Why do people voluntarily expose their social lives (via "social media") to an anonymous, third-party, for-profit corporation? And why do they allow that for-profit corporation to dictate to them the "appropriate" behavior?

On another subject much in the "news" lately: When's the last time you expected somebody to act respectfully towards you after you were disrespectful to them? Why would you expect this to work in the first place?

I just read this e-mail. I'm totally, completely convinced it's 100% legitimate. I also have a bridge in London (or is it Brooklyn?) that I can sell you at a very, VERY advantageous price.

Here goes:

(cross-posted from Medary's kinder, gentler twin blog site, gemütlich blog)

"Anger is uneasiness or discomposure of the mind upon the receipt of any injury, with a present purpose of revenge."  -- John Locke, "An Essay Concerning Human Understanding"

"The insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner, when we indulge its fury without check or restraint, is, of all objects, the most detestable. But we admire that noble and generous resentment which governs its pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by the rage which they are apt to excite in the breast of the sufferer, but by the indignation which they naturally call forth in that of the impartial spectator; which allows no word, no gesture, to escape it beyond what this more equitable sentiment would dictate; which never, even in thought, attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to inflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent person would rejoice to see executed." -- Adam Smith, "The Theory of Moral Sentiments"

Listening to Mr. Locke and Mr. Smith, and observing the theory that "living well is the best revenge," I dispense with my anger regarding the 2015 Hugo debacle.  (wipes hands, makes throwing-away motion a la countless people in the Honor Harrington novels.)

The Puppies have kicked off Sad Puppies 4:  The Embiggening (The Bitches Are Back).  It's fascinating, isn't it, how a movement with the basic tenet of "read what you like, nominate what you really, really like" draws so much vitriol and spittle-flecked hatred, isn't it?

Well, you just can't please some people.  But like they say, haters gotta hate.

Anyway, I'm taking the sour grapes of the haters and making lemonade and other fruit-based drinks, and beginning to organize a get-together of like-minded Huns and Morons, somewhere in or around Kansas City, somewhen in the August 16-21 time frame.

This hooley is tentatively known as the KCHunMoMee:  The Kansas City Hun/Moron Meetup.

It'll likely be in a restaurant, tavern, or public house, somewhere in the KC metro area, details to be worked out.  Who knows, we might wind up in or near a gun range.

Specifically invited are Huns from Sarah Hoyt's According to Hoyt site and SF-tolerant Morons from Ace of Spades HQ.  Others of like Oddness or moronity (and if so, why aren't you on AtH or the HQ already?) will likewise be welcome.

Bring your own carp.  Crossbow and longbow enthusiasts will be asked to unstring their weapons before entering.

I have set up an electronic messaging thingie for communicating about this festive event.  It is: Huns and Morons at-sign gmail.

Oh.  Yeah.  Dot.com.

Put that address together, discard extraneous spaces, punctuation and obfuscating wordage, and pop me a note if you are interested.

Lowe's employees come to the rescue of disabled vet with broken wheelchair:

In 1971, I stepped on a land mine in Vietnam and lost both legs above the knee.

For the past two years, I have been waiting to receive a new wheelchair from the Veterans Administration. In addition, I have been told that I am not entitled to a spare wheelchair.

On the evening of July 7, my wheelchair fell apart again, while shopping at Lowe's Home Improvement Center in on Forest Avenue in Mariners Harbor.

Go to the link and "read the whole thing".

This happened at a Staten Island, NY Lowe's home improvement store. If you're in the market for anything that Lowe's sells, drop by to one of their stores and buy it there. And tell the Lowe's people you heard about what the Lowe's store employees at the Mariner's Harbor store on Staten Island did for the disabled Vietnam vet.

Hattips: Weasel Zippers via Ace of Spades HQ (the AoSHQ comments, of course).

A neat little post I came across this morning, from the Detritus of Empire blog. Go read it all, but here's a taste:

There are, or were, specific toasts for each day of the week. As related to me by a couple of Royal Navy Lieutenants* at a pub some years back:

Sunday: “Absent friends, absent friends.”

Monday: “Our ships at sea.”

Tuesday: “Our men.”

Wednesday: “Ourselves, as no one else is likely to bother.” Alternate version: “Ourselves, Our Swords, Old Ships” Old ships being a reference to shipmates.

Thursday: “A bloody war or a sickly season.” (The death of more senior officers was the most reliable route to promotion in the age of sail).

Friday: “A willing foe and sea room.”

Saturday: “To our wives and sweethearts.” This is the only toast said to still be in common use, as is the customary response from the youngest officer present “May they never meet!”

*In the Navy the rank is pronounced much as it would be in America. Lieutenant derives from the French phrase en lieu tenant, or holding a place for another. The British army uses the variant “Leff-tenant” for perverse reasons known only to themselves.

For a while, a few years ago, my wife and I went to some performances from an "edgy" off-off-off-off-Broadway theatrical company in Kansas City. Yeah, it was run by a gay guy. Yeah, the plays were fairly funny. But after seeing a few of the productions, I was getting bored by all of the gay jokes.

Now I find that I shared that artistic judgment with playwright David Mamet. The setting is Mamet is teaching a class--I imagine on play writing (the quote is via the Wall Street Journal):

"Are gay people people too?" I (Mamet) asked the student, and he said that of course they were. "Are they aware of that fact?" I asked him. And he responded similarly. "Then why," I asked, "as they are aware of the fact, would they find its repetition on stage entertaining?"

"Ah, but," he said, "the straight people should see it."

"Ah, but," I said, "the straight people don't care. They may reward themselves for the ability to be bored by a play with a Good Message, but they, just like the gay people, come to the theater to be entertained. Your enlightenment is insufficient to capture the audience's attention for two hours."

I really don't have any particular problem with gay people, or homosexuality myself (by which fact you can infer that I'm not actually a conservative--I'm a classical liberal, really: in today's parlance, a libertarian.) I would really prefer however not to be beaten about the head and shoulders with gayness (or any other Message) for two hours straight, thank you very much. That's my fundamental problem with Democrats, "progressives," and others of the collectivist ilk. They insist that everyone else care about Their Pet Issue with the same burning fervor that they do. But the real world ain't built that way. "The straight people don't care."

Most of which feature the word "fuck" apparently:

A linguistic masterpiece. The kid got dialectical game.
Via Ace of Spades HQ which got it from BoingBoing

You read the headline to the story: Jackrabbit men wrap up Colbert and immediately think of a comedian testifying in front of a Clown Congress committee . . .

Time to take a short break, I think, from today's posting frenzy . . .

. . . and home-brewing beer, and going to the Women's Final Four, and dealing with some fiddly businessey-type detail stuff, and asking the accountant to file tax extensions for the fiddly stuff, and trying to re-establish the diet, after gaining 10 pounds at the Women's Final Four . . . and re-reading some of the Honor Harrington sci-fi book series, and . . .

. . . that kind of thinking . . .

Here are some pictures of the snowfall today in the Kansas City area:

Snow drifting against the downstairs patio door (sorry for the funny pattern--through the screen door, don't ya know.

View out the front door

Our cul-de-sac

Out the back door, over the deck, with snow piling up on the grill.

(I changed the post title from "Late winter snow storm" because, you know, it's spring now!)