you will be president, but you will not get any breaks just because one branch of your forked tongue is silver.
I have not only an ethical and professional duty to call out how obscene your very existence is at the top of American government; I have a moral obligation to do so.
So let me say this on Thanksgiving: I’m thankful to have this platform because as long as there are ink and pixels, you will be the focus of my withering gaze.
No, Mr. Trump, we will not all just get along. For as long as a threat to the state is the head of state, all citizens of good faith and national fidelity — and certainly this columnist — have an absolute obligation to meet you and your agenda with resistance at every turn.

I know this in my bones, and for that I am thankful.

I have never read anyone who has written my thoughts--and my words--as has Mr. Blow since the election. Charles Blow is my hero.


Pitt's ranked! I didn't think they would be and automatically went to the bottom of the AP poll, "others receiving votes. "None? C'mon, it still was a win." Then looked up. Yay.


That is the record number of pageviews for a month, set today, with 2+ days left.

Kate Winslet in Blue Jasmine, that was it. 

Saturday, November 26, 2016


Retweeted Alex Gilmore (): The score in the Pittsburgh/Syracuse FOOTBALL game was 76-61

Wait... was a FOOTBALL score? Oh, ok then

Wait?!?? Pittsburgh's 76-61 win over Syracuse was a FOOTBALL score?!?? WTF?!?

So I am just now seeing the Pitt-Syracuse score.

Pitt basketball scored 76 to beat Morehead St yesterday. Pitt football scored 76 to beat Syracuse today. Lots of pressure on Pitt soccer.
The 2007 Navy vs. North Texas football game was a regular-season college football game between the Navy Midshipmen and the North Texas Mean Green, played on November 10, 2007 at Fouts Field in Denton, Texas. The game held the record for the most combined points scored in a National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) Division I Football Bowl Subdivision (FBS) regulation game with 136 total points, until the Syracuse vs. Pittsburghfootball game broke the record on November 26, 2016, with 137.[2]
I don't know if they did or did not. It's over. Most embarrassing win. 

Missed the extra-point. Shoulda gone for two. Should try an onside kick here. Too late but bet they do. Fucking morons if they don't.
Syracuse's starting quarterback didn't play today. Injured. 
#2 Ohio State beat #3 Michigan in 2OT 30-27. Guess that kid made another one. Tyler Durbin. Glad he doesn't have that on his shoulders.
They didn't.

Syracuse should try an onside kick. They're only two scores down.

This is absurd.

May not cover.
Ohio State 3rd and goal at the Michigan 18. :06 left. Ohio State on a timeout. I bet they're on a frigging timeout. They could try another fg here and if the kid misses again they'd still have the ball on 4th down. 
THE FUCKING KID MISSED A 22 YARD FIELD GOAL! That's his second mis of the day. Ohio State went for it on 4th and, like, 3 from the Michigan, like, 13, and converted. They had 4th and goal at the 2 and the poor kid missed it again. ARGH!
Ohio State 4th and goal from the Michigan 2. 7' + left.
WIN %: Pitt 99.9

Shit. I didn't think the game started till 3:30.
This is weird. Michigan kicked a field goal, leads 3-0, and their win prob DROPPED to 50.4%. What if they had missed? These statistics are "hard," right? Not bullshit or anything?
UH-OH-IO! Mich is a 57.2% fave at the end of the first Q with the score tied 0-0. 


Look at that! At 9:47 of the first OSU's win percentage was two-thirds on the strength of J.T. Barrett's excellent 19 yard run. Since then? Just about 50%. Huh. Amazing, the insights statistical analysis can you give you, it is.

FiveThirtyEight Owner ESPN

Wow, look at how the hard facts have changed the win probability just so far--with the score zip-zip and still in the first quarter. Amazing, those hard facts. 


We can't let this happen. We should march on Washington and stop this travesty. Our nation is totally divided!