Monthly Archives: July 2022

Evening blogsters:

Most of you are too young to remember the John Birchers.  That’s back when men were men and women were glad of it.

The John Birchers were the guys who made it necessary for William F. Buckley to invent Neo Conservativism to try to add some respectability to the concept that some things in the US Constitution were worth preserving, despite the run-away choo-choo of Rooseveltism busy throwing out the baby with the bath water.

Yep.  The John Birchers believed Communism was a Jewish Conspiracy to take over the world.  They believed there was a Communist behind every tree in America.  They believed black American males wanted nothing more fervently in life than to have a white woman, corrupting the holiest of holies.

Ain’t seen much of that around in a while, but it’s gotten a shiny new paintjob, changed the sparkplugs, and by golly, the same sentiments can be expressed with different targets in mind.

Things really just don’t change much at all among the folks who have that John Bircher place in their spirits.  If you can’t can’t get the Jews, at least you can get their other Old Testimentality cousins.

Jack

Evening blogsters:

Looks as though there’s a bull-goose storm between here and the Jemez Mountains, maybe moving this way.  Cats all came inside without protest before dark because of another, milder one just at dusk.

Finished the re-read of Confessions a few days ago, but as I’ve spent those days digesting the last half the book, seems clear I’m going to have to spend another read-worth before I can put it back on the shelf.  It’s sitting over by the bed grinning at me now, wondering how long I’ll hold out.

A month, I’m thinking.  But meanwhile, I keep picking up the Decameron, My Name is Aram, The Sibyl, and a Nero Wolfe novel, The Golden Spider, turn a few pages, put it down.  I think it’s some sort of rebound thing, what with my brain having submerged itself too long in the Rousseau mixmaster.

Anyway, my gut tells me I want to re-read the Decameron next, but my head refuses for the moment.

Just was over reading justxploring’s blog about breakfast cereals, human beans, and parties.  Made me ask myself when it was I quit eating breakfast cereal.  Hasn’t been too terribly long ago, but it’s one of those things just seemed to be there one day, gone the next.

Nowadays I just eat corn tortillas for breakfast.  Yeah, it’s rad lib.  Pinko stuff.

Sure sign I’m part of the underground railroad smuggling brown-skinned, non-English speaking conquistadores once-removed, previous owners of this land I live on, back into it, now that it’s become sacred.

Used to be nothing but Mexicans living here.  Now there’s good Amurcans.

Jack

Ahab, The Arab

Written and Recorded by: “Ray Stevens” 1974

Let me tell you ’bout Ahab The Arab
The Sheik of the burning sand
He had emeralds and rubies just dripping off ‘a him
And a ring on every finger of his hands

He wore a big ol’ turban wrapped around his head
And a scimitar by his side
And every evening about midnight
He’d jump on his camel named Clyde…and ride
Silently through the night to the sultan’s tent

where he would secretly meet up
with Fatima of the Seven Veils,

swingingest grade “A” number one U.S. choice
dancer in the Sultan’s whole harem,

’cause, heh, him and her had a thing going.
You know, and they’d been carrying on

for some time now behind the Sultan’s back
and you could hear him talk to his camel

as he rode out across the dunes, his
voice would cut through the still night desert air

and he’d say (melodic garble) which is arabic for, “stop, Clyde!”

and Clyde would say, (whinney whine garble).

Which is camel for, “What the heck did he say anyway?”

Well…. He brought that camel to a screeching halt
At the rear of Fatima’s tent

jumped off Clyde,
Snuck around the corner and into the tent he went

There he saw Fatima laying on a Zebra skin rug
Wearing rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
And a bone in her nose ho, ho.
There she was friends lying there in all her radiant beauty.

Eating on a raisin, grape, apricot, pomegranate,

bowl of chitterlings, two bananas, three Hershey bars,

sipping on a “R C” Co-Cola listening to her transistor,

watching the Grand Ole Opry on the tube

reading the Mad magazine while she sung,

“Does your chewing gum lose it’s flavor?”

and Ahab walked up to her and he said, (melodic garble)

which is arabic for, “Let’s twist again like we did last summer, baby.”

You know what I mean!

Whew! She looked up at him from off the rug,

give him one of the sly looks, she said,   “Caaaarazee baby”.

‘Round and around and around and around…etc.

And that’s the story ’bout Ahab the Arab
The Sheik of the Burnin’ sand
Ahab the Arab
The swinging Sheik of the burnin’ sand

It’s neither right, nor proper to take over Mike’s blog for today for a fight I could allow to become ugly.

So I’m going to say this here on my own blog as a continuation of my comments there:

Going to war with a religion is a tough gig and it needs careful thought on the part of anyone contemplating it.

• Hitler didn’t even manage to kill all the Jews in his own country.  There were some left in the aftermath who felt an inclination to get damned ugly about what he did.
• The Red Chinese have never even managed to wipe out entirely a tiny religion held by the Tibetans.
• The Romans, the Spanish, the Russians, the Germans, the Holy Roman Empire have conducted the longest protracted war against a religion in the history of humanity, against Jews, and failed to wipe them out.
• The US did everything it could think of to wipe out Mormons, but they escaped.  Look at them now.
• If you think about it, consider the efforts made by the Romans to nip Christianity in the bud.  Consider the miserable, abysmal failure of their efforts.  Consider the mass murders the early Christians applied to all those Roman pagans they could catch during the revenge-stage of Christian power.  Read Eusebius.

If you believe you can conduct a war against Radical Islam you, or your children won’t one day regret, think again.

Jack

 The Confessions is slow going at the moment, not because it isn’t a worthy read.  It’s just having to compete with other activities at the moment.As a young man, Rousseau traveled all over the European continent afoot, mostly broke and living off his luck and his imagination.  Luckily for him, Christianity was feeling a lot of competition with itself, Catholics losing ground to young Protestantism.  Because he’d been reared in Switzerland, he was predisposed to Calvinism by birthright.

So, when he fled his apprenticeship and ended up in a territory predominantly Catholic, the Church sent him off to Turin to be instructed, examined by the Inquisition, prepared for conversion, where he arrived dead broke.

Rousseau wasn’t overjoyed when he entered the hospice for catechumens for instruction in his new faith and they double locked a large barred gate behind him after he entered.  “This introduction struck me as more imposing than agreeable,” he remembers.

He describes the room where he meets his fellows:  “In this assembly room were four or five frightful villains – my fellow students – who seemed to be rather the devil’s constables than aspirants to the honor of sons of God.  Two of these rascals were Slavonians, who called themselves Jews, or Moors, and as they confessed to me, spent their life in wandering through Spain and Italy embracing Christianity and submitting to be baptized where they found it worth their while.”

Meanwhile, the women enter:  “Through this door our sisters entered, catechumens who like myself, were to be born again, not by means of baptism, but by a solemn abjuration of their faith.  They were certainly the greatest sluts and most disgusting vagabonds who ever contaminated the sheepfold of the Lord.”

After sufficient time of being instructed, sexually assaulted, vilified for reporting it, Rousseau and his fellow pupils are accepted into the arms of Catholicism and he again finds himself without funds and without a means of supporting himself.

I’ll probably describe more of this sixteen-year-old and his trials alone in a strange country before all the excitement of the French Revolution and Napoleon I got everything wockyjawed, sometime later.  But I began this entry intending to tell a couple of his anecdotes a bit later and became so submerged in nuts and bolts of his conversion to Catholicism I’ve lost my direction.

Guess I’ll have to tell you another time about his thoughts on taxes and his innocent involvement with a Greek ‘monk’ traveling across Europe selling the snake-oil of restoration of the Holy Sepulcher to the royalty in each country.  When they encountered someone at court who’d been to Jerusalem Rousseau narrowly avoided sharing a dungeon cell with the Greek.  Fortunately, probably because of his youth, they believed the truth.  Namely that he believed the Greek was legitimate and that his role as interpreter was played in good faith.

But enough for now.

Jack

I’m a good old rebel

And that’s just what I am.

For what you’re calling freedom

I just don’t give a damn.

We lost the war for freedom

And maybe it’s all done,

But I don’t want no pardon

For anything I’ve done.

Evening blogsters:

Not to be outdone by RickG., and Excalibur, I dug around in the boxes and closets, finally brought out a 1995 vintage IBM Aptiva with Windows 95 on it.  I decided because of RickG’s problems with getting his comp corrupted by Internet travels that I wanted a machine dedicated strictly to work on the numbers theory, but which won’t ever plug into a phone line.

I found everything, I should have said, but the various cables and power cords to attach it to itself and the wall outlet.

I’ve got Office 97, and I’m feeling the need to figure out MS Access so’s to be able to chase draw histories and draw dates, keeping them intact while I combine them with moon phases, moonrise/moonset, percentages of lunar illumination, and the east/west tracks of various celestial bodies on the days of the draws.

This old comp that thinks it belongs to a community of computers and needs to feast on cookies, email messages, spyware et al, just hasn’t got enough moxie in the hard drive to have room left for numbers work without crashing all the time.

So I’m going to time travel with my numbers back to a time when men were men and women were glad of it.  A simple time when Americans were an honest, courageous, non-computer literate agrarian folk who hadn’t yet gotten as many piercings as they wanted and the tattoos all said, “Mom”.  (Except the one belonging to Little Egypt, “She had a picture of a cowboy tattooed on her spine saying, ‘Phoenix, Arizona, 1949′”.)

No more of this brave new world of the 21st Century for the Unified Random Numbers Theory.  That way, if this one I’m typing on loses radio contact and vanishes from the radar screen I won’t lose everything I’ve done up until now.

Jack

I’m approaching the half-way point in the re-read of Rousseau’s Confessions.  That brings him up into his early 20s, (Circa 1730) and the tome’s getting somewhat more interesting.

Frankly, the main things interesting about the first 50-60 pages didn’t involve what he didn’t have to confess, so much as the descriptions of his travels, his experiences as an engraving apprentice who committed the criminal offense of running away after a series of severe beatings by the journeyman he was apprenticed to.

But, insofar as his early childhood and even later, he didn’t wrong severely enough to make any of his confessions minutely interesting.  He was a good kid.  Too good.

Part of what kept me reading through that involved seeing a man in his ’60s, whom I’d have thrown rocks at as a kid, reflecting on his childhood.

I’ll be writing more about Rousseau and his times, his travels, his loves, his countless follies and poignant observations that still apply to the human condition.

This entry’s just to give you fair warning.

Jack

Morning to you.

I think I’ve got my realities all sorted out from dream-stupidity an hour and a half later.  Enough, at least, to mind-wander through a blog entry, but not enough to begin anew working on the Unified Random-Numbers-Behavior-Theory.

Sorted out sufficiently for mundanities, but not enough for labor-thought.

For instance, this old abobe I live in is threatening to become a Communist.  I’ve lived here a couple of years now, and most of it was during the most severe drought anyone remembers, which is friendly times for an adobe.  Water is the enemy of any structure built of mud.

Anyway, the guy who originally built the place probably never dreamed it would still be standing a century later.  He thought he was building a milking barn.  His son, or maybe his grandson changed it to a turkey barn for a while, then later poured a thin veneer of concrete on the dirt floor and moved his daughter into it.  Eventually his grand-daughter and her husband used it as a residence while they were in college.

Afterward came four decades as a rent-house with erzatz maintenance, which no adobe will endure without protest.

By the time I moved in the interior adobe was in a state of last-ditch crumbling.  The vigas supporting the flat roof are visibly sagging.  I’ve jury-rigged enough wiring to allow lights in the bathroom, but things keep failing and it’s nip-and-tuck.  When I moved in they’d already condemned and shut down one of the two interior gas heaters, leaving no heat to the front of the house, but still allowing hot water to the tub/shower, sinks, but leaving things awfully wanting insofar as temperature.

The landlord’s a diplomat living somewhere in the Middle-East, married to the grand-daughter of the guy who converted the place from a barn.  He and his wife lived here when they were in college.  So they don’t want to hear about any kind of difficulties, deterioration.  They just want a rent deposit in their bank account every month.

The results of all that are becoming interesting.  I use a five-gallon propane bottle with a heater on top to heat the front of the house wintertime.  I locate and plug roof-leaks as best I can, and put pans under those I didn’t find last moisture-fall.  Which is further cause for melting in the structural adobe walls, as manifested in floor deltas of mud on the floor after every moisture event.

But recently, things got critical.  A major plumbing leak developed in the shower-tub, causing me to have to break out the adobe wall to get to it.  With the sound advice of RickG I tried a number of fixes, but they were all doomed to failure within a day or two, and the only way I could stop a constant water-flow was to cut off the water to the entire house.

Eventually, thanks to RickG, I isolated the plumbing to the tub and lost the water-availability there, but regained water to the remainder of the house, such as it is.

Which was a major inconvenience, hauling water from the kitchen to the tub five gallons at a time to bathe or do laundry.

Ha!  Solved it yesterday, the shower part, anyway!

I went down to Bernalillo figuring to resume my old Y2K cabin showering methodology.  Found a one-gallon pump-up insecticide sprayer for $5 Clearance Sale.  Now I can fill that with hot water, pump it up, hang it on the shower-head, and do showers again in a way that I don’t consider inferior to what I could get in this place before-plumbing-holocaust.

Laundry will still be a bit more difficult than before, but not so much as to be concerned about.

Life’s always been good, but it’s better again.

Much blessed,

Jack

(Edited in:  I never got around to describing that whammo red moonset just before daybreak this morning, nor to talking about wooly mammoths and the kind of winter all us old timers are thinking might be on the way.  I’ll maybe do it later.)