It’s “a fantastic time to be in” it.
I agree. Better late than never.
It’s “a fantastic time to be in” it.
I agree. Better late than never.
An email I missed from Alex when I was on the plane Tuesday:
As you have probably heard, my father, Jerry, passed away on Friday, September 8, 2017. He had attended DragonCon as a guest, was lauded by thousands, and had a tremendously good time. As an author, it would be difficult to think of a better way to be sent off.
Our family also appreciates the outpouring of memorials and reminiscences, both public and private, which have followed.
The public service will be this Saturday, September 16:
12N PT: Services at St. Francis de Sales Church, 13368 Valleyheart Drive Sherman Oaks, CA 91423
We will be working to livestream the service as well.
Please let those who should know about the service. If you will be in town, we hope to see you there.
I’ll be going, hope to see a lot of old (in both senses of the word) friends.
[Late-evening update]
Just got back from a lovely service. pic.twitter.com/NN03CJrsmS
— Rand Simberg (@Rand_Simberg) September 17, 2017
New emails reveal that she mishandled classified information much more than we previously knew.
This is my shocked face.
[Update mid morning]
As I’ve noted before, the Democrats’ tolerance of the Clinton’s corruption was the final straw for me with them in the 90s. And it continues.
So Trump called him an idiot, and told him to quit? Well, he is, and he should. But why does he still have his job? For someone who became famous in part for publicly firing people, Trump sure seems to have a hard time actually doing it.
[Update a couple minutes later]
Speaking of idiots, Joe Biden is saying that people who support due process under the law are just like Nazis. Right.
Boeing and Lockmart seem to be getting their money’s worth for their campaign donations to him. But while he’s clearly a tool, he’s never been the sharpest one in the shed. As Eric notes, the irony is that, prior to SpaceX, it was ULA had an actual monopoly on Air Force launches.
…to (racist) Ta-Nehisi Coates:
“The problem with the police,” you write, “is not that they are fascists pigs, but that our country is ruled by majoritarian pigs. And so to challenge the police is to challenge the American people who send them into the ghettos armed with the same self-generated fears that compelled people who think they are white to flee the cities and into the Dream.” There, you’ve said it. You’ve indicted the majority of the American people on serious charges—and many of them (not all) in their guilt and shame will grant you a moral pass. Some will feign outrage, but most, like aristocrats who reversed roles with the plebeians at the European Dionysian bacchanals, will assume a mask of contrition, look to some hoped-for redemptive moment in the higher registers of their innocent conscience, and move on. Your accusations have made for interesting dinner talk among the cognoscenti and literati in liberal bourgeois enclaves, where some believe moral masochism and symbolic self-flagellation are signs of virtue.
You touch on your flirtation with some special black racial essentialism in your book, and it is both affecting and sympathetic: “My working theory then held all black people as kings in exile, a nation of original men severed from our original names and our majestic Nubian culture. Surely this was the message I took from gazing out in the [Howard] Yard. Had any people, anywhere, ever been as sprawling and beautiful as us?” Unfortunately, there is nothing special about the black body. There is nothing special about any racially distinct physical body per se. Black skin does not convey nobility. Neither does white skin, or yellow skin. Your body is not special until it conjoins itself to a mind and adapts nature to its needs and desires and rational aspirations, its self-actualization and manifested agency. Any human body that fails to achieve a self-cultivated moral character and inscrutable human will is merely an ecological social ballast: ignoble, exploitable, a heap of unintelligible flesh on this earth.
This abnegation of personal responsibility assumes its logical end in your failure to grant black people responsibility for their own lives in the phenomenon of black-on-black crime. You tell your son: “Black-on-black crime is jargon, violence to language . . . . To yell black-on-black crime is to shoot a man and then shame him for bleeding.” Why? You give no reasons. In truth, black-on-black crime is a pathology that has to be reckoned with. Your own experiences with the police and with violence tell a more complicated story than you’d like. You write about your friend Prince Jones. He was shot and killed by a police officer who claimed that your late friend had tried to run him over with his Jeep. This police officer was black. You write of a schoolyard boy who first apprised you of your place in the world by revealing a gun at his waist. In brandishing his weapon, you write, “he let it be known how easily I could be selected.” You write eerily of his haunting presence in your life—the boy in whose small eyes you saw “a surging rage that could, in an instant, erase my body.” He, too, was black. Throughout your letter to your son, black people are mostly treated as mindless automatons who can’t seem to help themselves—and you apply this idea of helplessness to violence. You quote your own father who justified beating you by announcing, “Either I can beat him, or the police.” That’s all there is to it?
In your world, black-on-black crime is causally reducible to the machinations of the orchestrators of a system apparently designed to rule the neurons and synapses of the black brain. Have you told your son that he is twice as likely to be murdered by another black man than by a white police officer? Perhaps not, because it would not make any difference. The gang members and black individuals who kill others, including blacks, are certified moral icons who deserve dispensation because, in your reasoning, they are powerless before the street crime of history that brought the ghettos into existence.
As they do with the Arabs, the Left deprives everyone, other than white people, of moral agency.
She lied about Benghazi, and (unsurprisingly) she lied about the unmasking. More thoughts from Ann Althouse:
[I]t sure looks like members of an incoming Republican administration were spied on by a Democratic political operative who happened to find a meeting suspicious.
You don’t say.
It will now have a seven-meter fairing.
This is another nail in the coffin of SLS.
He’s released a spectacular mix tape of bloopers.
This is just crying out for a subtitled narrative, a la the Corporal Story.
[Update a few minutes later]
Here it is:
This is how you learn to fly rockets. NASA could never do this.
We’re now into our second full day without power. Fortunately, we’re flying back to CA tomorrow. Things are slowly getting back to normal in Palm Beach County, but there is still a curfew from dusk to dawn (it just ended for last night). Our ice has essentially melted, and we’re down to the last of our pre-storm food, but Publix are open, and hopefully they’ll start to re supply. We have several fallen limbs to cut up, but Home Depot is out of chain saws, and doesn’t know when they’ll be getting more (the storm moving up north is likely disrupting supply chains).
On the cat front, it seems to be a lymphoma, but an aggressive one. The bad news is that the tumors aren’t shrinking with the steroid treatment, but the good news is that they aren’t growing, either, and she seems to be stable and happy. We don’t get in until after the hospital closes tomorrow, but should be able to pick her up on Thursday and bring her home, for however long she ends up living.
[Thursday-morning update]
We got in about five last eveing, had dinner and went to bed. Feeling much better now, and it’s nice to be back in CA, despite the idiocy of the voters here. Had the first good night’s sleep in days, to cool temperatures and the sound of our new garden fountain outside our window. Going in this morning to bring Rerun home, and try to get things back, as much as possible around here, to normal.