"In a democracy (‘rule by mob’), those who refuse to learn from history will be the majority and will dictate that everyone else suffer for their ignorance."
Whenever I see “based on a true story” hitched to any sort of media presentation, I understand that the “based” part simply means, “Something happened. One or more elements of what happened may appear in the following presentation. . . or may not.”
Of course, this makes such media presentations “truer” than a typical “news” story, so there’s that. . .
Looks like someone is trying to hold a “Baptist healing service”. . .
One of the most amusing things I’ve seen recently in a product description was for a $300 buffalo-hide “fleece-lined duffle bag.” Supposedly, “New Zealand lambs’ fleece lining will help keep breakables safe when traveling.” Yeh, pull the other one. One would need an adamantium case lined with several inches of viscoelastic foam to even come close to keeping breakables safe from baggage handlers, let alone TSA goons.
Sadly, even the naive cheesiness of most 80s TV shows is revealed today as simple “dumbitudinousness.”
McGyvver’s ingenious “inventions” are just as unworkable and stupid today as they were then. For me, McGyver was always moderately enjoyable as an exercise of my “suspension of disbelief muscle.” Things really, really do NOT work “that” way (whatever way most of his improvisational devices were supposed to work). . . *heh*
Star Trek TNG is still as dumb as it was then, though it lacks even the appeal of any serious cheesiness.
Etc.
The one 80s show that holds up even today is The Greatest American Hero. It’s just as dumb and cheesy today as it was then. Culp at least gave it a wee bit of (cheesy, of course) campiness. Oh, and it did have the picturesque (though lackluster acting of) Connie Selleca. There’s that. G-rated pinup girl for The Greatest American Hero.
But. . . there’s not much else that I find appealing about 80s shows today. In that, they share my evaluation of almost all contemporary TV shows: Stupid, without even the appeal of mockable cheesiness.
Too bad the Rockford Files stopped in 1980. If it had not, I’d have an 80s show to watch for something other than mockable stupidity or cheesiness.
Maybe I should only watch movies on our TV. Oh, wait. Stupid movies, too.
Oh, well. Perhaps I’m not meant to own a TV? No, wait. There are still good movies to watch, just not many made nowadays. Some Bruce Campbell “B” (or “C”) movies for camp. Archived copies of “Matilda,” “Johnny English,” etc. IOW, real classics. *heh*
Feeling a wee bit ambivalent. Disconcerted but thankful. Ins paid a larger percentage of ER bill for my Wonder Woman’s broken arm) than it promised to pay (on policy). How often does that happen?
(*scratches head and says to self* Don’t rock the boat, bubba.)
I have fun reading book blurbs of books I’ll never read. Take a recent blurb about a “cozy paranormal mystery” featuring two young women, “One a baker, the other a mortician’s assistant, and both blessed (or cursed) with the gift of talking to the dead. . . ”
OK, even leaving aside the stupidity of the supposed “gift/curse,” methinks the blurb writer should go back to Remedial Blurb Writing 101. ANYONE can talk TO the dead, or pretend to (or delude themselves into thinking they are). I’d not expect any real two way conversations, but imagining one is talking TO dead people is something many folks do. Not me, but others seem to do so.
But, if I were dead and just hanging around (although I rank that as happening somewhere around the Twelfth of Never), I wouldn’t stand for being talked to by some flesh puppet. Nope. Wanna talk to me? Buh-bye!
More seriously, what’s the appeal of necromancy, eh? I mean, #gagamaggot.
Always fire a warning shot. There are two main camps on the subject of warning shots: in the air and into the ground. I demur. The best warning shot is center of mass. It conserves ammo and definitely gets the message across with little chance of misunderstanding. (Center of mass warning shots also minimize collateral damage.)
One should always continue offering proper warning shots until an aggressor’s off switch is fully engaged, although, if the aggressor’s off switch is not located near his center of mass, a polite tap-to-the-head warning shot might be required. Oh, be ultra polite and make it two.
If I ever tire of Phreddie P. Phineas Phocksphire Pharquhar, I think I would be happy to adopt “Nanny McPhee” as a sobriquet. . . although my Wonder Woman thinks “Manny McPhee” would be a bit less gender-bending. 😉
Thatisall.
Every now and then, I see the “Taxes are theft” meme crop up again. It’s simplistic and wrong. Taxes are only theft when government begins to apply revenue thus gained in violation of its essential purpose: the protection of individual rights and liberties. As long as government hews closely to its legitimate purpose, and taxes are not obtained through coercion, taxes are not theft.
Of course, this means that taxes are theft. . . *sigh*
When Roger Simon wrote, “We don’t need elegant words, Republican John Kerry’s slavering all over us with diplospeak” in a recent column, I thought to meself, “Self, that would read much better with ‘dildospeak’ than ‘diplospeak.'”
Thatisall.
Periodically, I look back at my life accomplishments and failures and find balance wanting. Of course, during this time of year, when I am under strong influence to “ac-cent-uate the positive,” really black moods fall prey to a couple of realities. The first, a constant that has regularly batted the screwballs of depression out of the park for the past 37 years, is that when Tuesday rolls around, I’ll have opportunity to celebrate (again) what I celebrate anyway, any day during any year that I stop to think: My Wonder Woman loves me enough to stay my wife (it’s not my fault, really! *heh*)
The second booster is that I have–quite by fortuitous chance, I assure you–had opportunity to be instrumental in keeping a couple of the members of my family alive, once with CPR (my Wonder Woman) and once, with Son&Heir, by extracting a penny he was choking on. Crawling babies, shag carpet, loose change: not a good mix. *shrugs*
I find recalling those events and then looking at my Wonder Woman’s face does much to remind me that God has greatly blessed me, far beyond my due. (Then there’s the whole, “Well, I haven’t awakened in hell where I have, by all rights, earned a place,” thingy. Grace: what a strange and wonderful thing, eh?)