Sorrowful mysteries.

Wednesday evening I hit a wall. I guess I've been coasting on inertia for a while, and a large job I had expected to arrive got delayed -- and suddenly I had nothing I had to do, and I fell into a pit of misery. It came on fast, like a bad case of the flu. At three I'm okay, by four everything seems completely, even uniquely pointless. And then other thoughts and memories rush in to fill the emptiness and reinforce the endless sorrow.

I guess I'm a little burned out.

I did try to bounce out of it, spending time with youthful dog Izzy and going over the headlines of the day (Babylon Bee headlines, that is) with some old friends on a group text. But texting with my old friends reminded me that this year it will be a decade since one of our best guys, the one who helped make us all friends and kept us so through the years, died suddenly and left a wife and two young kids. 

And playing with Izzy reminded me that it's almost six months since we had to put Fazzy down. 

At the vet. Last photo, ever.

And I just couldn't stand anything anymore.

Sorrow is the curse and the consolation of Christianity. We can't pretend, like so many foolish Communists and transhumanists do, that some combination of perfect intelligence and technology will wipe every tear and bring humanity to a state of perfect joy. We know man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward. On the other hand, it's the only religion that teaches that God Himself knows exactly what that is like, having assumed humanity and suffered for it. Our sorrow can never be thought of as meaningless; it has touched the heart of God. 

Still, I prayed last night, saying that if I never felt sadder than I did just then, I thought I could take it -- but that I didn't expect that to be the case.

But I hoped it would all be all right, some day.

Fred: Thought Leader.

I got an invitation to a meeting about thought leadership. Of course they would want my ideas. 

Nah, JK, LOL, it was from LinkedIn. They don't care.

"The Value of Thought Leadership in Economic Uncertainty" is the topic, and I'm not saying it's a bad topic. The times are economically uncertain. And as I've written here before, I am convinced that true leadership is more talent than knowledge, but like any raw talent it A) needs honing and practice and B) hasn't alighted on many of the people who believe it has. It can be faked to some extent with intelligence and experience and learned skills, but there’s a reason we talk about “born leaders.”

Worse, though, is that few people devote a lot of thought to anything.

The buzz phrase "thought leadership" annoys me, anyway. According to LinkedIn, where they know these things, there's a big difference between thought leading and regular nonfat leading:

The difference between regular leaders and thought leaders is that thought leaders have a large following while their regular counterparts don't. Your followers help catalyze a movement that spreads your ideas from one person to the next.

So, a thought leader makes money whereas a leader leader just makes success. 

Or, a leader can direct people but a thought leader changes the way they think. Okay, I can dig it. I hate it, but I can dig it.

First of all, the American Revolution may have featured the last great thought leaders, putting the rights of the individual as sovereign. Since then a great many impactful "thought leaders" have sucked. Marx, Lenin, Mao, Hitler, Stalin, Xi, Pol Pot, Jim Jones, those French Revolution guys, all thought leaders, all the worst bastards to ever come out of the bastard machine. 

Second, one may wish to lead thoughts, but few people have either original thoughts or leadership skills. So how is one to be a thought leader in economic uncertainty? I would guess it boils down to the same old inspirational, motivational rah-rah in a barely new package: trouble = opportunity and all that. Sure. Maybe.

I wouldn't want to open a new restaurant at a time when people can barely buy groceries, although some people will find a way to make it work. But everyone knows deep down that if sticking to it and believing in yourself was all it took, this world would have 100 times more Hollywood stars and 1,000 times more billionaires. 

If I were LinkedIn, I'd be glad that Mr. Fred Key turned down this opportunity to share my thoughts on the topic. Like most people who consider themselves realists, whether we are or not, I have a strong cynical streak and an expectation of disaster. But, as the old man once observed, if you're a pessimist, at least you're guaranteed to be right eventually.

Threw himself into his art.

"This is one of our largest canvases, from Gruncksdel's Human Catapult period."

The straight poop.

Most people around here are pretty good about cleaning up after their dogs. 

Not all. 

There's one house in our walk that seems to attract all the dogs to want to go there, and all the dog owners to want to leave it. I don't know what the problem is. I have my theories. 

To set the scene: This house -- a nice one on a corner lot, but no better than its neighbors -- is almost completely enveloped by an eight-foot-tall PVC fence. Part of it is a legal requirement, as they have a swimming pool. Also, they have a couple of dogs of their own -- small ones, I think. I'm not sure. I've never seen them. I've never seen anything. I'm going just by sound.

The thing is, their having dogs who can't be seen or reasoned with by passing dogs may be enticing the latter to leave a little telegram from Western Poopion. Dogs have their motivations. But why don't the dogs' owners perform their cleaning duty?

I believe it's that stupid fence. Not only is it twice as high as the law requires, but they built it right up against the sidewalk. You feel like it's shoving you to the curb. I assume it's perfectly legal, as you need a permit to construct these things, but it just feels rude. It didn't have to be that close to the sidewalk; it's like they were going to be damned if they let more one square inch be outside their yard than they absolutely had to. It inevitably makes one feel like they think they're too good for the plebes out on the street.

I've heard of jalousie windows, but this is a jealousy fence. 

I don't blame them for the high fence. If I had a pool, I wouldn't want people looking in on me while I was using it. But I do wish they'd left a little breathing room on the sidewalk. 

So there may be resentment involved. More important, however, there's anonymity involved. Since we can't see them, they can't see us, and less conscientious dog owners might be taking advantage of that. 

Not that the homeowners are unaware of the situation. They have taken steps. 

Four of these signs, spaced about fifteen feet apart along the sidewalk. That'll turn the tide.

To show you how well it works, yesterday morning in the dim early hours, pup Izzy and I almost ran right into a huge pile of crap square in the middle of the sidewalk. I don't want to punch the dog owner in the nose for leaving that there, but someone ought to. 

I knew that Monday morning would come soon enough, and that corner is a school bus stop for kids of all grades. Easy to anticipate some kid booking for the bus and -- yeesh. What a great way to start the day. 

Many years ago I knew a kid (not me) who was bullied regularly at school, but when the bullies found some dog crap and nailed him on his pants with it, that was the last straw. The kid actually refused to go to school after it. It caused more trouble for him and his family that I even know about. It was years before he started school on a normal schedule again, and he had to catch up. Being that this was a New York City public school, I unconditionally guarantee that no punishment was ever dealt out to the bullies. That was the environment in which I learned you can neither rely on nor trust in authority in this world.

Bottom line today: You can't leave land mines like that dog poop around. 

So what could I do? I used a waste bag to pick it up. Then I threw it over the fence toward where I think the pool is. 

Nah, just kidding. I brought it all the way home and put it in our outdoor repository, and will dispose of it on trash day. I wasn't being nice. I was remembering what it was like to be a kid having to go to school on Monday, and what happened to that one boy whose life was nearly ruined by one cruel act too many. 

The moral of the story: If we'd all clean up after ourselves, and stop grabbing every inch we can, the world would be a better place.

Puff, the magic jacket.

I know I'm getting to be an old fart, but I'm not sure I understand the modern take on the puffer jacket.

Is it really helpful to have no use of your hands? I guess the collar part is useful for when you come home from the vet and they don't want you biting at the stitches. 

The classic down jacket was a great innovation, a lightweight garment that used the insulating power of air to provide better protection against the wind and cold than wool, all in a water-resistant outer layer. Add the faux-fur collar that zipped into a hood, completely covering the head but for a fist-sized front viewport, and you had a snorkel. A friend of mine went to college in Buffalo and swore that the snorkel was the only way he survived the winter.

The disadvantage of the down jacket was that it was only a jacket -- as with so much cold-weather gear, the upper body was kept nice and toasty but the legs had to fend for themselves. I might leave the house with an undershirt, shirt, sweater or sweatshirt, and coat, while between the waist and the boots all I had were tighty whities and a layer of cotton or denim. Poor legs! 

Down jackets got longer, becoming down coats, but I don't know what the hell this is:

For only $3,075 at Bergdorf Goodman you too can own this padded circus tent. Such a bargain! And this isn't even the biggest one I've seen.

I guess there's an advantage, as if you're cold enough and tired enough you can just tuck yourself in at the ends and have a cozy place to nap wherever you are. Good luck sitting in any kind of chair with that thing on, though.

Meme machine!

Yes, we had dueling deadlines here at the ranch Friday, plus a toner trip, so we're doing another meme Saturday at your daily dose! Trade them, sell them, NFT them for all I care! 

 

And finally, in the Wish I’d Done That Department…

Naughty, naughty words.

The silliest words are completely taboo now. Including taboo, because it might offend some Tongan people out there. 

Censorship has been in the news again, although the proponents aren't calling it that. Roald Dahl's books are getting the workover to remove offensive words like "fat" and "ugly" that might offend people who are... well, fat and/or ugly, I guess. I never liked Dahl's children's books -- he was not a lover of humanity, and his writing for adults has a high enough body count to back me up on that. But you don't even have to read those stories. Spoiler alert: In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory we have children being blown up and squashed, permanently discolored, thrown in the garbage, shrunk and stretched out, and all kinds of things I found traumatizing when we covered the book in second grade. That stuff's fine, but we can't use words like "fat"? 

If they think that taking insulting words out of the discourse will make children be nicer to one another, they have never met any children.

Even dumber of course (ooooh, dumb is a taboo word too!) is that Fleming's James Bond books are getting the treatment. For the love of all that is good, if you're an adult and you can't handle a seventy-year-old spy novel, you ought to go back to singing "Baby Shark" and let the adults talk. 

The American Library Association is useless, as always. They love to prance around with their so-called Banned Books Week in the fall. Altered Books Week is never going to happen, though. They're all for it. You might hope that the dead authors' estates would fight against this nonsense, but they couldn't care less, as long as the money keeps rolling in. 

Lately I find more of the companies I work for employ sensitivity readers, people whose entire job is to go off like a smoke detector if a bad word comes up. Not bad as in obscene, blasphemous, or grotesque, but bad as in possibly offensive to one of the many grievance farmers out there working the fields. Words like dumb (insults the deaf), insane (insults the crazy), handicapped (insults the handicapped), fat (covered above), hooker (insults sex workers), mumbo-jumbo (I think this is cultural appropriation), addict (insults bums), grandfather (as verb, from its relation to Jim Crow laws), master bedroom (because only plantations had master bedrooms?), and anything that might suggest masculinity, like fireman or congressman. Also any possible use of black in a negative sense (as in a black mood), or any use of white in a positive one (which will be a bummer to the saints in Revelation 7, who "came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb"). And you'd better not have a character wear moccasins. Although they have been a style in the shoe industry for more than a hundred years, now they're culturally insensitive.

Sensitivity readers have to keep coming up with new words to ban, if they're to justify their phony-baloney jobs.

We need more insensitivity readers. Speech is supposed to be free in this country, and we need to toughen the hell up. I was rereading a 98-year-old book by an Englishman and was surprised to find an incidental use of the old N-word. I'm an adult; I can that the author was using the term in a reflection of the attitudes of colonialists, whom he firmly opposed. But I dare not tell you what book or author it was, lest the Kancel Kops come for him next.   

One word that the sensitivity Nazis ignore, of course, is Jesus in a perjorative sense. It's peachy with them that some readers will be offended over that. It's ducky. No problemo. I've heard it said that Christians are the only religious people who consistently use the name of their Lord in vain, and that's probably true. But not all of us. However, that's not something a sensitivity reader worries about. 

After all, it's not like saying a simple scientific sentence like "Flowers contain male sex organs called stamens and female sex organs called pistils." That could get you fired. Who are you to assume that flower's gender?

De-Canification.

Much to my surprise, I have had the new garbage can now for more than two years. I was so excited about that Rubbermaid special that I blogged about it in September of the Lost Year. At the time I held on to the old trash can, even though the bottom was three quarters rotted out, because I thought I might need it if we had a really huge trash pickup. That has not happened. So, I plan to get rid of the old can at last.

But the question I asked back in the day still obtains: How do you throw out a garbage can? If you put it out as garbage, it doesn't look like garbage, it looks like what it is -- what garbage comes in. So... how? If I had a chain saw I'd cut it up, but I don't. Leave a note on it? These guys are working fast, seconds per household; they don't have time to read even if they actually noticed the note in the dark. 

I said to myself: "Self! What can I do?"

Then I saw what another guy in the neighborhood did.

This. Is. GENIUS!

He's taken the wheels and the lid off so you know the thing is busted at a glance. He filled it with garbage so it can't be shrugged off an a can leftover from the last pickup. Then he wrapped the whole thing in an ENORMOUS garbage bag so they have to put it all on the truck and mash that bastard up -- unless they're too chicken.

Well, I've seen our garbage men in action, and they're no chickens. 

I guess it worked, because after I got that picture, the Phantom Can of Number 9 was never seen again. 

I'm not going to try this on Friday's pickup because the guys are still dealing with snow around here. But when it's clear, look out, garbage truck! My old can is coming in! 

That didn't come out the way I'd hoped. 

The ancients.

When I get up in the morning and I feel a little ancient, I remind myself -- well, no, I'm too busy schlepping to the bathroom and wondering what time it is to remind myself of anything. But if it is a morning where I feel the aches and pains that begin in middle age and end five hours after death, I remind myself that age is only a number. An enormous number, but a number.

Of course, when applied to various things, ancient is a relative term. Here's a little list I drew up to show how the word ancient, when commonly applied, changes depending on the subject:

Actors - Richard Burbage

Actors to Americans - Edwin Booth

Actors to Millennials - Robert Downey Jr.

Religions - Hinduism

Rocks - Bedrock, Hudson Bay, Canada (4.28 billion years old a week from Friday)

Colleges - Oxford

Buildings -

Duh.

Authors - Aristophanes 

Novelists - Cervantes

Novelists to Millennials - Stephen King

Stars - Methuselah (age: 16 billion; looks not a day over 15 billion)

Music -  “Seikilos Epitaph,” 1st century AD

Pop Music - Britney Spears 

Medicine - Belladonna

Topical Medicine - Coal Tar

Medical Treatment - Leeches

Nations - Iceland

Automobiles - Model T

Bloggers - Instapundit

Websites - Amazon

Computer - ENIAC

Modern Computer - iMac

Telephone - Candlestick

Telephone to Millennials - Flip Phone

TV Sitcom - Father Knows Best

TV Sitcom to Millennials - Full House

👴👴👴

So you see, it's all relative. And speaking of relatives, I have some who are older than I am, so as long as they're still kicking I am not going to consider myself ancient.