Gavin McInnes’ latest. Just another reason why every racist allegation is now simply a farce. You might as well accuse someone of being an alien in possession of an earthling’s body. Might it be true? Perhaps, but there is no way to know and the allegation is almost always totally bogus and always meaningless because no one knows what “racist” means any more:
Baltimore Orioles center fielder Adam Jones claimed people were calling him nigger. What a pile of horseshit. If a fan yelled that word from their seat at a baseball game, the only people not attacking the guy would be busy having a stroke. A quick check-in with people who were at the game confirms our suspicions. Jones is just another social justice warrior feeding off the myth that America is a racist hellhole.
Wow, full-on life blitz: office, family, garden. Every May, I say, “This May won’t be so brutal like the past.” And every May, I’m wrong. The number of obligations is stunning . . . and wearying. Fortunately, I continue to make time for a few weekday Masses and a few weekday drinks.
Last night, I took the family bowling, with eldest daughter Abbie and her boyfriend. It went well . . . because I won (178, 138, 169). The three Animator drinks from the bar helped, too. It was rum, blue curacao, Midori, sweet and sour mix, and a few other things. I’ll have to write down the ingredients and experiment with the recipe.
I don’t have anything for BYCU today. If you didn’t notice, I’m not even getting this post up until Friday afternoon. I normally have these put together a day or two ahead of time, but it simply wasn’t possible this week.
I hope to start forming beds at the Site this weekend, but a conference track meet and wedding (both out of town a little ways) are making it dubious. The tractor guy pounded up the ground, but it’s going to take a lot of hoeing to make those huge black chunks of soil into pristine ground.
The garden chronicles continue. On Monday, I got a half acre scraped off, which I was stoked to see. I then went out right after work to start churning the soil.
I ran into a phenomenon that locals call “Sturgis top soil.” I guess it’s highly unusual: Incredibly rich soil, but packed hard as a rock. I couldn’t come close to penetrating it with a Johnny’s broadfork (jumping on it, jiggling, swearing). I started hacking at a small section with a peasant hoe. I then went back at it with a broadfork . . . and got stymied. I then hacked it with a peasant hoe, then jumped on the broadfork . . . and got stymied.
After 20 minutes and a sheen of sweat, I had churned up a 3’x3′ area, only four inches deep. I then called the guy who scraped it and asked if he could find me someone with a commercial-grade tiller. I’m still waiting, but I’m told he found someone.
With any luck, I can start forming beds on Saturday morning and planting on Sunday. We’ll see. It’s been quite the parade of setbacks.
“Live all you can, as complete and full a life as you can find—do as much as you can for others. Read, work, enjoy—love and help as many souls, do all this. Yes, but remember, be alone, be remote, be away from the world, be desolate. Then you will be near God!” Friedrich Von Hugel. (From Dorothy Day’s Diaries.)
This kind of thing really grates on me: The government is going to counter ‘misinformation’ about GMO foods. The new bill allocates “$3 million to ‘consumer outreach and education regarding agricultural biotechnology,’ which includes genetic engineering of food and commodity crops.” As I’ve explained previously, I have no sweaty ideological horse in the GMO debate. All my annuals are non-GMO, but I do it as a way of diversifying: Everything around me is GMO, so when it comes to stuff I grow, I want non-GMO. My gut tells me the non-GMO advocates have a point, but that’s the extent of my opinion. But for the government to get involved and advocate a particular position? That’s absurd. Simply let the consumer decide what he wants to eat and move on. There’s plenty of free information out there for anyone who wants to read about the debate. There’s no reason to allocate money to providing more information. It’s simply a propaganda campaign on behalf of big-AG (another “Hudge and Gudge” moment).
But here’s one good thing about the government funding a pro-GMO campaign on behalf of big-ag: It pushes me further into the non-GMO camp. If Hudge and Gudge are for it, I’m against it.
This is, quite frankly, a no-brainer: Kansas City archdiocese breaks ties with Girl Scouts. I should say, “It’s a no-brainer on intellectual grounds.” The Girl Scouts has deep, emotional ties with many good people. It’s understandably hard to break with them, but in light of what they’ve become, you can’t support the group any more than you could support, say, the Church of Satan.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. The Church of Satan has no good local troops or leaders, but man, on this side of the metaphysical, it’s hard to imagine a more evil organization when it comes to issues of morality.
I found this piece pretty interesting: Spooked by Trump, Central American immigrants turn to Mexico. And how is Mexico responding? By beefing up their immigration security, of course (“With Mexico’s immigration authorities controlling migration more assiduously, Central Americans were forced to take more isolated, dangerous routes . . .”). The hypocrites.
It was the Week of Michael: Away track meet on Tuesday. On Wednesday, we attended scholarship night at the drinking club where Michael received an award named after a deceased friend of mine (a fitting scholarship, since my friend was one of the funniest guys I knew and Michael is considered, with some dissent from the politically-correct students, one of the funniest guys at the high school). Thursday was Senior Night, where mounds of scholarships were handed out. Michael was this year’s speaker, so that was fun to see.
Now it’s the weekend of drinking. All the kid extracurriculars wear me out. They’re good things and I’m thankful for them, but they wear me out. So tonight I’m going to kick back with a drink or two.
But I’m going to cap it at two. Alex is coming home tomorrow to celebrate his birthday, so I need to be “liver ready.” We don’t get drunk, but neither do we stop at two. If I’m at all hungover, I won’t feel like drinking, which wouldn’t be fair to Alex.
So what am I drinking? I’m going summer: The Mojito: freshly-squeezed lime juice, simple syrup, muddled mint leaves (which will be plucked fresh from my garden), white rum, and club soda. I’ll have to play with the ingredients, but I’ll probably shake an ounce of simple syrup, an ounce of lime juice, and two or three ounces of good rum together with a few mint leaves, pour over a Collins glass of ice, then top off with club soda.
The mojito was born on the island of Cuba and is one of the nation’s oldest cocktails. The drink has a disputed history. Some say the drink was developed in the 1500’s when the famed explorer Sir Francis Drake landed in the city of Havana, in order to sack the city of its gold. While the invasion was unsuccessful, an associate of Sir Francis Drake, named Richard Drake, created an early version of the mojito called ” El Draque ” out of aguardiente ( a crude form of rum,) sugar, lime, and mint. Others say the drink was invented by African slaves working in the Cuban sugar cane fields. The name ” mojito ” stems from the African word of ” mojo ” which means to place a little spell. In the mid-1800’s the creation of the Bacardi company bolstered the popularity of the mojito. The mojito rose to prominence to the international world when renowned writer Ernest Hemingway became a fan of the beverage after visiting a local Cuban bar called the ” La Bodeguita del Medio ” and also consumed the drink in Key West, Florida. While we may never know the true origin of the drink, the tasty combination of lime and mint is sure to stick around for years to come.
If you know vampire lore, you’ll like “What We Do in the Shadows.” It’s easiest the funny movie I’ve seen this year, and it’s short (1:25). It’s R-rated, but it’s a mild “R” (and skirts on the PG-13 line).
Feast Day of St. Athanasius. If you haven’t read Robert Payne’s account of St. Athanasius, you’re missing out. In fact, if you haven’t read Robert Payne’s entire classic, The Holy Fire, you’re missing out. It’s possibly the finest saint book ever written.
The opening lines from the chapter on St. Athanasius: “There are times when the dark and heavy syllables of his name fill us with dread. In the history of hte Church, no one was ever so implacable, so urgent in his demands upon himself or so derisive of his enemies. . . . [H]e was a hammer wielded by God against heresy.” Yes, Payne can write. His is one of the most gracefully-written works I’ve ever read.
One of the more harmless oddities produced by the terrible experiment that was the USSR: “Due to its frequent name changes it’s entirely possible a Russian was born in St. Petersburg, went to school in Petrograd, got married in Leningrad and died in St. Petersburg without ever having moved.” Wikipedia link.
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