Just ask her to bend over her desk and see what happens.

Just ask her to bend over her desk and see what happens.

Strangest show my wife and I have ever seen. It’s all on her btw. She likes the Scandinavian shows on Netflix. Things I can’t watch and one I could. (Annika!) She loves the slow, turgid plots, the incomprehensible back stories, the utter lack of action of any kind, the pretend ascendancy of women in the administrative and management roles, the Germanic coldness of the sets, and the good looks of most of the men. Unless it’s all about the good looks of the men and her facility at reading subtitles, which far surpasses mine. “What did Annika say right before she whipped off her top?” And then she gives me the look we all know, which says you’re old enough to read subtitles by yourself. Sorry. For my most of my life, I avoided Ingemar Bergman films because I thought she should have left Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart and I was aggrieved.

Anyhow. I keep scouting new Scandinavian dishes for her TV palate. I found one called “Rita.” She’s a middle school teacher in Denmark, available on Netflix and to every male who notices her sprayed on jeans.

Surprise! Unlike other Scandinavians, she’s blonde, beautiful, and impossible to guess as to age.

She has three children approaching adulthood, but that doesn’t stop her from having ferocious sex with the dimwit principal, who loves her and can’t get past fourth base with her. She’s not interested in relationships. But she does like the word ‘Fuck,’ which sounds and means pretty much like it does in our country.

She also hates her mother. And the controlling bitch of a teacher she reports to.

Who she blows off all the time because her blonde bombshell daughter is an idiot, her oldest son is about to marry a shrew and her youngest son is gay but refusing to admit it.

Did I mention that the show is a comedy? With frequent softcore porn interludes. I mean, she’s a good teacher, but she’s horny as a mink. And her school looks like an Ikea experiment gone wrong.

Yeah, I know. It kind of sounds like an American sitcom, except for the frantic sex in the men’s room. But it isn’t like that at all. It’s actually kind of endearing.

Why? There’s no leering, wink-wink nudge-nudge element that makes all American sitcoms unwatchable. Not every character is trying to be smarter and bitchier than every other. Not every minute is a punchline building like a giant fart.

It’s, uh, refreshing. Not 22 minutes but most of an hour. We’re so old that Hollywood sex scenes just annoy us with their loopy-goopy gauzy romanticism. Not that we’re prudes. Just not into gauzy anymore. Rita is into plain old fucking. Which gets tiresome in a hurry, but the scenes don’t last long and there’s no tinkly-dinkly music.

And here’s the real difference between this show and American sitcoms. You kind of like her.

Flawed, difficult, a bit of a slut, but good at her job, which is teaching. Which she defines as “protecting kids from what their parents do to them.” The bureaucrats dislike her for that. We tend to like her for it.

“Low information intellectuals”

I did a search for "dolts with glasses." This is what came up.

I did a search for “dolts with glasses.” This is what came up.

Yesterday, I wrote:

They [the left] may have succeeded in creating a horrifying generation of “low information voters,” but they’ve become something worse — “low information intellectuals.” The professors who set about creating a proletariat of parrots did it to their own as well.

When you stop teaching history, facts, writing, and analytical skills to schoolchildren, you have nobbled your own heirs too. Today’s mighty Ivy liberals know nothing of their own history or of western civilization’s. They know how to attack someone else’s argument with monolithic cant and vile abuse, but they can’t construct an argument of their own to save their lives. They have absorbed an impression of history their didact tutors insisted on, but they have no power left to critique any idea, let alone the ideology they embody without appreciating that belief is a thing to be first understood and, second, defended with the power of reason and fact.

They are destitute. Credentialed retards in charge of the body politic…

So, this morning, proof positive of my point shows up right on cue. Three Los Angeles Times reporters shared a byline on a story covering the Martin Luther King celebrations. Which prompted NewsBusters to chortle:

Memo to the Corrections Department at the Los Angeles Times: The following sentence is utterly unhistorical. “Since Democrats led the passage of civil rights legislation that marchers pushed for in 1963, Republicans have struggled to recover with black voters.”

Civil rights legislation of the 1960s was favored more by Republicans than by Democrats, so how did Democrats “lead the passage”? With three reporters contributing to the story – Kathleen Hennessey, Richard Simon, and Alexei Koseff – none of them could locate the actual Sixties voting record as they labored to make the GOP look bad for the Democratic unanimity of the event…

NewsBusters seemed to assume we all knew how ridiculous that statement was. Columnist Larry Elder researched the facts, which as reported by Malkin, are:

Only 64 percent of Democrats in Congress voted for the 1964 Civil Rights Act (153 for, 91 against in the House; and 46 for, 21 against in the Senate). But 80 percent of Republicans (136 for, 35 against in the House; and 27 for, 6 against in the Senate) voted for the 1964 Act.

Wikipedia, which has been known on occasion to get its facts right, has the same numbers.

btw, I’m not claiming prescience here. This kind of arrogant ignorance is an almost daily phenomenon in the MSM. For example, here’s a cute story about one of MSNBC’s bright young anchors. She knows just enough about Joe McCarthy to compare Ted Cruz to him. What she doesn’t know is that Alger Hiss and the Rosenbergs really were Soviet spies. And so it goes.

Saddest thing is, history isn’t all the bright young things don’t know. They haven’t actually read the Bible, despite their abiding contempt for Christianity, as this fun CBS anecdote demonstrates. My guess is, they haven’t read Shakespeare either, or Milton or Blake or Dante or anything deeper than the lyrics of Bob Dylan, if they’ve even read those. Cause, you know, you can google those if you need them for anything, like maybe a piece about, uh, social justice.

They have Ivy degrees, but they don’t have Ivy educations because those aren’t being offered anymore. We live in a universe of fakes — fake knowledge, fake authority, and fake credentials.

But they don’t smoke, and some of them have killer abs and great fucking skills. What more could we ask of the generation that seeks to inherit without doing any real work?

Time Out

He's not all right. Watch my eyes.

He’s not all right. Watch my eyes.

If I were the writing sort, I’d start thinking about what’s going on at Deerhound Diary. Treating it as some kind of whole.

Oops. I am the writing sort. Maybe I shouldn’t comment on my own stuff. But I will anyway. Because I just can’t not.

In my mind it’s a whole, given that our world as we know it is ending. I value and respect our commenters, but they respond to each post as if it were distinct from others. There is no conversation. Just comments. You don’t have to respond precisely to what I say from day to day. Doesn’t anybody want to talk, to rage, about what’s happening?

When I rip off five posts in a row, as I’ve done here in a way I couldn’t at the other place, I AM asking you to put it all together, hold it all in your heads at the same time. What I did in my early writing, trying to defeat the line. Trying in fact to dynamite the line. Later, I surrendered to the line and wrote arguments not holograms.

I don’t know whether I’m effective at what I’m trying to do. You come in and say I liked that or you made me think of this similar anecdote. Which is welcome. But there’s a bigger intent here. Everything is everything. I don’t get that you all get that.

Synchronicity. Serendicity. The country is stricken. My wife has a horribly broken arm. My deerhound is traumatized. Everything is everything. As always, I am living and feeling everything at once. Is anyone else experiencing this synergy of disaster? Does anyone want to talk? Or is denial your preference, our national preference, the same one step at a time approach we see even in the new media? Life is life, politics is politics, and disgusting corruption is something we can all pretend is business as usual. You know, it’s always bad, it’s bad now, and our best defense is to be reasonable, rational, and measured in our response.

That’s not how I feel. I don’t feel like reading quotes or mild statements of agreement. I feel like reading rage, wild hope, nasty nasty indictments, the passion of the living.

I know I’m alive because I feel like I’m dying. How do you feel? Are you just factoring it all in with the help of comforting readings that tell you you understand what is happening? Is there some cultural morphine that’s dulling your pain, fear, and dread?

Or, are you like me, insanely on fire, seeing symbolism in every moment of our truly unique and desperate times?

The meaning of the deerhound: he is the life of me, the embodiment of what I once was, fierce, unstoppable, invulnerable. But he has become languid, immanent. He licks my elbow. His latent, immense force is stilled.

I am paralyzed and he knows it. I am supremely enraged and powerless to express it adequately. Not an emotion I’m used to. He looks at me with sad Scottish eyes.

Read through all the posts here, from front to back or back to front. Get a sense of the tiptoeing between private life and public catastrophe. Ken the highs and lows. Experience your own versions of same. Then talk….


They paint it, we'll hit it.

They paint it, we’ll hit it.

Obama War. The coolest thing ever. We tell them when and where we’ll hit, and they’ll get everything and everyone out of the way.

Then we wait for the standard fifties laugh track. You know. The long-dead laughers who knew what was worth dying for, and sometimes did it, watching the comedy of us pretending to be tough.

Of course, the same laugh track can be applied to the golf course. If, uh, you wanted to.

Everybody loves me.

Everybody loves me.

Thousand words worth of picture

He says he hates the Phillies.

He says he hates the Phillies. That’s enough to finish him in South Jersey. But read on…

There’s honesty and then there’s rotten retail politics. Chris Christie may be reelected governor, but it won’t be with the help of my vote.

I overlooked, or tried to, his obsession with Bruce Springsteen, which seemed overwrought to me. I tout the Stones, but I attended five of their concerts in 50 years. Christie went to more than a hundred shows by the Boss. Even though Springsteen is a hard lefty who ostentatiously hates all Republicans who aren’t his next door neighbors in the mansion community of Rumsen or his daughter’s coaches in thoroughbred show jumping. Huh? Okay.

Okay. I guess. But the picture gets darker. Christie goes screwy on a variety of issues. Gun control. Immigration. Federal aid. (He’s way too heavy to be hanging on the federal tit.) He sucks up to Obama right before the election. Okay. Okay.

He appears as a guest host on sports talk radio. He assaults a reporter who dared to ask hard questions of the crazed head coach of the New York Jets. Who just happens to be a personal friend of Christie’s. Conflict of interest much? But……. Okay……

Except that he also outed himself as a Dallas Cowboys fan.

Sorry. End of game. North and south, New Jersey is NFC East. North, the Giants. South, the Eagles. Yes, they hate each other, but both hate the Dallas Cowboys with a volcanic passion. Worse, they hate locals who are Cowboy fans. No end of names for who and what that particular form of scum should be called. Not kidding. It’s serious around here, from the top to the bottom of the state.

Let’s say I could overlook it personally. Forget that. (I can’t btw.) But it’s disastrously rotten retail politics. It betrays a tone deafness that will inevitably show up in other ways. Loving the Cowboys won’t do Christie in. But if he can make this kind of mistake in his home state, he will inevitably in his hubris make worse mistakes in any national campaign.

Christie is not a national candidate. He’s a flash in the pan. More precisely, he’s a fat man who doesn’t know enough not to wear white pants ANYWHERE ANYTIME.

Sad to say.

It’s OUR job to catch him at his desk.


We have to be persistent. He’s an important and busy man. We’d wait in the hall but since the sequester we can’t do that either. What we can do: Sit on Cspan, which is the only network willing to aim a camera at empty chairs (the senate) and wait and wait and wait for someone to show up.

He’s bound to show up. Cruise missiles and foreign targets? No president is going to do anything like that from the golf course, right? We’re not Venezuela, right?

So we’ll just sit here and wait. It will all work out. It’s our responsibility to be patient and, you know, wait. Dog Days and all that. The back nine gets so clogged in the August heat.

That Assad dude is clever playing from the bunker...

That Assad dude is clever playing from the bunker…

Syria a problem? Since when?

Syria? Never heard of it.

Never heard of it.

Time, I think, for a new Secretary of State. He has a longer face than John Kerry. He’s better at escaping difficult situations than Hillary, who always seems to be left sourly holding the bag.

Even better, he seems never even to have heard of Syria, which would, what’s the term, “inform” his decision about whether we should intervene between one of gang of killers and a second gang of killers in the name of social justice.

To tell the truth, Raebert doesn’t really care about social justice. What he cares about is jobs for the hardworking people of America.

No. He doesn’t care about jobs either. Sorry. Forgive me.

Raebert cares about me and the missus. But he gives great speeches.

No. He doesn’t give great speeches. But he’s tall, dark, and handsome. He understands English as well as most Yalies, and he even knows when to lie down (er, when you ask him if he needs to go out and pee). What more can you ask of an American Secretary of State in the age of Obama?

I prefer to glisten.

I can pee any time. Right now, I prefer to sit here and glisten.

Pretty perfect if you ask me.

Life Goes On — Or, the 80-20 Rule

We get to look past the foreground.

We get to look past the foreground. At least in my back yard.

The Pareto Principle (also known as the 80–20 rule, the law of the vital few, and the principle of factor sparsity) states that, for many events, roughly 80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes.

The 80-20 rule is important to us today for two reasons.

First, the current leftist domination and corruption of our nation are the product of just 20 percent of our population. These are the leftists who have subsumed our political class, our mass media, our mass entertainment industry, and our educational and legal institutions. Don’t let their recent vote totals hide their minority status. The leadership of the left stands in relationship to their supposed beneficiaries — minorities, women, illegal immigrants, environmentalists, etc — as a pimp does to his working girls. I’m not being roughly metaphorical. I’m being precise. The pimp cozies up to the lost or naive and sweet talks them into serving his own selfish purposes, which are always money and power. He uses them ruthlessly, then discards them carelessly whenever they become inconvenient. Their personal welfare is never his concern. He prefers them to be ignorant, dependent, helpless except for his largesse, and disposable as toilet paper. His first and absolute commandment is that his working girls prostitute themselves on his behalf and feel a kind of gratitude to him, or failing that, demonstrate unshakeable obedience and loyalty to his interests, regardless of any abuse he may feel required to mete out along the way.

Well, that’s the story of the left that has hijacked our country and our form of government. Another application of the 80-20 rule. 80 percent working girls of all four sexes and 20 percent ruthless totalitarians. Why lefties identify so consistently with murderous dictators around the globe. Why feminists were brought to heel in defending Clinton’s sexual assaults. Why civil rights “leaders” have consented in, no, conspired in, promulgating policies that have systematically destroyed black families, black educational and employment opportunities, and duped their own people into deconstructing cities into a series of urban infernos that ensure the incarceration of close to a majority of black males. Get the men out of the way and the helpless single mothers are yours. Pimps. 20 percent subjugating the 80 percent who trusted and relied on them.

Why there’s a spirit of hopelessness among so many who remember when government was supposed to serve and not rule us. The most viciously ambitious and narcissistic among us have captured all the institutions of power. What can we do? The whole country is imploding. And the working girls keep sashaying up to their pimps with more cash stashed in their panties, gratefully handed over to a contemptuous overlord in a $100,000 limousine.

Worse, the pimp is so delusional, so sociopathic, so deranged that he’s convinced himself his farcical sweet talk is truth, because after all, truth in the post modern street is whatever you pretend it is. There’s no such thing as hypocrisy because just look at those strung out working girls. Where would they be without your protection?

So why would I call this post Life Goes On? Because there’s another 20 percent in play that can’t be dismissed or entirely subjugated. This is the 20 percent that made America work in the first place. The ones who are relentlessly hardworking, creative, focused, and goal-oriented. These are the ones who came here to make a better life for their descendants. They didn’t expect to be rewarded in this life. For them the profit motive of capitalism wasn’t about greed but financing their family’s future. They’re the ones who produced all the great engines of industry and ideas that generated the miracle of American exceptionalism, which is as real as the nose on your face.

And you know what? Regardless of food stamp fraud, ersatz disability claims, and an ever rising tide of government dependency, that 20 percent is still there, in its same old constant relationship to the drones. They work, they aspire, they make huge demands on themselves, they balance family duties against the desire to make a personal, individual mark on the universe, or at least to be the best and bravest they can be, and they are alive in a way successful professional bureaucrats, government or corporate, can never be.

You see, for them it’s not about the money or the power or the prestige. It’s about seeking out the challenges and besting them, come hell or high water. The common bond between “Deadliest Catch” and “Faceoff,” between “Axmen” and “Masterchef,” and even between “Duck Dynasty” and “Heroes of Cosplay.”

No, they don’t all believe in the same things. I’m sure you could collect plenty of lunatic political opinions from participants in most of these shows. What they share that’s more important is a set of values. You work hard. You compete hard. But you also help when help is needed. Seen often, for example, on “Faceoff” and “Masterchef,” ALWAYS on “Deadliest Catch,” and almost never on Gordon Ramsay’s raspberry to American reality show narcissism, “Hell’s Kitchen.”

I’ve lived in both the fatcat bureaucratic corporate world and the entrepreneurial, presumably more dog-eat-dog world of small businesses. Where would you expect to see more toleration of error, more willingness to risk personal loss for the sake of just helping another? I can assure you it’s a slam dunk in favor of the little guy shops. Who they are still matters more than how much they profit personally.

The good news is that that the 20 percent of capitalist idealists (whether they’d accept my label or not) are still out there. They’re the vital ones, the living ones, and their drive is far more powerful than that of the power-besotted, utterly self-satisfied and selfish ones who are sitting astride this beleaguered nation trying to throttle it to death.

The best news is that the lefty 20 percent is, whenever anyone cares to look, an exhausted, idea-less joke. Nothing they’ve done in the last 50 years, excepting the Clean Air Act, has produced anything but hideously negative unintended consequences. They’re the victim of their own conspiracy to dumb the rest of us down. They may have succeeded in creating a horrifying generation of “low information voters,” but they’ve become something worse — “low information intellectuals.” The professors who set about creating a proletariat of parrots did it to their own as well.

When you stop teaching history, facts, writing, and analytical skills to schoolchildren, you have nobbled your own heirs too. Today’s mighty Ivy liberals know nothing of their own history or of western civilization’s. They know how to attack someone else’s argument with monolithic cant and vile abuse, but they can’t construct an argument of their own to save their lives. They have absorbed an impression of history their didact tutors insisted on, but they have no power left to critique any idea, let alone the ideology they embody without appreciating that belief is a thing to be first understood and, second, defended with the power of reason and fact.

They are destitute. Credentialed retards in charge of the body politic. Lawyers who don’t believe in the rule of law, only the destruction of statute via semantic dithering. Political philosophers who don’t believe in any principle beyond their their own entitlement to make the process enforce their own whims about an impossible fantasy of social and planetary justice. Destitute, in short, of all ideas that might justify and legitimize their own lives, let alone their assumed right to tell the rest of us how to live. Resting atop an unbroken record of making things ever and always worse by collecting more power into their own arrogant hands.

Would I bet on this moribund 20 percent against the 20 percent who have some idea why they’re alive and bright-eyed in pursuit of careers and family objectives that have nothing to do with remaking the earth as a satellite around their diseased egos? Not a chance I would.

Did you like the fountains of grass I can see through my bay window, past the busy fingers of the trees that want to hide them from my view?

Life goes on. It will. The American spirit is not something easily stamped out of existence.


Who's which? Beats the hell out of me.

Who’s which, girl or boy? Beats the hell out of me.

Read the previous post first. Excellent minds befuddled by current events.

Now for a common mind unbefuddled. Ya know, everybody knows that everybody knows the depths. The unique arrogance of the elite — you know, Ivy, powerful, beautiful, rich, famous, etc — is that they’re too damn dumb to know this elementary fact. Worse, the elite think the depths can be overcome by force of IQ, money, and position.

Nothing overcomes the depths but life itself.

In this respect there are no alphas, betas, and gammas. Why I was struck by Mika Brzezinski’s condemnation of Miley Cyrus. Why was she so offended? Have to say I think because she’s an Evelyn Waugh heroine (early novels only). Different rules for the quality versus the hoi polloi. Her friends can have fuck buddies, abortions, and shallow parasitic relationships, because that’s the way of life at the top of the celebrity sphere. But girls from Kentucky and Tennessee and Ohio just shouldn’t. Civilization would fail.

Mika’s a phony. Thinking she maybe wishes she hadn’t slept her way to wherever she imagines she is.

I wasn’t that pleased with Victor Hanson either. Stated my objections once or twice to his lack of understanding of pop culture. But he does enjoy descending like Gibbon with a classicist’s arm bar to wipe us all out.

Truth. Mylie Cyrus wore a bikini called “nude” that was nothing of the sort. She was just a girl wanting attention. Any man on the scene would have sent her back home with a message to grow up. She did nothing like Madonna’s Sex Book, her near X-rated movie, or her disgusting practice of cruising New York in limos looking for sex partners. Outrage? Really. If anything, she’s the reductio ad absurdem of stupid girls who don’t quite know what lascivious means.

No, I don’t dislike or misunderstand nostalgia. It’s just that we are where we are. Having a super-class of amoral plutocrats isn’t quite working for the, uh, common man and common woman.

We prefer, down in our lowly dens of poor iniquity, to experience sin AS sin, and ask forgiveness accordingly. We’re not fond of the trumpet as the voice of confession. You know. Maybe the whisper is better.

Or country singers. Maybe the ones who don’t rip off their tops or show off their crotches to everyone who wants to see.

Probably just me. An old man dreaming.

Apocalyptic Nostalgia

Fellini's Gaga

Fellini’s Satyricon Gaga

When I read this masterful essay by Victor Davis Hanson, I thought I would have nothing additional to say about it. Comparing the cultural corruption of our contemporary elites to the declining days of Rome is a natural. But maybe too natural. He says, at one point, in service to his Roman Satyricon analogy:

In good Petronian fashion, the narcissist Anthony Weiner sent pictures of his own genitalia to near-strangers, under the Latinate pseudonym “Carlos Danger.” Was Eliot Spitzer any better? As the governor of New York, he preferred anonymous numbers — “Client #9” — to false names, real to virtual sex, very young to mature women, and buying rather than romancing his partners. Is there some Petronian prerequisite in our age that our ascendant politicians must be perverts?

Transvestitism and sexual ambiguity are likewise Petronian themes; in our day, the controversy rages over whether convicted felon Bradley Manning is now a woman because he says he is. The politically correct term “transgendered” trumps biology; and if you doubt that, you are a homophobe or worse. As in the Roman Satyricon, our popular culture also displays a sick fascination with images of teen sex. So how does one trump the now-boring sexual shamelessness of Lady Gaga — still squirming about in a skimpy thong — at an MTV awards ceremony? Bring out former Disney teenage star Miley Cyrus in a vinyl bikini, wearing some sort of huge foam finger on her hand to simulate lewd sex acts.

The orgies at Trimalchio’s cool Pompeii estate (think Malibu) suggest that in imperial-Roman society Kardashian-style displays of wealth and Clintonian influence-peddling were matter-of-fact rather than shocking. Note that in our real version of the novel’s theme, Mayor Filner was not bothered by his exposure, and finally had to be nearly dragged out of office. Carlos Danger would have been mayor of New York, but the liberal press finally became worried over its embarrassment: Apparently two or three sexting episodes were tolerable, but another four or five, replete with more lies, risked parody.

As usual, Hanson makes many excellent points, particularly on the sorry state of education among our self-proclaimed best and brightest. But I can’t help feeling that at base he’s yearning for a past that can’t come back. His essay reminded me, for example, of this emotional outpouring by Juan Williams:

Fifty years after the March on Washington, mystical memories of that seminal moment in the civil-rights era are less likely to focus on movement politics than on the great poetry and great music.

The emotional uplift of the monumental march is a universe of time away from today’s degrading rap music—filled with the n-word, bitches and “hoes”—that confuses and depresses race relations in America now…

King sailed past… sad realities to invoke his soaring vision of the nation at racial peace. When he finished speaking, the crowd spontaneously broke into singing “We Shall Overcome,” holding hands and swaying as if in communal prayer.

That sense of unity, promise and purpose was also evident in the music of the march. It’s music that still stirs emotions to this day.

Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind,” written in 1962, hit No. 2 on the Billboard charts just before the crowd gathered in Washington. When the folk-music trio Peter, Paul and Mary sang the song for the 250,000 people in front of the Lincoln Memorial that day, it became an interracial anthem for change. The song itself drew inspiration from two others: The lyrics brought to mind Woody Guthrie’s “Bound for Glory,” which included an allegory about newspapers blowing down city streets, and its melody came from a slave protest song called “No More Auction Block.”

And so they sang in Washington: “Yes, how many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free? Yes, how many times can a man turn his head, pretending that he just doesn’t see? The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind.”

Sam Cooke, the black gospel and rhythm-and-blues singer began performing the Dylan song immediately after the march. He had been working on a song about the hurt he felt as a black man living with racism yet also with hope for better times. In December 1963, Cooke recorded “A Change Is Gonna Come.” The song became a hit on black radio, another anthem of yearning for a nation without racial rancor.

Nostalgia, pure and simple. But you can’t ever go back. All the intervening time has happened, whether we wish it did or not. Maybe because some people got stuck in time. Krauthammer:

The Civil Rights movement is “intellectually bankrupt,” Charles Krauthammer charged Monday night.

During his regular appearance on the panel segment of Special Report, Krauthammer argued that the movement is subsisting on the nostalgia from fifty years ago when it battles voter ID laws.

“Is the biggest issue in African-American life today the voter ID law? Is that going to alter the course of society in black America, the inner cities? The terrible standard in the schools? The breakdown of the family and all that?” Krauthammer asked.

“It’s nostalgia of a movement that’s intellectually bankrupt,” he said, and predicted that the voter ID laws the movement is challenging will stand up in court.

P.S. This is less than half the post. I’m done with either WordPress or the U.S. government. Restored my account at Facebook Sunday. Today I can’t post here in three tries. When does a paranoid really have enemies? You figure it out.

P.P.S. it didn’t start with the waif Miley Cyrus.

Harpy, anyone?

Harpy, anyone?