After my rant last week about men who shame their wives by dressing like slobs, I’m glad to report that at least some men have got the memo. Here’s someone apparently named Alyson Hannigan at a recent awards show, with her hubby:
Now that’s how a man should look. Absolutely faultless appearance. And she’s combined sexy with demure, with excellent results. Well done, both of you.
And these guys get kudos as well, all dressed like grownups:
Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope…
From NeverTrumper Jonas Goldberg (proving that a stopped clock can be correct at least once):
“But [Trump] isn’t Hitler, for any number of reasons, the most important of which is that Americans aren’t Nazis. We’re not even Germans. Hitler’s rule was possible because there was a market demand for a Hitler and a wider tolerance for a Hitler.”
And Trump’s election came about because there was a market demand for a Trump and a wider tolerance for a Trump. There, however, the similarity ends (to the anguish of the Left).
Homosexuals, other sexual deviants, Jews and gypsies haven’t been rounded up and put in concentration camps [no comment]; there have been no public book burnings (except, paradoxically, by the Left, both literally and figuratively); Trump hasn’t advocated a policy of Mexikanerrein (only a wall to end invasion of same); and no matter how appealing the action may seem to some of us, Trump hasn’t made plans to annex the Sudetenland Alberta or invade Poland Baja California.
In fact, the only outcomes of Trump’s administration that are remotely Hitler-like are the soaring growth of the economy and the virtual elimination of unemployment — and those outcomes, I think we can all agree, are not malevolent (except to the Left, who like a seething mass of the unemployed to whom they can offer free stuff).
Not that it matters. To the American Left, all Republicans are Nazis and all Republican leaders (whether moderates like the Bushes or conservatives like Pence and Goldwater) are Literally Hitler. The accuracy of their labeling is irrelevant, as long as they can create a bogeyman that will fire up their base of rabid Commie crapweasels.
Bastards.
(I was reading this article and it triggered a train of thought which is worthy of a post.)
I am sometimes asked which classical novelist is my favorite, and honestly, I have a tough time answering the question. Victor Hugo? Balzac? Dumas? Mann? Hardy? Robert Graves? D.H. Lawrence?
Wait, go back a bit; Hardy? Jude The Obscure, Far From The Madding Crowd, The Mayor Of Casterbridge… that Thomas Hardy?
Indeed. My first exposure to Hardy was The Mayor Of Casterbridge (our 12th-grade set work). I was utterly captivated, and despite the oncoming final exams and the endless study involved, I still somehow managed to squeeze in Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Return Of The Native and The Woodlanders before year’s end. In my lifetime, I have read all his “major” novels (i.e. the Wessex series) at least twice each, and Casterbridge maybe six times.
Here’s why. I was (still am) a rebellious soul who has always looked on the customs and mores of society (of any era) with a critical and jaundiced eye. (That I have a favorite era — late Victorian / Edwardian — does not stop me from being critical of it, understanding its shortcomings and loving it nevertheless, especially when I compare it to our modern, soulless technocracy.)
Hardy was probably one of the most critical writers of my favorite era, ever. In fact, so scathing was his “realistic” perspective that many people believe that he finally eschewed novel-writing for poetry because of the opprobrium he received for his baleful scrutiny.
And for the 16-year-old Kim, full of ignorant passion and rebellion, Hardy was fuel to the fire — not for his displeasure with the Victorian era, but for his displeasure per se. It became easy to criticize apartheid-era South African society (and I did) using Hardy’s prose as my role model. It may therefore come as no surprise to my Loyal Readers that I haven’t changed a bit, except that now my ire is directed towards our contemporary society of the early 21st century.
My only regret is that I don’t have Hardy’s skill as a novelist — nobody does — but that doesn’t stop me from reading him, over and over again.
In fact, I think it’s high time for me to re-read… hmmmm, which one… Native? Jude? Casterbridge?
I’ll let you know.
As Longtime Readers know, I have a stalking obsession errr weakness okay soft spot (so to speak) for ladies of the red-haired persuasion.
Ordinarily, then, I would post pics of sundry redheads below, of wondrous pulchritude and in varying degrees of undress.
Not today. Today we’re going all cultural and artistic and stuff.
At least one famous artist has shared my fascination for gingers, in this case Austrian Secessionist supremo Gustav Klimt. Here are a few excerpts from various of his paintings:
Consider yourselves artistically enriched.
Oh okay, you philistines; here’s a ginger of a more recent vintage:
I think ol’ Gustav would have approved…
Married… With Children
This show was never supposed to be popular, with its unrelievedly hostile approach to the subject matter. And yet it was, enormously so, perhaps as an antidote to all the saccharine TV families that had gone before, with their wise mothers, irascible yet good-natured fathers and spunky but lovable children. Instead, we got Ed Neil’s snarling loser father, Al Bundy, his slatternly non-housewife partner Peg (Katey Sagal), with snarky sex-starved son Bud (David Faustino) and the slutty daughter Kelly (Christine Applegate). When I first watched this show, I spent much of the time helpless with open-jawed laughter, and it became one of the very few TV shows I looked forward to each week. And while I loved the buxom Peg, I have to admit that young Kelly Bundy turned me into a Dirty Old Man every time she flounced onto the screen. I don’t think that I’m alone in this, either.
So a couple days back I went off to DFW Gun Range to get a little practice / exercise my Second Amendment rights / piss off the anti-gunners / all the above.
It was Handgun Day (not a holiday, although it damn well should be), because it was time I reminded myself which part of my handguns I need to press to make the boolet emerge from the naughty end. Here’s what I learned, from the three I took for an outing.
1) If I’m going to use the S&W 637 snubbie for self-defense, the distance between me and the thing I’m defending against should be no more than six inches further than arm’s length. Seriously: the combination of that lightweight frame, lengthy DA trigger pull, .38 Spec+P hollowpoints and teeny lil’ barrel does not lend itself to 1″ or even palm-sized groups in the target — at least, not if I’m trying to get off more than one shot per 5 seconds. That, or I need to start practicing weekly with the damn thing. I love the little gun: it’s light, compact and behaves like a fork — you pick it up, and it works — but it really is a backup gun.
2) Next came the old warhorse, the modified Springfield Mil-Spec 1911.
I blasted off over a hundred rounds of the lighter 185-grain .45 ACP (as opposed to the normal 230-grain stuff which has started to beat up my elderly wrists if I shoot more than a box at a time). Thankfully, the 185s are wonderfully accurate and target reacquisition is really quick. I practiced with El Cheapo (Monarch) JHP, which worked just fine; and when I switched to my hotter carry ammo (Hornady XTP, also 185-grain), my groups shrank still more. Now that, my friends, is a carry piece.
3) Finally, to cool off, I pulled out the newbie, my Ruger Mk IV 22/45 (reviewed here) because I’ve only fired a couple hundred rounds through the thing since I got it over a year ago, and I’m pretty sure that’s against some state law.
And then the problems started. I fired a couple-three mags without too much regard for bullet placement, just to get used to the Ruger’s trigger again — it’s better than earlier Ruger triggers, but not by much — and finally figured out where the sear would break in the pull. Fine. Time to get serious.
I should point out that for familiarization purposes, I was using Browning BPR .22 LR ammo, and when I did get serious, I started to get nervous: shooting offhand, I couldn’t get all the rounds into a 1″ circle at 7 yards. Indeed, no matter how hard I tried — and we’re talking five mags’ worth, 50 rounds), I’d get two inside the circle, then one low and left, then one back into the circle, then three low and left again, and so on.
Folks, I will readily admit that I’m not a good pistol shot; but I’m not that bad. I was just about to break out the old jeweler’s screwdriver and start screwing up adjusting the back sight, when I had a flash of insight. I asked the guy in the next lane if he would pop a mag downrange for me, just to see if it was the gun, or me. (He, by the way, was shooting a CZ 75B and putting all those 9mm Europellets into pretty much a palm-sized group, at 15 yards.) So he fired away with the Mk IV, and lo and behold, he too couldn’t shoot it for shit: either on target, or low and left.
Could it be the ammo? I pulled out my go-to .22 LR ammo (CCI Mini-Mag), loaded up and let two mags’ worth fly.
One-inch groups, dead inside in the circle. I switched to the Federal “Auto Match” (reviewed here) — a box of which had followed me to the range unnoticed: same result as the CCI Mini-Mags. [long sigh of relief followed]
So as far as the Mk IV is concerned, it’s going to be either Federal Auto Match or CCI Mini-Mag from now on. The Browning stuff will henceforth be relegated to tin-can plinking duties. (I don’t have much left, maybe 200 rounds, so it will go quickly.)
But: I’m still not crazy about the Mk IV’s trigger. Maybe I’m spoilt, having lately been shooting guns with excellent triggers, or maybe I just need a couple thousand rounds’ more practice to get used to it; but the Mk IV is on notice — which means that if I find a good deal / trade opportunity on a heavy-barrel Browning Buckmark (with its trademark exquisite trigger action) sometime, I may just go back to familiar territory, so to speak. The Browning is a bigger PITA to clean than the Mk IV, but them’s the breaks. Priorities, right?
I’ll keep y’all posted.