I’ve never heard of this band before, have no idea what the lyrics mean, and I don’t care. It’s just plain rockin’!
In this instance I encourage you to watch the video as part of the overall package (usually I just listen to audio). Also, if it’s morning and you haven’t had your coffee yet… save it for the afternoon. Like I said this one ROCKS.
(Hat tip to Vox Popoli.)
It takes balls of steel to play Voodoo Child and Stevie has great big clanging ones. Enjoy:
I’ve been off grid a little less than a week now. It feels good. Reality is pretty nice; I encourage everyone to unplug from the grid now and then.
I just checked in to see that my blog hadn’t burned to the ground and approve comments (thanks y’all!) but think I’ll stay away a few more days. In the meantime expect a few autopilot posts with links to my favorite songs. They’ve been in my “open tabs” forever waiting to be posted. Enjoy ’till I get back.
A.C. (The paradoxically off-grid blogger.)
Kids grow up in their world; not ours. There are pros and cons but there’s no point wishing it was otherwise. The biggest challenge (in my opinion) is the current tsunami of wishy-washy bullshit which conspires against your kid. Children start with unlimited potential but school and society work tirelessly to erode them until they’re clueless and weak at adulthood. The world doesn’t need more wimps (of either sex).
At a less philosophical level, I want my kids to know how to drive manual transmission vehicles. Why? Because that’s the right way to live. About this I’ll entertain no excuses. People who can shift with a clutch are better than those who cannot. Even people who can’t use a clutch know it (even if they’d rather not admit it).
Even if you can’t have a manual in the driveway, it’s best to know what to do with one. A cowboy without a horse still knows how to ride. A monk in a monastery still has a dick. If you can’t handle a clutch, you don’t even know what you can’t do.
Here’s the rub: If you raise your kids right, they’re not compliant lumps of clay by the teenage years. By then they’re getting pretty self-reliant (also opinionated and annoying but that’s another discussion). Dad haranguing them about proper vehicular life choices isn’t an easy sell. They just don’t see the point of learning a tricky skill that only applies to 10% of cars.
I blame the homogeneous squish that is a modern car. They’re grey, silver, or some derivative of a non-interesting color that makes the putty colored computers of yore seem a gaudy rainbow by comparison. The body is plastic lined and bulbous, the bumpers are plastic wrapped Styrofoam, and the whole thing will expensively and irreparably collapse in the smallest accident… but only after blasting you in the face with an air bag.
The engine is an appliance more than a machine. Despite nifty capabilities and fancy metallurgy, it’s a eunuch. It’s serf to the overlord; a computer controlled EPA mandated fuel management system designed to imbibe unholy gasoline derivative concoctions who’s main purpose is to win votes in the Iowa primaries. The fuel computer weighs a thousand options; none of which have anything to do with fun. It carefully censors any excess happiness you might accidentally experience and creates a life of regression to the mean.
Throttle input is received by the fuel metering system and routed to a committee meeting between the injectors and the mediocre, uninspiringly adequate, automatic transmission system. The transmission sends a memo to the traction control software, which checks a list supplied by the anti-lock brakes, and then the whole thing goes up to a vote. The EPA and safety regulations have two votes while the driver is like the representative of Puerto Rico at Congress; merely an observer.
When all parties have signed off on the safety briefing, the car trundles forward with all the joy of an insurance salesman’s regional presentation.
The driver, trapped in a safety-pod, peeking over highwall sides and glancing around massive A pillars has nothing to do but keep the lumbering box between the lines. In lieu of driving fun, they’re provided with six cupholders and a Bluetooth equipped radio that will inexplicably stop working when 5G mixes with a new OS in the next upgrade and the firmware goes to shit because the software was written by the lowest bidder in Elbonia.
The driver is only nominally in control. They’re mostly just meat, strapped to a crash cage, surrounded by red tape, and existing to make payments.
Is it any wonder kids of current times don’t pine for a car? The vehicles they’re used to are expensive dull computers on wheels. Their schools bathe them in mass transit Utopian bullshit and hazy predicted futures of self driving cars. I grew up watching Bo and Luke thrash a ’69 Charger, my national history was horse riding adventurers exploring the west, and my future was spaceflight. As a teenager there was a lot to learn about cars. I had to keep cheap primitive rusted behemoths running based on will, careful driving, and bailing wire. I drove junk that was about to collapse at any moment and learned plenty by it. I’d lost brakes on three vehicles before I was old enough for my first legal beer. I’ve had a hood fly in my face, headers collapse on me, things catch on fire, and I consider doors optional. I learned to drive when you had to pay attention or die. My kid has never been in a car without AC. I was Tarzan trying to tell Urkel about trees.
My arguments could only gain traction with someone who’s actually piloted a machine instead of sat inert in an SUV. So I played the chase scene from Bullitt. This would be inspiration. I added some followup questions. “Did you see Steve shifting like a bad ass?” They didn’t, it’s not really obvious in the clip, which was my point. Question two is what mattered. “Did you feel Steve McQueen shifting like a bad ass?” Yes!
Bingo. I had them. You can’t be Steve McQueen if all you know is to point a lever at D and piddle down to Walmart. The kids grudgingly accepted Dad might have a point… and besides I control the auto fleet at Curmudgeon Compound so they’re lucky I’m not making them drive a dump truck to school.
It wasn’t easy, but my kids can shift a car. Enjoy the little victories.
A.C.
P.S. An amusing side note, when they had learner’s permits I put a kid at the wheel of my Dodge. (Lord help me! I was a trusting soul.) Not realizing cars and trucks are apples and oranges, the kid dropped the hammer like they were in mom’s weaker and calmer consumer grade SUV. My truck lit up! I drive it mellow… like a man who hates repair bills… so the kid assumed that’s all the truck has. Nope! When the kid let fly with 300+ horsepower and God knows how much torque, the lightly loaded duallys tore a massive hole in the dirt road and launched us like a rocket. Thank goodness we didn’t wind up in a ditch. The kid had no idea folks can drive around using only 20% of an enormous beastly engine. I got a look of respect from that experience. “Dad, this thing is overpowered… can’t you dial it back?” Big smile, “I do every day, it’s called throttle control.” “But it’s crazy hard to manage.” Another smile, “If you think the truck has balls, maybe someday you’ll see what my motorcycle can do”. That got a second double take. Not often you can impress a teenager but I did it that day.
(Hat tip to Maggies Farm and The Borderline Sociopathic Blog For Boys which reminded me of the Bullitt clip I’d used back then.)
The clip is only 10 minutes, pour a cup of coffee and enjoy:
Busted Nuckles posted this and it’s classic. Dude powers down a Popsicle in one bite, because reasons. He seems pretty smug over this accomplishment. I was about to tune out but then, a few seconds later, karma kicks in, and it becomes concentrated hilarity. I laugh every time I watch it.
As usual, clueless fucknuggets at the New York Times (where else?) can’t be bothered to do actual “journalism”. (Does that word exist anymore?) As an alternative to work, one of them sniffed their own ass long enough to think about lawns. Like every damn thing these douche canoes encounter, lawns are racist and bad for the environment. Here’s an image of a SJW enjoying the product of his mind:
The Times generated a video for this little bout of mental masturbation. (Link.) I checked the site but didn’t watch the video because:
Fortunately, Barking Moonbat Early Warning System handled the situation. (Brave of them to endure such galactically dense bullshit. I hope they fully recovered.) They fisked it and awarded a well earned FishSmack:
Since some dickless committee of vinegar drinkers bitched about my lawn I pondered my position of horrific unbearable privilege. Eventually, wracked with guilt, I had to admit, I was clearly in the wrong. After all, I have a lawn and I use it.
I took a photo to share my shame with the world:
The barely concealed muddy ruts are from driving snow removal equipment over the area during a short thaw in March. Oh the inhumanity!
The dandelions and weeds are indication of my wealth and power. The fact that they’ve never been watered, weeded, fertilized, or tended in any way doesn’t mitigate the fact that I personally kill six polar bears every time I mow the area… which I haven’t for weeks.
The pile of wood debris in the shadowed upper left is the waste from my wood splitter. A clear indication that I’m a raging asshole who doesn’t care about Gaia. Especially since I’ve… sob… I can’t go on…
…but I must…
…I’ve shoveled bark and twigs into a pile to….
…Lord help me….
…. burn it.
Oh, yes I’m such a sinner. I should carefully wrap every bit of bark and each woodchip in a reuseable cotton bag and then use my self driving electric personal conveyance to haul every bit to the dump…
…no! Not the dump. I should send every molecule of bark to college. Which should be free.
But there’s more. The ultimate, unforgivable indication that I oppress rich overeducated coastal elite non-entities is all that sawdust. A small pile of wood shavings every 16″ or so… almost like I dragged a dead tree there and cut it up for firewood.
Can you imaging such wealth and power?
I have a weedy, rutted, piece of land where I pile dead trees and chop them into firewood. It’s a lawn. Where else am I to do such deeds? In a lake? At the local library? Bernie Sander’s living room?
For the crime of my very existence, the New York Times claims I’m a racist, misogynous, homophobic, intolerant, oppressive, rich bastard! Nothing like the joy of using a chainsaw, which will kill me in a half second if I let my attention slip, to do hard, hot, grueling physical labor; only so a bunch of useless English majors in New York can kick me in the balls over privilege. They know nothing so everything is wrong.
Someone get a set of tongs. These fuckers need to to pull their head out of their ass and they’re in so deep it’s going to require tools. Folks who’ve never done anything can’t stand those who do. This winter they’ll be typing on their Mac; plastic semiconductors assembled in China and powered by the glow of a vast coal fired electrical grid installed and maintained by nobody they know. They’ll do this while complaining that everyone who isn’t a “journalist” should be living in a mud hut. Then they’ll remember the summer and start weeping into their latte at the thought that I’m keeping my pipes thawed with the carbon neutral forest waste I cut up on my lawn.
Internally inconsistent thinking annoys me. First, some background and then my question.
A redacted but unclassified and released “Intelligence Bulletin” from the FBI Phoenix Field Office (May 30, 2019) says:
“…conspiracy theories “are usually at odds with official or prevailing explanations of events.” (Hat tip to Paul Craig Roberts.)
The title of the report is pretty clear what it’s all about:
OK. Got that. Here’s fact #2:
As required by tradition, gun control advocates used a shooting to jump start their quarterly to quadrennial attempt to curb American liberties. The annoying private possession of firearms will never please them. This cycle they’ve switched. Banning folding stocks and magazines that hold some special number of rounds that is a greater integer than some other integer is old thinking. Now they’re reading evil into minds of people who’re (by definition) innocent. They’re specifically going after people who have not broken any laws:
Are conspiracy theories sufficient to trigger red flag laws? Hard to say. The whole thing is deliberately vague. That’s a feature not a bug.
The key part of a “red flag” is that it’s undefinable. It exists in the eye of a beholder and not in measurable behavior in real life. There’s no clearly defined legal doctrine about who hasn’t committed crimes but is thinking hard about it.
Red flag is designed to work before a crime is committed. You know how citizens once were presumed innocent until proven guilty? Red flag is unnecessary for those already proven guilty (we’ve already got laws for that). Red flag can only be applied to those who are still technically innocent but might potentially commit a crime… which is everyone.
If your family thinks you’re a nutcase and goes to the authorities, that seems to be a clear cut red flag. (Though there’s still no definition of nutcase or explanation why your family has extra rights to diagnose your particular flavor of crazy.)
If someone who knows you well goes to the authorities, that seems similar to family. (I’m not seeing that clearly written either. “Knows you” might mean “lives next door” or “on your bowling team” or “I watch his Facebook feed but I’ve never been in the same time zone”.)
If the one calling the authorities is the cat lady across town who hates all men and is seriously pissed off because you display a nativity on Christmas? Hard to say.
Nor do I see a disincentive for the cat lady should she go apeshit. If she goes through the phone book and reports red flags on everyone with a name that has six letters; then what? What happens if you report a red flag on some dude just because you don’t like him? “Dude took my parking spot, clearly he’s pondering mayhem and should be stopped.”
Plus, of course, I’ve been reading shrinks, bloggers, and party faithful line up to diagnose Trump of any ailment they can spell and hammer into a keyboard. None of these people have been in the same room as the man. I’m sure they believe they’ve detect madness via the method of reading Twitter feeds. Really they’re just projecting their own issues on someone else.
Trump suggested going on an uncontrolled rant is a red flag. He also took to Twitter:
“Would Chris Cuomo be given a Red Flag for his recent rant? Filthy language and a total loss of control. He shouldn’t be allowed to have any weapon. He’s nuts!”
I see red flags too. Campaigning for any Federal (and most State) political seats indicates a serious commitment to controlling other people. Working very hard to control other people is a red flag in my book. But what do I know?
For now, lets just say that spewing conspiracy theories on YouTube is a red flag (according to the FBI). Why? Because it’s written down and they seem serious about it.
Today’s red flag thought experiment: Epstein.
Everyone except me (for naive and incorrect reasons) posted jokes about Epstein’s upcoming “unexpected” suicide. They did this immediately.
The FBI says that’s red flag behavior. The “theory of Arkanacide” is not official policy of the Federal Prison system. “Mysterious death soon” was not prevailing reporting from the media:
Note the use of “official” and “prevailing.” Official explanations are explanations provided by governments. Prevailing explanations are the explanations that the media repeats.” (Hat tip to Paul Craig Roberts.)
Five weeks later Epstein was dead, just as predicted. It’s either a loony conspiracy theory or it’s not. So, which is it?
The last one bothers me a lot. It can’t be lunatic thinking if it really happened. FBI and press would have true things be classified as lunatic thinking.
A.C.
P.S. I’m confused but Joe Biden has everything figured out. He choose truth over facts. What does that even mean? If I ever utter a statement that dumb, get me to a fucking hospital. Statements like “truth over facts”, from a normal person, means they’re suffering brain trauma.
Recently I linked to an article that defined KISSASS:
I’ve stumbled across a gold plated example. Two broke snowflakes went on a van trip. As required by the KISSASS principle, one of them writes about it as if he’d been on the Bataan Death March. Even the title is ridiculous. We Tried to Do Vanlife Right. It Broke Us Down wallows in victimhood.
I’m fisking bits which caught my eye. Here’s the opening paragraph:
Wow! A cheap 12 year old Econoline has a lit idiot light on the dash? That’s never happened in the history of mechanics. It’s the end of the goddamn world!
Faced with this totally unsolvable situation, he has nightmares. Way to man up Lancelot! Chivalrously facing the challenges of the world; all for your sweetie. He handled it so well. Tearing up and freaking out is definitely the stud muffin way.
The KISSASS protocol has this:
Does our van based protagonist go downbeat on America? Hell yes! Ironically he can’t find much suffering in person. Failing to find Deplorables knife fighting for turnips on dirt roads in Iowa, he refers to other writers’ books; which he didn’t finish(!). He dredges from imagination this cheerful description:
Driving a van across America is the same as Frodo carrying the one ring to Modor. Our hero’s suffering is unbearable.
I’ve been there and done that… in a van no less. It’s called being poor. Being poor sucks. The solution is to get a job. Then, maybe, a better car.
Of course, these two weren’t exactly rock solid to start with:
That sucks. It’s also another of life’s lessons. If you want to have an adventure you’ve got to be physically and mentally fit enough to be an adventurer. If you can’t do it, don’t.
Maybe TV on the couch is as far as Captain Overwrought is gonna’ go. Not everyone is cut out to see the world. Some aren’t cut out to leave their parents. (The author was living in his parent’s house before and after the trip.)
So where’d this genius get his idea that the nomad life was cheap, easy, and blissful?
No shit? Instagram isn’t a unbiased resource for real world information? Are you sure? What about the Easter Bunny? That’s still real isn’t it?
Christ on a cracker. He called that one! He knew jack shit. He wasn’t just new to life; he was a hatchling who fell out of the nest. Dude took on an easy challenge. He wandered around a large peaceful rich safe society. He saw some of the best roads and cheapest gas on planet earth. This was his Waterloo? That’s what happens when you hit chronological adulthood without every once encountering/overcoming adversity!
Lord help him; he needs to grow a pair.
A.C.
P.S. Lest you think I’m callous, I’ve been there. I’ve done exactly what initiated Captain Overwrought’s navel gazing. He’s not the first dude to live in a rustbucket. He won’t be the last. It has been a cliche since Okies fled the dustbowl. Here’s the summary: it sucks. See what I did there? I summed it up in two words. It. Sucks. That’s OK. Unlike Captain Overwrought, I nutted up and adapted. I got a job and upgraded through a string of gradually less shitty vehicles; culminating in my current vehicle “The Death Wobble Express”. I have a much higher budget because I friggin’ earned it. It still sucks sometimes. Sometimes leaving the couch sucks. So what?
