Here is an amazing video from a former criminal attorney on what you should not do when asked questions by the police -- even if you are innocent, even if you ARE innocent, even if you are a sweet great gramma who eats only vegetables and never ventures outside.
This attorney's presentation is a poignant example of how even the best of police can get things wrong and you can end up in jail or prison. His presentation is also a great example of how to give a rational presentation. Brilliant!
Friday, July 31, 2009
Open ass, insert thumb
The New York Times' resident elitist/liberal/statist p-p-p-p-undit, Paul Krugman, thinks you should be paying for others' health care and thinks (or did so until recently) that Canadians loooooooove their health care. Little did he know. Check out this hilarious YouTube, sent to me by friend Dan Puckett.
"I'm sorry"
If you're sick and I say "I'm sorry," and you say, "It's not your fault," be aware that I will then go buy a petry dish of swine flu spores and throw them at you!
We have a pandemic of "I'm sorry" wet-blanketers. They're the smarmy do-gooders who think they're being nice, when in fact they're not allowing you to convey your sympathy. When I say I'm sorry about anything bad happening to you, please read, "I feel bad for you and wish you the best." I'm not admitting culpability.
If you are in a car accident away from home and have a broken leg, and I say, "I'm sorry," I'm not saying that I was actually the person driving recklessly into you. If you caught your boyfriend cheating on and I say "I'm sorry," I'm not admitting that I was the one who lured him into bed. If you lost your job and I say "I'm sorry," I not admitting that I asked your boss to fire you. The real person who should be apologizing to you is Dead Eyes. THEN you can say, "I knew it was you, you sorry mother-fucker!"
So, can you PLEASE stop raining on my sympathy parade and not say "It's not your fault"? If not, you better at least wait till the swine flu vaccine comes out in October!
We have a pandemic of "I'm sorry" wet-blanketers. They're the smarmy do-gooders who think they're being nice, when in fact they're not allowing you to convey your sympathy. When I say I'm sorry about anything bad happening to you, please read, "I feel bad for you and wish you the best." I'm not admitting culpability.
If you are in a car accident away from home and have a broken leg, and I say, "I'm sorry," I'm not saying that I was actually the person driving recklessly into you. If you caught your boyfriend cheating on and I say "I'm sorry," I'm not admitting that I was the one who lured him into bed. If you lost your job and I say "I'm sorry," I not admitting that I asked your boss to fire you. The real person who should be apologizing to you is Dead Eyes. THEN you can say, "I knew it was you, you sorry mother-fucker!"
So, can you PLEASE stop raining on my sympathy parade and not say "It's not your fault"? If not, you better at least wait till the swine flu vaccine comes out in October!
Arrest the bastard already, will ya?!
All right, it's finally time to weigh in on Gates-Gate -- you know, the racist-lunatic "Harvard professor" (as the media adoringly name-plates him) ingrate who lashes out at cops doing their job protecting HIM and HIS residence.
Here's where the cops screwed up. They didn't arrest the bastard when he refused to show identification upon request at a house at which an apparent burglary was in progress. The cops, who had probable cause, shouldn't have waited for the whiny curmudgeon to berate them and shout epithets at them. They should've just handcuffed the bastard and charged him with obstructing an investigation. End of fucking subject.
I was talking with neighbor Chris this morning and I asked him, "What would you do if three cops showed up at your door and said that a burglary of your residence was reported and asked for ID?" Chris said, "I'd show 'em my ID."
Well, hell yes, and I would, too, and be grateful that the cops were trying to PROTECT my property. But not the chip-on-his-shoulder, race-obsessed HARVARD PROFESSOR who has steeped himself in "blackness" studies and institutions his whole career and has fallen for the white-liberal-guilt mantra of "you're special" and deserved to be treated "specially" and who is now a HARVARD PROFESSOR who is above the law and being treated like every other American in that situation.
This special breed of liberal elitist uses the usual shouting intimidation, the usual unctuous dismissiveness, the usual ad hominem bromides to make their interlocutors "submit." Thank goodness, the cop finally had the sense to hand-cuff the criminal and let him feel the cold steel of facts and proper justice.
The reaction of the soul-less Dead Eyes (that's "Obama" to you lackeys who haven't been reading these pages) was predictable. He was friend and defender of a blatant racist preacher for 20 years and has shown that "facts" is an ugly word. To paraphrase him in this macabre scenario: "I don't know the facts yet in this case, but the police acted stupidly." Um, yes, SOMEBODY acted stupidly (and with racism) in this case, but it was the guy in handcuffs and the zombie in the Ovum Office. We've know for a good while what lies behind the dead eyes. When the facts came back to bite Dead Eyes' scrawny, elitist ass, he apologized. Right? No, he danced around with the usual bureaucratic bullshit to avoid responsibility for his actions and decided to have a Booze Buddy summit to prove to the world that he's your buddy at the bar. He's your buddy, right?
And let's chat for a moment about the scoundrels that call themselves the media. How many articles on this subject did you read that stated that the three arresting officers were white, Hispanic and black? Huh. How about NONE. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. That was, um, not relevant. Turns out that the black officer is now saying that other blacks are furious at him for allegedly being an "Uncle Tom." For doing what, you might ask. For telling the TRUTH on what went down at HARVARD PROFESSOR's home.
Yep, racism is dead in this country now that we've got a mulatto in charge, right? Uhuh.
Here's where the cops screwed up. They didn't arrest the bastard when he refused to show identification upon request at a house at which an apparent burglary was in progress. The cops, who had probable cause, shouldn't have waited for the whiny curmudgeon to berate them and shout epithets at them. They should've just handcuffed the bastard and charged him with obstructing an investigation. End of fucking subject.
I was talking with neighbor Chris this morning and I asked him, "What would you do if three cops showed up at your door and said that a burglary of your residence was reported and asked for ID?" Chris said, "I'd show 'em my ID."
Well, hell yes, and I would, too, and be grateful that the cops were trying to PROTECT my property. But not the chip-on-his-shoulder, race-obsessed HARVARD PROFESSOR who has steeped himself in "blackness" studies and institutions his whole career and has fallen for the white-liberal-guilt mantra of "you're special" and deserved to be treated "specially" and who is now a HARVARD PROFESSOR who is above the law and being treated like every other American in that situation.
This special breed of liberal elitist uses the usual shouting intimidation, the usual unctuous dismissiveness, the usual ad hominem bromides to make their interlocutors "submit." Thank goodness, the cop finally had the sense to hand-cuff the criminal and let him feel the cold steel of facts and proper justice.
The reaction of the soul-less Dead Eyes (that's "Obama" to you lackeys who haven't been reading these pages) was predictable. He was friend and defender of a blatant racist preacher for 20 years and has shown that "facts" is an ugly word. To paraphrase him in this macabre scenario: "I don't know the facts yet in this case, but the police acted stupidly." Um, yes, SOMEBODY acted stupidly (and with racism) in this case, but it was the guy in handcuffs and the zombie in the Ovum Office. We've know for a good while what lies behind the dead eyes. When the facts came back to bite Dead Eyes' scrawny, elitist ass, he apologized. Right? No, he danced around with the usual bureaucratic bullshit to avoid responsibility for his actions and decided to have a Booze Buddy summit to prove to the world that he's your buddy at the bar. He's your buddy, right?
And let's chat for a moment about the scoundrels that call themselves the media. How many articles on this subject did you read that stated that the three arresting officers were white, Hispanic and black? Huh. How about NONE. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. That was, um, not relevant. Turns out that the black officer is now saying that other blacks are furious at him for allegedly being an "Uncle Tom." For doing what, you might ask. For telling the TRUTH on what went down at HARVARD PROFESSOR's home.
Yep, racism is dead in this country now that we've got a mulatto in charge, right? Uhuh.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Iran is a tyranny, so stop dancing with dictators
My letter to the Wall Street Journal (below) was printed today in response to a column stating that Iran was not technically a tyranny, which, of course, it is.
_______________________
Francis Fukuyama misunderstands “kind” and “degree” in considering whether Iran is a tyranny (“Iran, Islam and the Rule of Law,” op-ed, July 28).
A free country is determined by two things: a constitution that honors individual rights, and an electoral process that honors citizens’ rights to choose who will govern strictly by that constitution. Iran has neither. It has a constitution that does not define and/or outline individual rights, and its elections have nothing to do with who actually enacts power—and are not subject to critical review by a free press or free courts. As a result, Iranian citizens are subjected to imprisonment and outright murder without habeas corpus or objective judicial review, and they “vote” in farcical elections whose results are simply ignored or fabricated by fanatics.
Mr. Fukuyama’s mincing on the kind of government in Iran is shared by the current occupant of the Oval Office, and that kind of moral cowardice is responsible for the current dancing with dictators. Iran may not be a tyranny to the degree that North Korea is, but it kills its own and exports its death squads across its borders just like all tyrannies of history have done and must do.
_______________________
Francis Fukuyama misunderstands “kind” and “degree” in considering whether Iran is a tyranny (“Iran, Islam and the Rule of Law,” op-ed, July 28).
A free country is determined by two things: a constitution that honors individual rights, and an electoral process that honors citizens’ rights to choose who will govern strictly by that constitution. Iran has neither. It has a constitution that does not define and/or outline individual rights, and its elections have nothing to do with who actually enacts power—and are not subject to critical review by a free press or free courts. As a result, Iranian citizens are subjected to imprisonment and outright murder without habeas corpus or objective judicial review, and they “vote” in farcical elections whose results are simply ignored or fabricated by fanatics.
Mr. Fukuyama’s mincing on the kind of government in Iran is shared by the current occupant of the Oval Office, and that kind of moral cowardice is responsible for the current dancing with dictators. Iran may not be a tyranny to the degree that North Korea is, but it kills its own and exports its death squads across its borders just like all tyrannies of history have done and must do.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
9 terrific tips for women to avoid rape/murder
These tips were passed along to me by a high school friend who knows I have a daughter. It is the best advice I've ever seen -- sensible as hell.
Terrific guerrilla video on Canadian "health care"
Check it out HERE -- and then subscribe to pajamasTV afterward.
The booming voice of a generation
As most of you know, Walter Cronkite died recently at 92. I grew up watching the Old Uncle conveying news with gravity and serenity, and I witnessed firsthand at the age of 9 his rarely seen emotion at the Apollo moon landing in 1969.
Here is a magnificent tribute to Cronkite by a good friend Dan Puckett, who says all that I wanted to say on the subject.
If the page does not come up, here it is below.
_______________
For a while [after the advent of television], a certain voice continued. Booming. As though history were still a thing done by certain men in a certain place. It was embarrassing. To a person growing up in the power of demography, this voice was foolish.— “Within the Context of No Context,” George W.S. Trow, 1980Walter Cronkite died Friday. He was 92. His death was big news, because for two decades that ended almost 30 years ago, he was a popular television news anchorman. That means that for a half-hour a day, five days a week, he appeared on a broadcast network and read the news in a voice that many people found comforting.
A poll in 1972 found that he was the most trusted man in America. For about half of his time on the CBS Evening News, more people watched his news half-hour than any other news half-hour. He was said to be professional and composed. When his composure broke, the breaking of his composure was considered remarkable. Moving, even. He was professionally emotionless, but some events trump professionalism. People spoke of his emotional reaction to the assassination of the president (tears) or the first landing on the moon (excitement).
His death was big news, because people who remembered him remembered him vividly. Or maybe they didn’t remember him so much as the time when his voice — booming — went into such a large percentage of American homes. When he disparaged the war after a trip to Vietnam, everyone knew who he was, and knew what he’d said.
More than one “appreciation” of the man and his career barely mentioned him or his career, instead relating memories of the period during which he had his career. Giants then walked the land of television news, and their voices — booming — were heard from coast to coast. All television news was in three parts divided, and the names of those three parts were written with three letters each, and of the three parts (after 1970-ish, at least), the biggest and best was the part over which Cronkite reigned.But the appreciations weren’t so much for the giant that was Cronkite or even for the part that was his dominion, but for the time itself. In that, they were good, they were right, they were just. He is remembered for narrating an era, and the appreciations were, first, for the era and second, only second, for the way he narrated it. He is remembered for narrating the 1960s and ‘70s in a voice honed in the 1940s and ‘50s. He provided the narration in the voice of a newsreel narrator, updated to a postwar cadence and tone but still — booming.
This is the president, dying. This is a war, failing. This is an astronaut, landing. This is a convention, this is a recession, this is a coup, this is a scandal. And that’s the way it is.
The appreciators appreciated the comfort of the authority in his voice, the assurance that history was a thing done by certain men in a certain place — this is history, happening, and that’s the way it is. The appreciators observed that no one these days has the certitude to assure a nation that it is any way at all — or no, that’s not it, many do, too many, and they’re describing it as being this way or that way or some other way, and none of them are giants, none of them bestride America’s living rooms or conversations. None of them find a nation agreeing: Yes, that is the way it is.Without that agreement there are no giants, just cranks — surly cranks, sunny cranks, excited cranks, gloomy cranks, but just a cacophonous crank chorus of bad journalistic karaoke.
There was a time that lacked that cacophony. There was a time when the cranks were hushed because a nation agreed. There was a time when “the most trusted man in America” obtained its agreement. It was an interesting time. For many people, it was an exciting time, a time of liberation and pleasure and hope. It is a time fondly remembered, not just for the experience, but for the descriptions of the experience.
During that experience, the daily, on-the-spot, as-it-happens description of the experience came in a voice that many found comforting. And as much as the appreciators tried to appreciate the man behind the voice, or the voice itself, what they ended up appreciating was not so much a certain description of the experience, but the experience itself, and the chance to relive it.
The time, though, was more than just the emotional reactions to it. It had a content, and that content was an overturning — of power, of authority, of submission to certain mores. To overturn those things, the overturners had to undermine their ability to compel obedience. It had to undermine the agreement, because that was the only way to stop the voices that supported it with their booming.
So a time devoted to overturning was narrated by the voice born, trained and made to boom by all the things that were being overturned. Hearing the overturn described by the voice of the overturned was emotionally powerful.
The architects of the coming culture were not all young; the defenders of the fading culture were not all old. But the emotional logo of the struggle for the new culture was the son killing the father.
Listening to Cronkite describe the dawning of the new age was like listening to the father — dispassionately, objectively, professionally — describe his own murder. Listening to Cronkite describe the other events of the time was a steady reassurance that outside the struggle for the new culture, life went on: Violence in the living room didn’t stop the clocks from ticking, the dinner from cooking, the sun from shining. Life went on. Astronauts landed, the Dow rose and fell, Elvis bloated and died. Life went on.
There had never been a time like it, and it’s impossible now.
Which is something to appreciate.
Here is a magnificent tribute to Cronkite by a good friend Dan Puckett, who says all that I wanted to say on the subject.
If the page does not come up, here it is below.
_______________
For a while [after the advent of television], a certain voice continued. Booming. As though history were still a thing done by certain men in a certain place. It was embarrassing. To a person growing up in the power of demography, this voice was foolish.— “Within the Context of No Context,” George W.S. Trow, 1980Walter Cronkite died Friday. He was 92. His death was big news, because for two decades that ended almost 30 years ago, he was a popular television news anchorman. That means that for a half-hour a day, five days a week, he appeared on a broadcast network and read the news in a voice that many people found comforting.
A poll in 1972 found that he was the most trusted man in America. For about half of his time on the CBS Evening News, more people watched his news half-hour than any other news half-hour. He was said to be professional and composed. When his composure broke, the breaking of his composure was considered remarkable. Moving, even. He was professionally emotionless, but some events trump professionalism. People spoke of his emotional reaction to the assassination of the president (tears) or the first landing on the moon (excitement).
His death was big news, because people who remembered him remembered him vividly. Or maybe they didn’t remember him so much as the time when his voice — booming — went into such a large percentage of American homes. When he disparaged the war after a trip to Vietnam, everyone knew who he was, and knew what he’d said.
More than one “appreciation” of the man and his career barely mentioned him or his career, instead relating memories of the period during which he had his career. Giants then walked the land of television news, and their voices — booming — were heard from coast to coast. All television news was in three parts divided, and the names of those three parts were written with three letters each, and of the three parts (after 1970-ish, at least), the biggest and best was the part over which Cronkite reigned.But the appreciations weren’t so much for the giant that was Cronkite or even for the part that was his dominion, but for the time itself. In that, they were good, they were right, they were just. He is remembered for narrating an era, and the appreciations were, first, for the era and second, only second, for the way he narrated it. He is remembered for narrating the 1960s and ‘70s in a voice honed in the 1940s and ‘50s. He provided the narration in the voice of a newsreel narrator, updated to a postwar cadence and tone but still — booming.
This is the president, dying. This is a war, failing. This is an astronaut, landing. This is a convention, this is a recession, this is a coup, this is a scandal. And that’s the way it is.
The appreciators appreciated the comfort of the authority in his voice, the assurance that history was a thing done by certain men in a certain place — this is history, happening, and that’s the way it is. The appreciators observed that no one these days has the certitude to assure a nation that it is any way at all — or no, that’s not it, many do, too many, and they’re describing it as being this way or that way or some other way, and none of them are giants, none of them bestride America’s living rooms or conversations. None of them find a nation agreeing: Yes, that is the way it is.Without that agreement there are no giants, just cranks — surly cranks, sunny cranks, excited cranks, gloomy cranks, but just a cacophonous crank chorus of bad journalistic karaoke.
There was a time that lacked that cacophony. There was a time when the cranks were hushed because a nation agreed. There was a time when “the most trusted man in America” obtained its agreement. It was an interesting time. For many people, it was an exciting time, a time of liberation and pleasure and hope. It is a time fondly remembered, not just for the experience, but for the descriptions of the experience.
During that experience, the daily, on-the-spot, as-it-happens description of the experience came in a voice that many found comforting. And as much as the appreciators tried to appreciate the man behind the voice, or the voice itself, what they ended up appreciating was not so much a certain description of the experience, but the experience itself, and the chance to relive it.
The time, though, was more than just the emotional reactions to it. It had a content, and that content was an overturning — of power, of authority, of submission to certain mores. To overturn those things, the overturners had to undermine their ability to compel obedience. It had to undermine the agreement, because that was the only way to stop the voices that supported it with their booming.
So a time devoted to overturning was narrated by the voice born, trained and made to boom by all the things that were being overturned. Hearing the overturn described by the voice of the overturned was emotionally powerful.
The architects of the coming culture were not all young; the defenders of the fading culture were not all old. But the emotional logo of the struggle for the new culture was the son killing the father.
Listening to Cronkite describe the dawning of the new age was like listening to the father — dispassionately, objectively, professionally — describe his own murder. Listening to Cronkite describe the other events of the time was a steady reassurance that outside the struggle for the new culture, life went on: Violence in the living room didn’t stop the clocks from ticking, the dinner from cooking, the sun from shining. Life went on. Astronauts landed, the Dow rose and fell, Elvis bloated and died. Life went on.
There had never been a time like it, and it’s impossible now.
Which is something to appreciate.
Witness a stirring speech by Yaron Brook to the GOP
Yaron Brook gives the speech of his life on liberty to the GOP convention last month in Richmond, VA. Yaron is sometimes dry in his delivery, but he is getting much better and much more passionate. This speech stirred me like no other by him and by few others in American history, and it was done to the movers and shakers of the GOP. And he even blames THEM halfway through the speech (to applause). Absolutely terrific!!
Way to go Yaron, and way to go Ayn Rand Institute!!!!!
Way to go Yaron, and way to go Ayn Rand Institute!!!!!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Sweet and strange Michael Jackson -- Part One & Deux
A wonderful column by Bill Wyman was printed in today's Wall Street Journal on Michael Jackson, so I penned the following letter in response.
_______________________
Bill Wyman’s column on Michael Jackson was poignant, perfect and much-needed.
To understand Mr. Jackson’s life and music, we must look at Parts One and Deux; it divides almost perfectly in half – he lived to age 50, and it was at about age 25 that he became an enigma to us and, perhaps, to himself.
I am 49 years old, so my timeline almost parallels that of Mr. Jackson’s. I remember the transcendent voice of “Got to Be There” and “Happy” that I sang along to incessantly as a child; it is a voice that comes along once in a generation, filled with benevolence, jubilation, optimism, poignancy and love. Mr. Jackson’s 1st solo album, Off the Wall, was a teenage continuation of all those wonderful adjectives. I and my girlfriend at the time must’ve danced to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” a hundred times.
The album “Thriller” was a mixture of that serene youthful spirit with something ominous, sullied and strange: “the kid is not my son” and the horrid graphics and theme of “Thriller.” Then came the Third World garb, the Glove, the defacement, the lurid crotch-grabbing, the godhead persona and the constant world of Neverland.
As I have done with Elvis, Lennon and many others, I will listen only to the early years and glory in those wonderful, electric, ingenious spirits (Part One) – and I will ignore the rest (Part Deux).
_______________________
Bill Wyman’s column on Michael Jackson was poignant, perfect and much-needed.
To understand Mr. Jackson’s life and music, we must look at Parts One and Deux; it divides almost perfectly in half – he lived to age 50, and it was at about age 25 that he became an enigma to us and, perhaps, to himself.
I am 49 years old, so my timeline almost parallels that of Mr. Jackson’s. I remember the transcendent voice of “Got to Be There” and “Happy” that I sang along to incessantly as a child; it is a voice that comes along once in a generation, filled with benevolence, jubilation, optimism, poignancy and love. Mr. Jackson’s 1st solo album, Off the Wall, was a teenage continuation of all those wonderful adjectives. I and my girlfriend at the time must’ve danced to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” a hundred times.
The album “Thriller” was a mixture of that serene youthful spirit with something ominous, sullied and strange: “the kid is not my son” and the horrid graphics and theme of “Thriller.” Then came the Third World garb, the Glove, the defacement, the lurid crotch-grabbing, the godhead persona and the constant world of Neverland.
As I have done with Elvis, Lennon and many others, I will listen only to the early years and glory in those wonderful, electric, ingenious spirits (Part One) – and I will ignore the rest (Part Deux).
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