A new lend-lease act.

A few surprising things came out of the US being the primary host for the World Cup this year. One is that a lot of my friends were following the games closely -- some, having coached soccer for their kids, have learned to like the game somehow. Another is that the American squad made us proud, proving that they were not in the tournament just because we're hosting (the old "it's my party and you have to let me play" rule). And the third?

Ranch dressing. 

Ranch dressing, the little dressing born in Hidden Valley, California, has conquered the nation -- and now the world. It's my wife's favorite salad dressing, and she's not alone in that. In fact, The Takeout noted that in a Kraft survey of favorite dressings by state, Ranch dominated, winning 13 states including the Eastern Seaboard from Maryland down. And our visitors from overseas apparently could not get enough of the stuff. 

I was honestly surprised that they had not tried it before. Many people visit America, and you can't escape Ranch dressing, as a dip or on a salad. I would have thought that you could get it in Western Europe, at least. After all, you can find Japanese curry mix in Walmart, Irish sausage in my local supermarket, and I've even seen Marmite occasionally. Vegemite might take some looking, but you can certainly get it online. I would have thought the buttermilk goodness that is Ranch would have wandered farther afield before now. 

But I am glad that visitors to our mighty nation have found a culinary treat to love. I think what is needed is a new lend-lease act to help our overseas brethren enjoy the wonders of Ranch at home. We can start by filling up some oil tankers that are at loose ends; we'll send them to Europe first. Two or three would be good for starters.

You've seen houseboats, but never ranchboats!

Interest-free loans will be given to finance these exports. And no tariffs! We want them to enjoy the dressing and not try to steal our secret salad technology. There's a reason that Valley is Hidden. 

Enjoy the taste of freedom, friends! 

[P.S.: For the record, I prefer French or Italian or even creamy Caesar to Ranch . . .  but keep it under your Uncle Sam hat.]

American as fried apple pie!

I don't know if you heard the big news over the Fourth of July celebrations, but for a limited time McDonald's (yeah, the place with the twerp CEO) brought back its apple pies.

"But," you who haven't heard ask, "they always have apple pies."

"Yes," I respond, "but not deep-fried apple pies, the way God and Man intended."

Monolith Pie

You obviously have not heard that, for a limited time around America's 250th celebration of Independence Day, McDonald's would be bringing back it's fried version of its pies, rather than the baked type they have been selling for years. I personally suspect that this was at the urging of its most famous french fry cook, one Donald Trump, who as we know loves McDonald's food even more than does its rather peculiar CEO -- who seems to have never eaten it. I think Trump put the word in -- to make this holiday REALLY special we need McDonald's pies deep fried in grease, which is how we won the Cold War. (It just stands to reason.)

Well, last week we had house-selling stuff going on one night that precluded cooking, so dinner came from the Golden Arches -- and so did dessert. 

So, how did it match up to the pies of my youth? Was it crispy? Was it tasty? Was the filling as hot as magma, roughly 2600 degrees Fahrenheit, as people recall? 

Yes, unlike the modern McPie, this had a nice crispy exterior with a sugary top. It was pretty tasty, although as the celebrated Mrs. K notes, the pies were never all that awesome; if they were, the famous failures of the McDonald's ice cream machines wouldn't be such a big deal. As for the heat of the filling, it was no big deal -- I think if you eat the pie as soon as they hand it out it's much hotter than if you save it for dessert, as we did. 

But make sure you eat it ASAP: the label warns you that the clock is ticking!

You don't want your pay frito to turn soggy and oily. 

On the whole the pie was a nice but not needed treat and a pleasant schlep down memory lane. Now, if they start frying the potatoes in lard again, that will be much bigger news that will require a new investigation to be opened. Stay tuned! 

Happy 250, America!

I don't even know how to say what I want to say, so I'm just going to say this: 

Happy birthday, United States of America!

Happy birthday to the liveliest, craziest, happiest, most fun, most determined, most resilient, most inventive, wild, stupid, brilliant, funny, most independent, most smartass, most incredible, most prosperous people on Earth. 

That's not a coincidence. All those good things didn't come from crime, or slavery, or imperialism. That comes from overcoming bad things and making good things; from having a national philosophy rooted in our Declaration, and also in our constitutional government, the oldest such in world history. 

In our hearts we must always reject the con artists and liars who know nothing of Americanism and twist words and mutilate history to try to make us what we aren't. We aren't collectivists. We aren't cowards. We aren't wicked to the core. We are people of hope, people of fellowship, people who want to rise above tribalism. So many actual tribes' names in their own languages mean nothing more than "the humans," relegating others to lesser beings. We don't think other people are worse than Americans. But we think their countries aren't as good as America.

God bless us all; God bless every city and town, every farm and family, every highway and dirt road, every forest and desert, every mountain, river, and stream. God bless us because we are always under attack but never down and out. God bless us because we are one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. 

God bless the United States of America. Happy birthday on this glorious Fourth. .

A great American.

[Note: I know I said I would have a product review today, but we have not sampled the product yet. Hold tight for future developments!]

A while back I was talking about commercial jingles with some friends, and the woeful lack of good jingles in the modern era. I asked, What classic jingle do you think really works both as a means of selling and as a pleasure on its own? It's difficult to say now; there are few commercial jingles anymore. I think you'd have to look back to the 1980s or further to find commercial music that was enjoyable and successful as a product mover. 

But I did think of one that fulfilled both goals powerfully. 

For about twenty years, from the seventies into the eighties, Hershey billed itself as "the Great American Chocolate Bar." And they meant it. Hershey Community Archives shares the thoughts of the amazingly named Billings Fuess Jr., the ad man who came up with the campaign: 

I had the idea for “The Great American Chocolate Bar” because I knew there was a lot of wonderful history behind Hershey. I also liked Hershey bars and they were a heck of a lot better than their competition from Switzerland. And I wanted to give them a dig and say the great AMERICAN chocolate bar.

I think that the fact that Fuess really believed in the product is what made it so inspired. Milton Hershey certainly deserved to have his chocolate bar known as the great American one, after selling his caramel business and going into milk chocolate -- even though the Swiss refused to show him how to make it, so he had to invent it all over again himself (as I have blogged before). 

One of the jingles that went with the ad campaign is a song for the ages -- catchy, upbeat, patriotic, even bombastic, but delivering the message that America is a sweet place, and this is its chocolate. 

You can go anywhere, anywhere on Earth, and they will know Hershey, and you can find it, and you are never alone, because Hershey is there, and all of America is with you in spirit with your Hershey bar. God bless the USA!

Okay, maybe I'm reading too much into it, but it really does sell without selling. Sure, it tells you the product is delicious, but if the main goal of the advertiser is to make you happy about the product, this one can do it. 

I'm glad to see that there is a film out this year about Milton, because I do think he was an interesting man and one of the more benevolent American millionaires. He didn't win over the country by using his wealth to crush small competitors, like John D. Rockefeller and Bill Gates. He made a product people liked, available at a good price. In 2025 the Hershey Company made $11.69 billion in consolidated net sales, so clearly people still like it. 

My advice, if you can: In addition to whatever other Independence Day celebrations you may have, get some Hershey bars, make some s'mores, and lift them high to toast America, and Americans like Milton Hershey who helped make it awesome. Awesomeness does not just happen; like milk chocolate, it has to be made. 

Fervent fireplugs for the Fourth.

One of the most charming outpourings of civic and national pride at the 1976 United States Bicentennial was ... fire hydrants. 

I don't think anyone is certain where the practice began, but in the leadup to July 1976, people in many communities across the fruited plains started giving the local fireplugs a makeover. 

My favorites were the ones done up like Minutemen -- such as this old soldier. 

I had kind of hoped that we might see this sort of thing return for the big 250, despite the fact that about vocal minority of the country seems to hate America beyond reason. I don't think anyone's hatred of the country or the president or whatever matters here, though. After all, how many people does it take to paint a fire hydrant?

Granted, there's something less impressive about 50-year celebrations. 100? YAY! 150? Yay. 200? YAY! 250? Yay. It just doesn't have enough zeroes to put it over the top. 

Also, there is an issue with painting fireplugs that may not have been a problem in 1976: color coding. Franklin, Tennessee, provides an explanation of the significance of different colors of its fireplugs:

The same code is not used throughout the United States; for one thing, most areas don't have yellow-barreled hydrants. But I have noted the difference among bonnets here in New York, and the difference between regular hydrants and those only used to flush the system. You see, though, why this would preempt celebratory hydrant painting. You wouldn't want the firemen to ignore the working hydrant just because it had been made to look like George Washington with a black bonnet in place of his trusty tricornered hat. 

Well, it's understandable, but it's a shame. I would have loved a patriotic excuse to give this hydrant a refresh:

Hmm -- does that orange top mean it spews up to 999 gallons a minute? And will the department know that when the paint flakes down to the iron? 

Let's hope they don't need to use it, anyway. We live here! 

Just ask my dog.

Death or taxes?

I'm thinking, I'm thinking. 

Does anyone ever get pleasantly surprised by his or her income tax calculation? I certainly don't. 

As a freelancer, my income fluctuates annually. Last year I worked almost every single day and managed to have a good year. Not that it felt good, with car trouble and the withering failures of the dishwasher, A/C, water heater, and smaller appliances. The only appliance in the house that has not been replaced at least once is the oven, and I'm keeping an eye on that in case it gets any ideas. 

The upshot of my earned income, of course, is that I have to pay an enormous amount of taxes. I like to think it's going toward missiles to finally end the 50-year war Iran declared on us, but it's probably going to a Minnesotan learing center. 

The comic strip Cathy used to have a running bit where her accountant could tell the heroine where her tax money was actually being used, and it was always some stupid, frivolous thing, like color-coded staplers for the Department of Agriculture. It was funny, but I would take stupid and frivolous over the fraud that has been consuming vast amounts of American citizens' pay.

This year it was recommended to me that, as there had been some changes to the tax code, that it might be wise to let a professional run the numbers rather than taxpaying software, as I have used the past few tax seasons. That brought me to the door of a local branch of a well-known financial service that I will call McTax's (with apologies to McDonald's). 

I do not want to go through the ensuing confusion, delays, and frustrations, but I will say:

1) What has taken weeks could have been resolved in hours for far less than the $500 I got soaked;

2) It is possible that my tax software might have gotten me the same painful result, but I guarantee it would not have been worse; and

3) I have gotten takeout from a sandwich shop that had cockroaches, been in bars where I thought I might die, and been at the mercy of a crazy, nervous dentist, but none of these made me feel less confident in an establishment than the four "professionals" staffing the office of McTax's.

Well, lesson learned, I guess, or leared as they say in Minneapolis. Now we have another reason to push hard to sell the house, as I am going to have a hard time paying taxes from last year and no way to put down an advance on taxes for this year. Selling the house would solve that issue.

But the oven had better not get any funny ideas. 

Santobsessed.

 I think in America we have a kind of mental development of Santa that runs like this:

1. Clement Clarke Moore publishes his famous poem in 1823

2. Thomas Nast draws Santa in 1863

3. Coca-Cola gives us a common picture of Santa in 1930

4. Rankin and Bass do the rest, starting 1964 

But there's a lot that gets left out of that outline. We've been Santa obsessed for quite some time. A search for "Santa Claus" on Discogs returns 27,895 hits. A quick look at the priceless Gutenberg Project site reveals books about Santa Claus that I did not know existed, and maybe the same is true for you. Sixty-one titles pop up on the site if you search there for "Santa Claus." For example:

A Reversible Santa Claus by Meredith Nicholson (1917)

This is a curious book by a curious writer; Nicholson was, among other things, a US envoy to three different countries. But he had been an Indiana newsman and loved to write, apparently. Here's the Amazon description of this book: 

A reformed thief known as Billy “the Hopper” – named for the ease with which he’s always made his escapes - has retired with one last haul and settled down on a chicken farm with his wife, Mary, and another former thief, Humpy. Mary used to be a pickpocket. Humpy used to raise chickens in jail, so he’s got valuable experience. All three of them are glad to be living a quiet life within the law, but one day the Hopper sees a wallet sticking out of someone’s jacket on the train and is unable to resist pocketing it. This sets in motion a chain of events that results in the Hopper inadvertently kidnapping a toddler.

Not sure how much actual Santa Claus is in this one, but it's the book on this list I'm most interested in reading. I'm wondering how "reversible" works into the "Santa Claus" too. Does that mean Hopper comes down the chimney and takes stuff away, like a proto Grinch?

🎅🎅🎅

A Kidnapped Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum (1904)

Some of you may recall that Oz creator Baum had written a biography of Santa, The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus, in 1902, which was adapted for TV by Rankin-Bass in 1985. This one is really a short story, but one of the first in the Evildoers Threaten Christmas subgenre that has proved so durable. In it, the Daemons who live in the caves near Happy Valley and hate Santa all the time decide to kidnap him so he can't bring happiness to the children. But the various magical creatures that help Santa (not elves -- ryls, knooks, pixies, and fairies) manage to get Santa's presents delivered. Santa is released on Christmas Day by the frustrated bad guys. (Sorry; spoiler alert!) Well done, knooks & co. 

🎅🎅🎅

A Defective Santa Claus by James Whitcomb Riley (1904)

Although not so well remembered today, Riley was another Indiana writer, exceptionally popular in his time for poems and stories for and about children. The book is actually a poem in dialect that, like so much of his work, harks back to simpler times in the 1800s. 

🎅🎅🎅

Christmas in Storyland, edited by Maud Van Buren and Katharine Isabel Bemis (1927)

I don't know anything about the editors of this volume, but it's exactly what you'd expect -- a book of Christmas stories for children. Santa plays a part in many of them, naturally. That same year the editors also released Christmas in Modern Story: An Anthology for Adults. Back when "adult audiences" just meant "the kids won't like it."

🎅🎅🎅

Lill's Travels in Santa Claus Land, and Other Stories by Ellis Towne, Sophie May, and Ella Farman (1878)

Lill with The Man Himself. Moore's reindeer names 
are used in the book (Dasher, Dancer, et al.) 

The book doesn't say which author wrote which story (there are four in the book), but the star is definitely Lill, who in the first tale explains how she happened to come upon Santa Claus Land while walking and met the big guy. At the end she tells us that Santa Claus Land is not in a fixed place, and she has been unable to find it again. 

🎅🎅🎅

Tommy Trot's Visit to Santa Claus by Thomas Nelson Page (1908)

Tommy Trot looks like what is now a pretty standard Christmas story for kids. One summary says, "The story follows a young boy named Tommy Trot who goes on a magical adventure to visit Santa Claus at the North Pole. Along the way, he meets a variety of friendly creatures, including a talking reindeer and a group of mischievous elves. As Tommy explores the enchanting world of Santa's workshop, he learns valuable lessons about kindness, generosity, and the true meaning of Christmas." Which sounds like movie adaptation of The Polar Express, although a non-psychotic version. 

Page also wrote A Captured Santa Claus (1902) (very different from the Baum Kidnapped story, featuring Civil War veterans) and Santa Claus's Partner (1899), so he knew from Santa stories. He also had a very romanticized view of the Old South that pretty much guarantees his books for adults will be painful to modern eyes. 

🎅🎅🎅

Santa Claus' Sweetheart by Imogen Clark (1906)

In case you wondered where Hallmark got the idea to do Christmas movies:

The story follows Jessica, a young bakery owner who finds herself falling for a mysterious man named Nick who bears an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus. As their romance blossoms, Jessica discovers that Nick has a special connection to Christmas that transcends the ordinary. Clark's delightful narrative captures the spirit of the season with its themes of love, hope, and second chances. Through vivid descriptions and endearing characters, she transports readers to a charming world where miracles can happen and love is always in the air. "Santa Claus' Sweetheart" is a perfect read for anyone looking to experience the joy and wonder of Christmas all year round.

A short novel, looks pretty sweet. 

🎅🎅🎅

Santa Claus' Message: A Christmas Story by E. Franklin Tregaskis (1921)

I have found almost nothing about E. Franklin Tregaskis beyond this Australian story, a short one that takes place in a crapped-out gold mining settlement called Twenty-Foot, where only two men are still trying to get something of value out of the ground as Christmas approaches. One is an old-timer, the other a man with a family, and there's been no rain to sluice out what thin pickings might be had. Then a mysterious message appears... Anyway, this shows that Australia's been Santobsessed just as we have.

🎅🎅🎅

I haven't even mentioned all the storybooks on Gutenberg that have some Santa Claus in passing, or the plays for children that are up at the site (because parents always want to see the kiddies put on a performance). And who knows how many other Santa stories are out there that Gutenberg hasn't gotten to yet? 

All of this is to say that our love of Jolly Old Saint Nicholas is not new; it is a very sturdy part of the American culture, and God bless Santa Claus. May his stories always point the way to the One whose great story among us we celebrate on Christmas Day. 

54° 40' or fuggetaboutit.

Since President Trump picked on PM Trudeau a few days back, the meme machines have gone into overdrive once again. 

A lot of gags hang on the idea of Trump annexing Canada, making it into the 51st state ("Gay North Dakota" etc.). Of course the New York Times, which hates Donald and loves Justin (and both his dad and his "dad"), was mad at Trump. In other news, rain is wet.

It led me to wonder -- what if, not by war but some more peaceable means, Canada did become part of the United States? What would that look like politically? Would it be good for either country?

If Canada was admitted to the union as a single gigantic state, it would become our largest one population-wise, but only barely: With 40.1 million citizens, it would just beat out California's 39.5. However, it would be able to throw its weight around in Washington, because like the Golden State it would have 52 members of the House and 54 electoral votes. 

What if we admitted the Canadian provinces and territories as 13 individual states to split its power? Then it would likely dominate the Senate with a reliable club of 26 Canuckcaucus senators. 

This could be a good deal for Canadians. All of the authority, none of the responsibility. 

Nor would it necessarily be a bad thing for the original fifty, even with Canadian socialism. 

While we may dislike all the Trudeaus here, and clearly a lot of Canada do too, somehow they kept and keep winding up at 24 Sussex. But obviously we are also very good in the USA at sending dunderheads to higher office. We used to joke about the French minority calling the shots for the vast hinterland, making them learn French, but wherever you go in the USA, for Spanish you may marque dos. Unhinged and unaccountable bureaucrats make crippling rules without warning or voter input in both nations. Is there any real difference anymore? 

Canadian Mark Steyn calls his native land the Deranged Dominion, but it was the United States legal system that served him with years of torment and a bad free-speech judgment. He probably suffered more at the hands of Americans thanks to that than he ever did in Canada, even including time spent shoveling snow. Our healthcare system is morphing into socialized misery -- or fascistic misery, with companies in cahoots with the government, and patients getting screwed. Euthanasia can't be far behind, and if the system keeps getting worse, may be welcomed. ("It beats doing all this paperwork!") So can Americans even claim to have benefits of liberty superior to those in Canada? 

I wonder sometimes. 

I wonder if we would all be one huge country now if, as could very easily have happened, the American colonists had lost or given up in the dark years following the signing of the Declaration. 

I'll end with this promise: If it all somehow does come together into the United Canadian States of America, I swear that as Prime President I will enact my goal of refusing to allow any state that does not normally and naturally get ice to have an ice hockey team in the NHL. You have my word. 

Offloading trouble.

In the final days leading up to the election, I heard several things that upon reflection made me think of the famous story by Ursula K. Le Guin called "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas." The imaginative premise of the story, in brief, is that there is a city of perpetual happiness and peace called Omelas, but its happy state rests entirely on a dark secret -- that one child be held in perpetual misery and darkness. Everyone else is joyful and free, but that child must remain in a state of sheer horror or the whole thing collapses. 

What brought it to mind was that, over and over again, I would hear from citizens of this free country demanding that the government guarantee so-called positive rights -- a right to food, education, health care, housing -- rather than the negative rights of just staying out of our faces -- not interfering with speech, religion, person freedom, etc. The more I heard this, the more I got to wonder why supposed adults would expect that someone else must always be required to foot the bill for them, and in many or even most cases even to free them from the bare requirements of survival, or even the consequences of their own actions. 

For example, no authority stops someone from being irresponsible over sex. They are free to do as they like. But they also want to be free from the consequences of the behavior. Someone else must pay for the health care, the drugs, the abortion, the child care and all that entails (if they keep the baby). If not, it is unfair and shows the system is corrupt and evil. 

I've heard of no-fault divorces, no-fault insurance, and no-fault claims, but what they want are no-fault lives.

In a way, though, all of us are citizens of Omelas, in the sense that the bulk of our own citizens benefit from the work of other citizens in jobs we would never want to do. Cops, prison guards, firemen, stool sample examiners, high-rise window washers, sewer workers, nurses in Alzheimer's patient wards, teachers in bad neighborhoods, and so on. We'd rather not think about them. We worry more about the garbage than the garbagemen.  

In one way most of are and really can't help but be citizens of Omelas. That is, the reason we are free and at liberty to fight one another rather than fight other nations is because, for all its faults, we still have the finest military in the world. Most of are too old or too young or just not physically capable of going to war. Whether we like to think about it or not, our active military and our veterans have made our largely pleasant lives possible. 

They have also made us proud. They have endured and suffered, in some cases beyond most of our understanding, so that we may have a chance to be happy and free -- even free to ignore who they are and what they have given for us. 

So I want to thank our veterans on this post on this Veterans Day. They really have secured the blessings of our liberty. May God bless them and may our nation be grateful to them. 

Whither Fred?

Sorry I've been around less than usual. The main cause of my absence has been a large project that engaged a lot of us freelancers for a publisher that needed research done. It's for an annual award that attracts a lot of buzz, and so there is an intense screening process to kick the bums out and keep the stars. It was a lot of work. Not enough to pay the mortgage this month, but a lot of work. 

It's discouraging to feel like you're in a race not to get ahead but to lose ground less quickly, but alas, that is where I and so many of us are running these days. 

If you're having a banner year in your business, good for you! I am not jealous. Besides, if the government confiscated all your dough and that of a dozen like you, it would not even pay for ten minutes of its spending. Years ago, when I was blogging on another platform, I ran the numbers for how long the United States government would be funded if it just up and stole every nickel from every billionaire in the country, all assets turned instantly into cash. I think it was about a week and half, if that. Feel free to do the figures yourself -- it's too depressing. 

So the nation at large is losing money at an enormous rate, and so are most of the nations on the planet. There's going to be a reckoning somewhere along the line, I imagine. The only thing I know for sure is that the people who caused the problem will not be the ones suffering from it. 

Meanwhile, the black bear situation remains unresolved. Twice since I reported it here last month, I saw the bear head down to the wooded area behind the house, passing through each neighbor's yard once. I was outside with the dog one afternoon when a guy walking by with his own dog yelled to me, "There's a bear up the block!" To which, like the man in the famous joke, I could reply, "Yes, I know." 

Here's the results of the informal bear poll I took around the neighborhood: 

It's a little nerve-racking that the bear is out and about when it's dark in the morning, because so am I with the dog, because I have insomnia and when I'm up the dog wants to be out. It's also nerve-racking that three times in the last month I have had to remove piles of bear poop from the backyard. It's enough to make Captain Poopy resign his commission. 

I guess that's a new skill I can add to my résumé: bear scat removal. Although considering a lot of the books I've worked on, trying to clean up clumsy language or poor research, I think that's a task I've been doing for years. 

All of this may sound like a lot of whining, unless you happen to be British, in which case it sounds like a lot of whingeing. And that's fine. One day I'm going to compile a book from my most popular blog entries as the Best of Fred, and the title will be Always Explain, Always Complain.  

The path ahead.

This is a nice path. 

It's used for walking, biking, jogging -- the usual low-tech path stuff. Well made, I think, dotted with benches, running through the wooded areas of several towns. It goes almost twenty miles along the former railway line. It's popular, and it's an example of the kind of things local governments can do well. 

I can't think of a thing that the federal government has done this well in many years. Its response to Hurricane Helene is making the Katrina response look like a model of logistics and efficiency. How could it have gotten worse since 2005?

voilà

Of course, it will probably turn out that some of the funding for our local trail project came from the National Institutes of Health's American Bicycle Path Fitness Initiative, a $20 billion slush fund that donated $10,000 to the county. Who knows anymore. I just made that initiative up, but you know it sounded legit. Who cares? It's just money.

Our money.  

We've been building a lot of bike paths in America, but the actual number of bicyclists is declining. Around here we have a handful of serious bike riders, a small group of oldster bikers-for-exercise (they like to use the path), and the rest are kids, or illegals without cars, or guys who got their licenses yanked for DUI. Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, said while running for office that he was going to bike to work at City Hall, and he did -- the second day he was in office, with the cameras rolling. Since then? Well, with the weather and traffic in New York and the idiocy of city drivers and other bikers, I think he'd be a fool if he did. But I doubt he has.  

Of course the campaign statement was just posing. It's all about appearances, and to hell with appearances. Appearances are ephemera, mist on a windy morning, nothing more than the emperor's new clothes, and the emperor is not someone who you want to see naked. 

This is how we get things like this:

What's her foreign policy plan? "Friendship is magic"?

I can't forecast what's going to happen in the election, but I will make one prediction that I think is ironclad: If Trump is elected, Antifa and all the other wannabolsheviks will go back to the only things they know how to do -- throw bricks, burn things, attack bystanders. The so-called insurrection of 2021 will be nothing by comparison, but of course it was nothing compared to the human injuries and billions of dollars in damage these commie cosplayers caused in 2020 anyhow, the one Governor Walz's wife and daughter enjoyed so much. The iron fist in the sparkly pink glove.

I can't lose hope for America, but I'm certainly not as optimistic about it as I once was. I know nothing lasts forever -- but it would be nice if the world's oldest constitutional republic could show itself to be more resilient than the ancient Roman Republic, which lasted almost 500 years. We'll be halfway to that mark in 2026 and it's looking grim.

Wear your colors.

I was a regular listener of Don Imus and the Imus in the Morning radio program in the nineties and into the oughts. It was one reason, and not the most important one, that my wife bought me a denim jacket for Christmas 2001. 

By that year, Don Imus had started marketing Imus-branded products with his brother Fred (no relation) branded through Fred's company, Auto Body Express. They sold Imus-branded coffee, hats, and other things to raise money for children's charities. As such, they were not cheap. 

Shortly after 9/11, Imus was selling a patriotic-themed denim jacket, and I wanted one. I needed a casual coat for mid-chilly temperatures, and I loved the one Imus was selling, but I didn't want to spend the dough. She completely surprised me with it. 

I still have it. 

I've worn it ever since, and in turn it has become quite worn. I saw another guy in Midtown wearing one a couple of years after 2001; he looked like a grumpy tourist who had had quite enough of New York, and I was dressed for work and did not have my jacket so I couldn't go "Twinsies!" So I let him be. But he did look mighty sharp in that jacket. 

I believe Imus, who started out as a typical hippie but was more thoughtful than that, really did love America. He was falsely accused of racism at one point in his show because of a bit that went too far. People forgot the theme of his program, which basically was: We Hate Everybody. Their self-proclaimed slogan was, "We're not happy until you're not happy." 

Still, I stopped listening regularly after longtime sidekick and newscaster Chuck McCord retired in 2011. Charles had been a counterbalance to Imus's weenie hippie tendencies and the "normal" in the room (although he wrote a lot of their sketch material). It was a less funny show after that, to my ear. But I was still sad to hear that Don himself retired in 2018, and two years later died of lung problems -- which he'd had quite a few of long before COVID. 

My favorite feature of the jacket is on the back. It's a replica of the flag that flew over Fort McHenry in the War of 1812, the flag that inspired the poem of Francis Scott Key (no relation) that became our national anthem. 

I remember seeing the actual flag itself in the Smithsonian when I was young, and being flabbergasted: "THAT? THAT's the ACTUAL FLAG?" It was not only like meeting a celebrity; it was like meeting one whom you loved and thought was dead. 

One time I was going with a friend to McDonald's for breakfast. A crusty old-timer with his veteran's cap told me that the number of stars was wrong on my jacket. I explained that the flag was supposed to look like the Fort McHenry flag, but he still objected. Maybe because there were 15 stripes and 15 stars in 1814, but the damaged flag (and thus the replica) only has 14 stars. There is a hole where one of the stars should be. Or perhaps he knew that there were actually 18 states in 1814 -- but the Fort McHenry flag never had more than 15. It was not until 1818 that Congress decided to increase the stars to match the number of states, and make more room for the field by decreasing the number of stripes to 13. The old vet was wrong, but I didn't know why at the time, and we parted amicably. 

I'd like to close this memory with a meme I think is suitable to the occasion: 

I think Imus would have liked that. 

The last call.

On September 11, 2001, Aaron McLamb captured a picture of a lone fire truck going toward disaster while most of us fled. Ladder 118 from Engine Company 205, 74 Middagh Street, Brooklyn, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. None of the six men on that truck would return. 

I'll have something different to say about the date tomorrow. All my thoughts seem pretty insignificant today somehow. 

Be good.

It's been a while since I did a book post on a Wednesday, but don't get all happy -- I am not prepared with time or commitment to bring back the Humpback Writers feature. That, of course, never involved writers with hunched backs, but ran on Hump Day, and was and remains the worst name for a book feature online. So no, I'm not doing that right now.

Nevertheless, it is Wednesday, and here's a book. 

The Good Citizen's Handbook: A Guide to Proper Behavior, compiled by Jennifer McKnight-Trontz and published in 2001, is a look back at handbooks from the 1930s to the 1960s, designed to help Americans live healthy, worthy, happy lives. 

The pages inside are not altered from the original handbooks, except for the addition of headers ("A Good Citizen..."). To the credit of the writer and publisher, the book's endnotes have citations for all of the originals, printed in the smallest type you ever saw in your life. 

So let's get to it: What ought a citizen do in order to be a Good Citizen? 

All right! But surely there's more to it than that?

Hmm. Seems a bit familiar, yes? Like everything being shouted at the citizenry in 2020? Not that it's bad advice for avoiding being sick, but it was also our Civic Duty to ruin our lives to save them in 2020. So is this old pamphlet really goofy and out of touch, when it was exactly what we saw four years ago, just with updated clothing on the models?

In fact, while the book looks like it's intended to poke fun at the earnestness and innocence of the past (à la Nick and Nite's "How to Be Swell"), it can't help but shine a light on the aspirations of an America that wanted to be better and safer for all its citizens. 

Better dressed, too. 

I like the "Clean Play" page. The rules of good sportsmanship are the same as they always were. But the last professional sportsman to follow them that I know of was Barry Sanders, who didn't show off or brag when he scored his many touchdowns and show up the other team. These days we tell kids in school not to be dickweeds, but then we behave like dickweeds ourselves everywhere else. More is caught than taught.

Happiness through purpose, friendship, communication, exercise, and faith. This is the precise advice we still from mental health professionals, except that now the “spiritual values” one is always (and I mean always, 100% of the time) illustrated by photo of a young woman meditating in the lotus position.

This book may have been compiled to chuckle at the innocence of the past, but what sane person would not prefer to live in a society where people really do want to strengthen the republic, help one another, and bolster goodwill? "Today good citizenship means less to us," writes McKnight-Trontz in the introduction. "We worry far more about our demons than our duties.... We belong to fewer civic groups, vote less, and spend far more time doing things ourselves, for ourselves. No wonder it feels like everything is going to Hell." And that was written before the invention of the smartphone! 

Of course, the America of the 1930s through the 1960s had all the problems we can imagine -- tragic family trauma, addiction, racism, poverty, corruption, misogyny, war, whatever else you want to add. Despite that it was a high-trust society, especially compared to the current moment. Two-tiered justice systems, handwave treatment of violent criminals, election theft, tribalism, stores locking up goods, institutions run by fools chosen for the shallowest reasons, children being miseducated if educated at all -- this is all part of our new low-trust society. The Good Citizen's Handbook is a window to the past, not as it was but as those living then wished it could be. We don't even have that now. Whenever I see art depicting a hopeful future now it shows a multiculti group of young people, no children or oldsters, dressed like bums, doing no work, and if a white male is in it, he's probably dressed like a woman or a unicorn. The future is dumb.

Sadly, the handbook is out of print, although as I write this McKnight-Trontz has another Chronicle Books title out: How to Be Popular. Which I know I could use. Perhaps then I could learn How to Be Swell. Nick at Nite didn't really help that much. 

Going Fourth!

I often opine on Independence Day as an inspiring holiday for our nation, but today I found myself thinking about it as the thing itself and how it's been in my life. Like Christmas -- we all know the difference between the story of Christmas (awesome) and the actual celebration with loved ones (dicey). Every holiday has that kind of dichotomy -- the thing for what it celebrates and the thing for how it is. 

And I have to tell you, my Fourths of July have been a mixed bag. 

Never works out exactly as I would like.

I don't remember doing much at all when I was a kid. When I was little more than a toddler, I think I was at a parade, a big town deal with floats and stuff, but it was so far back I can barely remember anything. Later my family really didn't do anything. No parades, no fireworks. We visited relatives because it was a day off and Mom could go see her family. Then, as adults do, they sat around and talked. BORING! 

Later on there were some winners. I went to a Mets game one year, and while I don't even remember if they won the game (I think they won), the fireworks show at Shea afterward was spectacular. In 2002, my wife and I went to the local kaboomery show and it was great -- the patriotism was still thick on the ground here in the lower Hudson Valley, where many locals had been lost on 9/11. 

One July 4, after my first year in junior high, my family spent the day with a family that had enough fireworks to invade Canada. I shot off more bottle rockets in one evening than I have the entire rest of my life. Almost burned down their house, but not quite (a bottle tipped backward after I lit the fuse). In fact, it was a miracle that with alcohol-consuming adults and explosive-armed children there were no major disasters. 

For a few years the Fourth was spent at a relative's cabin in the country, something I would enjoy much, much more now than I did as a kid. Very quiet.

One year, as the Fourth loomed, I convinced a friend to get a party going at his house -- and then my parents informed me that we were going out of town for the holiday. I have never lived that down. But my friends all got even a year or so later, when I threw a party in my parents' backyard and all the guys decided to bug out because they wanted to play basketball in the park. So my parents were looking at me like Don't you have any friends anymore? It was humiliating. The guys returned later out of pity, or hunger.

More recent years have found our family unit with dogs, and we usually spend the holiday making sure no canine freaks out and goes running wild. Usually it's okay, but about five years back the idiots up the street were blowing up enough stuff to -- well, invade Canada. Poor Nipper took it hard. And it sparked an argument between my wife and Mrs. "Deuce" Baggio nearby, which my wife decidedly, comprehensively won. I could have warned the Baggios not to argue with my wife, especially when she's defending one of our dogs. 

There were other summer parties that were eventful, and even near terrible, but I think they did not land on the Fourth, so I'll leave them for another time, if at all. This year I just want to make some decent food and distract the dog when the bombs go off. I love you, America, but your birthday is not always my favorite day. 

Top-down stupidity.

Note: I wrote a draft of this post on Sunday, planning to put it up Monday, but got to wondering if I was too harsh. So I held off and looked at it again Monday. 

No, events of the last week convince me I was probably not harsh enough, if anything. 

So, here we go:

😛😛😛

The irreplaceable Instapundit often notes that we have the dumbest elites in the history of our nation. I actually am starting to think he's understating the problem. 

I take my impressions from the section of the culture in which I toil the most -- books. As a youth I would have found it difficult to believe that people could be both smart and stupid at the same time, but modern books have me convinced this is not only possible, but exactly what is going on now. 

duh.

Don't get me wrong -- a lot of the books I'm thinking of are well written, with great command of the language, deft use of literary themes, and great craft in metaphor, character, and sometimes even plot. But there is a willful stupidity that contaminates many of them, and I hope to make the case for some of the reasons why.

1) Gullibility. 

I probably do not need to say that these writers believe every single solitary word printed in the New York Times, which is why apostates like Senator Cotton must not be allowed to appear in that holy writ. I'm not kidding -- Biblical scholars are much more aware of and understanding of contradictions and conflicts in the Holy Book than Times fans are of their word of god. Times true believers are willing to argue that the Times is always right, even when the paper itself reports that it was wrong (as in Walter Duranty's famous coverage of the Holodomor, let alone more recent scandals -- the Hunter Biden laptop, or so-called Russian collusion, or Fauci and Cuomo as heroes of the pandemic, just to name a few). Not that the paper ever admits error; it just runs the new information as if it was never their fault for screwing up. 

Being wrong when you're Times means never having to give back your Pulitzer.  

2) Obsession with factoids. 

Another side of this gullibility is a love of factoids. Not that there's anything wrong with enjoying and amassing information, but the "facts" must be entirely Times approved. Mostly, though, the facts must contain some supposed insight that makes the intellectual look smarter, more worldly, and that will be the golden ticket to success. This is how we get lying books like Three Cups of Tea, which supposedly held the magic to dealing successfully with the intractable Taliban and became a huge seller. Our stupid Department of State could not buy enough copies, the morons. 

Remove all the garbage books like that from our publishing houses and there'd be a lot fewer trees giving their lives for book paper. 

3) Dead hearts.

Modern celebrated writers hate everyone, especially their own Western countries. The hate for them is pristine. There's never an understanding or excuse for why this or that Western nation did something in the past. Pure evil is the only explanation. Every statement must be phrased in a way that makes the people involved look as selfish, craven, and cruel as possible, even if the historical evidence actually shows beneficence. Such kneejerk hatred, for persons and populations, is the sign of a dead heart.

On that note, every character in their novels is dead inside as well; some may put on a good face, but they really love no one. It reflects the feelings of the loveless readers. If you found yourself transported into one of these novels, you'd think you'd gone into some kind of hell. Because dead hearts lead to... 

4) Empty souls. 

They believe nothing but the worst. They cannot write a genuine book about a character of faith, because they don't know what that's like. They think it's a kind of mental failing. And I don't mean religion so much as real ideals, the kind people will willingly die for. 

I've found no heroes of genuine selfless nobility in any novel celebrated by the intelligentsia written this century. I haven't read them all, of course. Prove me wrong!  

5) Racism, sexism, and all the other -isms.

Advancing the wrong people for the right reasons, the right people for the wrong reasons, and of course, the wrong people for the wrong reasons. The "right people for the wrong reasons" suffer for being stuck with the same affirmative action label. 

Is this payback for discrimination of the past? Fair point. Do two wrongs make a right? Try reading some of this stuff and tell me what you think. 

6) Lack of focus. 

No one can just do the job anymore; they have to do the messaging about the thing. In fact, that's what they truly want to do. They want to talk it all to death. Life as an endless undergrad bull session.

This is way beyond just books. If your company has to release an operations manual, for example, and hires some former English majors to do the job, watch for the opening sections to be about diversity, equity, and inclusion, before suddenly turning into serious data and instructions. The English majors really just want to do the DEI stuff. It'd be like buying a coffeemaker and finding the first three pages dedicated to the company's policies of inclusion. WHO CARES? I JUST WANT COFFEE. 

But the folly is not limited to virtue signaling. Companies that ought to be run by people who know how to do the things (cough, Boeing) are instead run by stock market weasels who sacrifice quality and even lives to increase stock value. Anyone could see that it's a short-sighted policy -- anyone but our crop of intellectual morons. Companies are unfocused; workers are self-indulgent; fortunes are being squandered because no one is really working on the actual job. 

7) Inadequate punishments for stupidity.

Only dissent gets punished in this universe, not stupid actions centered in foolish criteria. There seems to be no comeuppance for the dumdums ruining our society. They just fail upward.

😛😛😛

The only corrective that works in these cases is one that comes from those the perpetrators fear. It doesn't matter how much value the company loses, how disastrous the policy is, how lousy the books are; unless people who can make a difference get angry and start throwing bums out, nothing will change. Certainly I can be of no help. Nobody is afraid of me. 

Heart wrenching.

When my dad died, my mom sent me a heavy box with a selection of his tools. He'd had quite the workbench. At the time I was living in an apartment and I neither needed a lot of tools nor had the place to store them, so I begged her to sell the bunch and not send them all to me. Well, within a few years I became a homeowner and regretted the timing that robbed me of most of my father's collection. 

My dad had some great stuff. 

All his hand tools had been used a lot, and it showed. He could do any kind of work within reason (he did not go too deeply into electrical work because he did not want to die before his time). The tools Mom sent me are more solid and better made (in the God Blessed United States of America!) than many of the tools I've bought since.  

While I was dealing with the sink trauma a couple of weeks ago—still unresolved, because I got busy, and sick—I had a closer look at this wrench. Exhibit A from my dad's collection, if you will. 

This is a pipe wrench, not a monkey wrench, the monkey wrench having a flat top and no teeth, meant to turn lug nuts. Nor is this a Crescent wrench, which has the C shape, its jaws in a direct line from the arm. 

The origin of the term monkey wrench is obscure, although it may have come from a supposed resemblance to a monkey's face. As you can see, this pipe wrench does not look all that monkeyish and is intended for use on small pipes. 

It has a number 8 on the head, signifying that it is an eight-inch wrench (at full head extension) for 1/8- to 3/4-inch pipes. The handle has a loop, indicating that it probably hung on a wall with a line of other pipe wrenches in numerical and size order. I don't recall Dad having the whole set, though, and I certainly have no order to my own tool bench. It's a disaster. 

I have no indication of how old it is, but a closer look shows me where it originated: 

Crescent Tool! So despite not being a Crescent wrench, this is a Crescent company wrench, you see.

The Crescent Tool Company was established in Jamestown in 1907. Jamestown is in Western New York, near the Pennsylvania border, about as far from Rochester as it is from Cleveland or Pittsburgh. Jamestown was the home of a large number of furniture factories, in part because of access to great amounts of furniture-quality wood, and indeed called itself the furniture capital of the world until 1945. It was not well-situated for heavy manufacturing in that era, though. But a thriving tool company? Why not? 

Hey, wouldn't it be cool if the wrench factory was still going after 117 years?

Ha! Ha! Silly human. New York hates things that cause prosperity like icky manufacturing. Western New York is as rust-belty as any Rust Belt state.

Crescent now part of Apex Tool Group, along with SATA, Campbell, Weller, and other tool outfits, and Apex is owned by Bain Capital. You may recall that Bain was the Worst Company in the Universe™ in 2012 when co-founder Mitt "the vulture capitalist” Romney was auditioning for another a job. 

Bain bought Apex in 2013, but the Jamestown Crescent factory shut down before that, in 1984. How do I know the date? Because if you worked there, you might be entitled to compensation! If you put in four weeks on a summer job 40+ years ago and have cancer now, you may be able to help a law firm get money!

Asbestos is not a joking matter -- and yet maybe it's a shame those old Jamestown furniture factories hadn't been built with it. The Jamestown Royal Factory burned in 2021, and the Crawford Furniture Factory burned in 2022. 

So where do they make Crescent products now? Apex uses lots of factories in several countries for its tool lines. I read online that Crescent wrenches have been made in China since 2011, but that report is unconfirmed. Could be Mexico, or Canada, even somewhere else in America—or so Bain hints. Are they just throwing us a sop? 

Oh, who knows. No one ever tells us anything unless they think we'll like it, so hardly any company tells us anything anymore. 

But my dad’s little pipe wrench was made in Jamestown, New York, in the good old USA. I miss my dad, and I miss a lot of things about that America, a place that made things that worked, that made things that lasted.

Living the dream.

The American Dream has become one of the most misunderstood parts of the American Mythos, nearly always represented as selfish, soured, a nightmare hiding beneath a shiny gloss.  

The term dates back to 1900 and is described aptly by Webster's as "an American social ideal that stresses egalitarianism and especially material prosperity." So let's have a look at what the dream is really all about. 

1. Prosperity 

Often the American Dream is stated as "Work hard and you'll get rich," but that's twisting it, either to benefit those who sucker you or those who know that riches are rare and so disappointment will follow. 

Prosperity, on the other hand, is nothing more than a good living, a fair reward for one's work. Since so many people who came to the United States came from places that still had a feudal mindset, in which the efforts of the many only really meant prosperity for the few, this was and is a big deal. Even today, in places where slavery and serfdom are supposedly banished, people still can't achieve prosperity from their own labor because they live in crooked kleptocracies, low-trust societies that are all about theft, bribery, and using the law to steal from everyone. Corruption is the only means to rise from poverty.

We're supposed to be a nation ruled by laws, not men, and this is why. No one ever gets a fair shake when the law is merely a tool for those in power -- which is quite what many people in America are trying to do today.

2. Freedom

Prosperity means freedom from the tyranny of need. Noted French jerk Jean-Jacques Rousseau famously wrote, "Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains."

Oh, really? 

"Okay, baby, you're free! Here you go!" [chucks baby on lawn]

The chains to which all people are born are nature and necessity; only a baby born able to walk and eat grass and survive naked could be free as Rousseau demands. I never met a baby human yet who fit that description. 

But the American Dream promises a chance to not have to live under the shadow of terrible need, of hunger and exposure lurking daily outside the window. This is a far cry from promising mansions and yachts to everyone, but to my family who came over here from Europe, it was a huge improvement. They never expected Uncle Sugar to provide them with ease and comfort, just protection from lawbreakers and a chance to earn a fair wage. That was plenty to keep the wolf well away from the door. 

3. The Wealth Trap

The other proposed downside to the American Dream is meant to be the awful people who achieve it. Well, there we have to concede a point, if by those who achieve it we mean only the very wealthy, not the prosperous middle class. And yes, and they say on Instapundit, we currently have the worst ruling class in our history. Noblesse oblige is not considered their obligation for honor and generosity, but rather their responsibility to order the rest of us around. 

The rich are not usually concerned with the little people. We get in their way of them focusing on the ones they really hate -- the richer people. The guy a little farther up the hill who looks down on them. 

And if you are one of these moneyed mooks, you have a lot of incentive to hate everyone. People are always looking to separate you from your dough; you have no peace. For the type who holds the keys to the kingdom -- say, a repulsive, horrible creep who produces movies -- it must seem natural to demand humiliating services from those hoping you will unlock the door to fame and fortune.

And even if the rich can avoid all these temptations of pride, lust, envy, and so on, there's something about avarice that takes on its own life -- the hunger grows with the eating. 

Notice how well all these descriptions jibe with those in America's entertainment industry, the source of much disparagement of the middle class and the American Dream. They like to make the American Dream look bad, in their own actions and in their media, then take it out on the rest of us. It's America's fault! 

4. The Dream Is Good

The American Dream is still good, still right, and not to be disparaged because it sometimes fails, or because we fail it. It is not a promise, far less a guarantee. It is aspirational. It ought not to consume us, but encourage us. It ought not to be the whole aim of society, but a society that is rightly ordered makes it possible. It is still a dream wherein a people with no tribe more important than being Americans can look one another in the eye; where, as Joseph says in the series Jesus of Nazareth, "A man who's skillful in his work will stand before kings."