The Most Important Story of 2010

There's a good chance many Americans aren't familiar with the most important story of 2010. The big-government-friendly media ignored it. The President, clearly, continues to pretend it didn't happen. And science teachers have never heard of it, as evidenced by their continued adherence to alarmist orthodoxy.  

The story is perhaps not only the most important of this passing year, but of this century's first decade. It consists of one resignation letter: that of Harold "Hal" Lewis, Emeritus Professor of Physics, University of California, Santa Barbara. In this letter he exposes "the greatest and most successful pseudoscientific fraud" of his lifetime, and the machinations behind keeping that fraud alive. He also puts the lie to the claim that those who have not fallen for this fraud are know-nothings. Clearly, Hal Lewis knows his science.

Happy New Year.

http://thegwpf.org/ipcc-news/1670-hal-lewis-my-resignation-from-the-american-physical-society.html

Dioramas

Forget computers, books and blackboards. Today’s educational tool of choice, by all appearances, is that three-dimensional quasi-artistic monument to household upheaval called the diorama.

You can't pass a school today without seeing at least a handful of kids carting their creations up to the school doors. In theory, these dioramas gave the kids a greater understanding of and appreciation for a tiny corner of our world. In reality, all they did was give these kids' parents a good idea of what the world would look like if God were a fourth grade surrealist. Rabbits would be the size of Kilimanjaro, grass would be 90 feet high, alligators and polar bears would live in the same trees, the hills would be covered with glitter and Selena Gomez would hover overhead beside the sun. Which is shaped like an eggplant.

Popular though they may be, I have the sneaking suspicion that dioramas are basically useless. Since when do kids have to build dioramas to learn something? Do you think anyone associated with the Apollo Program built dioramas in grade school? How about Einstein? Oppenheimer? Edison? Can you just see young George Patton building a diorama of the Brazilian rainforest? And those fellows did OK for themselves. Yet for some reason, there's always a diorama under construction in our three-schoolgirl home. They're building a habitat for an Aye Aye (a Madagascar lemur that's about as relevant to my kids as SETI is to the skunk in my yard). Building one of the Stations of the Cross. Building a grassland. Building -- as God is my witness -- a Mexican burial altar, complete with a plastic elephant, a picture of Bach, a chocolate-covered pretzel, a Gryffindor badge and a sugar skull.

Yes that's right. A sugar skull. What is a sugar skull? It’s a skull made of sugar. A human skull. With a patch of shiny foil on top. It’s about the size of a plum. And it cost me five damned dollars. I could have bought two five-pound bags of sugar for five damned dollars. Instead, I got one goofy plum-sized freaky-looking sugar skull that could have come from the world's tackiest Satanism superstore. I’m told they’re all the rage in Mexico. That would help to explain something else that's all the rage in Mexico: drug-gang massacres. How about a diorama of that?

Teachers that assign dioramas assume several things:

1. Parents have spare shoeboxes sitting around at all times just waiting to be desecrated
2. We have crap laying around that we wouldn’t mind hot-gluing to a shoebox
3. We have hot glue guns
4. We have children with artistic ability
5. We have spare fabric
6. We budgeted $5 This month for a goofy damned sugar skull

Note to teachers: you're wrong.

“Well,” teachers might say, “kids have fun with them.” Well of course they have fun with them. They’ve basically just been ordered by the primary authority figures in their lives to do something they love more than life itself: make the house look like a Mardi Gras float exploded in it.

In our house, one diorama — just one — completely ransacks three rooms. There’s the den, where the art supplies are kept and which must be thoroughly scattered so as to find the right foam, construction paper, twigs, cotton balls and walnut shells. There’s the dining room, where all that crap has to be meticulously disorganized into 35 individual piles, half of which are on the floor. Then there’s the kitchen, where everything comes together to create a darling display, which as it sits there all finished and shiny and colorful, looks a lot like an FTD Pick-Me-Up Bouquet in the middle of war-torn Baghdad.

It's not like they're learning a valuable life skill that will help them in their career some day. "Jim, the Mayo Clinic folks are coming in on Wednesday. I'd like you to build a diorama of an operating room that shows our new imaging tool in action. I think it'll seal the deal."

The worst part about dioramas is that after the kids take them to school, they eventually bring them back home again. What the hell am I supposed to do with it now? Yeah, I want to put that Mexican burial altar with its freaking $5 voodoo-shop sugar skull on my mantle. Yet you can't throw it away because, "Oh daddy I like it and I worked so hard on it." No, all you can do is leave it low to the ground and hope that someone breaks it eventually. Then you can pretend it's a darned shame as you carry it out to the garbage laughing quietly to yourself while sipping the iced tea you sweetened with that now-fractured sugar skull.

So please, teachers. No more dioramas. But if you must, here’s the deal: they’re coming to your house to make it. And then you get to keep it.

Enjoy.

Phenomenal Federal Food Drive

This photo was taken on October 21, 2010.

It was taken by a friend who works for a massive government agency. I won’t say which one, since I don’t want to get him in trouble for pointing out this particular absurdity. But trust me. It’s loaded with people.

You’ll note that the date of the food drive was June 1-17, 2010. So you may be asking yourself:

• Why is the donation box still there FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE FOOD DRIVE ENDED?

• How effing cheap are federal government employees that the best they could do was a box of whole grain pasta (which sucks) and a tiny cup of applesauce?

• And what’s with all the hands holding up the planet? It’s the “Capital Area Foodbank” not the “United Nations Foodbank.” I got news for you: if you plan on feeding the world with one box of whole grain pasta (which sucks) and a tiny cup of applesauce, you’d better be Jesus, and you’d better have something better up your sleeve than whatever you pulled out to feed 5,000 people with a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread.

This is the federal government. They can’t even pull off a half-assed food drive, yet they’re convinced they can run the nation’s health care system, power the whole country with windmills and coerce auto manufacturers into building electric cars that appeal to people with testicles.

The world’s longest, least-generous food drive should be predictive of how all of that will turn out. 

Typing with the iPad

So im sitting here with the iPad pt ... Aw crap. Trying to use e keyboard to actually type something of length. This fantastic little device, I just ear, is the... No not ear, i just read is the most quickly adopted piece of electronic equipment ever pcreated. The only problem is its really hard to get used to typing on itl i mean, on it, i can't rest my fingers on the keypad, like i should do thwith a regu lar keypad. Bad things happen. And there aren't characters readi
Y avail... How the hell did I get down here now? Oh. The l is right beside the return key. Anyhow, characters like the apostrophe aren
T on the... Aw son of a bitch. See? Where the apostrophe should be is whe the return key is, i think I type too fart too because some of the letters don
T get typed shit! There
S that dammit!

Qwheee was I?

Oh right, I type too fast sometimes and it just guesses what word I was trying to type. That doesn
T Keats you bastard. That doesn't always work out too well. Where the hell did Keats come from? That was supposed to by "always."

Still, it
S a remarkable piece of technology, except for that cork sucking apostrophe pain in the ass thing I can not get used to. Maybe one of the advantages of that will be that we eliminate contractions from the English language and we shall start sounding rather formal again. But I digress.

What I will likely do, should I buy one of these for myself instead of Bogarting he one from the office, is get thoe wireless keyboard. Provided it isn
T this touch screen you miserable piece of peckerwood.I am on another line again.

Clearly, ,anyone who wants to buy an iPad and use it for writing purposes is going to have to relearn h qwerty keypad and alter their typing technique. It might be worth it. The portability and versatility of the iPad is truly remarkable -- which mite account for sales projections of over 12 million this year. But I can
T help but think that aw the hell with this.

The Battle of Raleigh

At the Raleigh Airport today, a young woman sat several seats away from me and began an intense, animated, 10-minute battle with her badly misbehaving left breast. She was wearing a sun dress, and as she sat down, ol’ Lefty made a break for it. She started wrestling with it, trying to stuff it back in its nest, pulling up her strap with her left hand while pushing her breast down with her right, like a magician trying to stuff a stubborn white rabbit back into an undersized top hat. Just when it seemed like the situation was under control, she bent down for her laptop and, seeing a fresh opportunity to escape and nothing but unimpeded floor beneath it, her bosom ran to daylight once more.  The battle began afresh, the lady’s elbows flailing like a faith healer trying to hold down a possessed teenager. She grabbed at it with authority and with a look on her face that clearly expressed what she was thinking: “I’ve had about enough of you, young lady! Now you settle down and stay in your room and don’t let me see you again!” After several more minutes of pushing, squeezing, strap-yanking and adjusting, Lefty was back in place. Temporarily. As she sat there, it began creeping back out. Like a kid trying to sneak down the steps without getting caught, Lefty was on the brink of another jump and run when the young lady caught it. This time, she gave it one good, authoritative push, reached into a bag and pulled out a denim jacket which she buttoned up to her throat. “There. I locked your door. You’re not going anywhere!”

NOAA's Threepeat of Deceit

Having just returned from a beach vacation, I’m happy to report that the ocean is still within its boundaries. The beachfront hotel remains… well, beachfront. This is good news, given that global warming alarmists have been warning for years about rising waters that would leave the Island Vista several miles out to sea by now.

You would think that this admittedly unscientific observation technique (looking at something) might be the kind of thing that would make the global warming geniuses stop and say, “Hmm. Wait a minute. This isn’t rolling the way we thought it would.” But no, they’re still at it. Now they’re claiming that June was the “warmest on record.”

Well of course it was. And here’s why:

NOAA's cut back on recording temperatures in colder parts of the planet.

Back in January, Joseph D’Aleo (the first director of meteorology and co-founder of the now-decidedly ecomarxist Weather Channel) and a colleague reported that NOAA has pulled weather stations out of cooler locations around the world.

That’s right. NOAA has removed temperature-measuring weather stations from the world’s coolest locations. Lots and lots and lots of them. Since 1990 they’ve slashed the number of cooler-location weather stations from over 6,000 to less than 1,500.

And… Surprise! Their remaining weather stations, skewed heavily in warmer regions, indicate higher global temperatures.

This is the “sound science” of global warming. Do not question it.

If this isn’t proof that global warming is a diabolical hoax, I don’t know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do! This:

NOAA says that this past June was the warmest on record, primarily because of how warm it was in the Arctic region. They got this data from the Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS).

A note here about GISS: Even though they say this warming was driven by high temperatures in the Arctic region, guess what? THEY DO NOT HAVE A SINGLE THERMOMETER IN THE ARCTIC REGION.

No, they simply extrapolate the numbers from a thermometer south of the Arctic region, a technique that is highly susceptible to personal bias. In other words, it’s a SWAG (Scientific Wild-Assed Guess). Maybe they think we shouldn’t question scientists who are so brilliant they can measure exact temperatures without a thermometer, but who in their right mind wouldn’t when billions of dollars and a slew of individual liberties are at stake?

If that isn’t proof that global warming is a diabolical hoax, I don’t know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do! This:

Seems there’s a NOAA satellite that detected temperatures in northern Lake Michigan of over 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

(Oh, and look how precise their satellite is: it has a key for "Probably Cloudy.")

After this was revealed, NOAA denied it. Then admitted it. Then said it was no problem. Then admitted the satellite’s readings were degraded and would no longer be used for temperatures. After, of course, they were used to help bolster the myth that the globe is getting hotter by the second. Full story here:

http://www.climatechangefraud.com/climate-reports/7479-us-government-in-massive-new-global-warming-scandal-noaa-disgraced

Again, this is the sound science that none of us are supposed to question in the slightest.

Every time NOAA has been caught cheating the numbers, they simply move on to promote the next set of false data. And their "findings" are echoed and amplified by the lazy and/or complicit left-leaning media.

Which might explain why fewer people are taking either very seriously. 

Headstoned

One of the drawbacks of growing older is finding yourself in graveyards more and more often. This, of course, beats the alternative of finding yourself in a graveyard permanently, but still… it’s not a terribly pleasant part of the aging process to visit increasing numbers of your all-time favorite people in such places.

If these visits weren’t bad enough, there’s now something else that makes them even more unpleasant:

The appalling trends in modern headstone design.

These things are atrocious. What once were simple markers of the last mortal remains of our fellow human beings have been transformed into mind-boggling orgies of poor taste: gaudy displays of tackiness shaped like teardrops, hearts, books, flames, angels holding hearts, mountains, wings and animated ogres. Think I’m kidding?

But it's not just the shape that's changed. It used to be that the copy on a headstone was limited to the name and lifespan of the deceased. But this has tragically morphed into a verbose screed that features several lamentations and a list of unofficial titles that all start with the word “beloved:” Son, dad, cousin, brother, nephew, uncle, neighbor, hunting partner, business associate, tipper, drinking buddy…

They read less like headstones and more like resumes for passage into heaven.

“Says here on your stone you were a square dancer and avid fisherman who was beloved by everyone. No kidding, everyone? Dang. You’re in.”

In fact, according to modern headstones, everyone who’s died this year was a humanitarian who would have put Mother Theresa to shame. Just once, I’d like to come across a stone that indicates the interred was a miserable bastard. Or a grump. Or a lazy, cheap-beer-swilling, do-nothing, two-timing louse whose lone contribution to the betterment of this world was the departing of it. But I guess if that were true, they’d just list his name and lifespan.

Worse than the verbose headstones are the ones that take advantage of the latest visual reproduction technology. 

These are stones that feature a laser-engraved collage of what the deceased enjoyed in life, such as ocean scenes, motorcycles, fishing ponds, airplanes, and even tree stands for deer hunting. You can just imagine a nightly herd of deer laughing at that. “You don’t look so bad now, do you Mister Buckmaster.”

Yet another trend is to include actual photographs of the dearly departed, presumably to let future generations know where their ugly gene came from.

Frankly, I don’t want someone a hundred years from now knowing what I looked like. I want them to see my headstone and think, “That there was the handsomest sonofabitch that ever lived.” Which is why my stone will look like this:

Handsomest AND happiest. 

No mas.

I know there’s a lot of debate out there about Spanish. One side says there are umpteen million Spanish-speaking people in this country and we should accommodate them. The other side says that if you want to create a permanent underclass, make it easy for immigrants to not learn English. One side says Spanish has become part of the American culture, the other says it splits that culture in two, like French does to Canada. But neither side is addressing the real issue with incorporating Spanish into every package, sign, ad and TV’s closed-captioning software:

It’s waaaaaaayyyy too long.

I first came to this realization when we translated a radio script for a client. In English, it was a well-paced 60 seconds. In Spanish, it was 75, even though the announcer was reading it faster than a disclaimer for a used car lot’s 0% financing event. We were cutting out complete sentences just to get it close to 60, and finally were left to eliminating all pauses after periods. Then time compressing it by 10%. You’d have to have a blue whale’s lungs to say that much that fast.

Brands, advertisers and politicians (of course) think they’re currying favor with Spanish-speaking people in the U.S. by accommodating, promoting and using their native language. But did anyone ever bother to ask just why these folks left their Spanish-speaking country? Maybe, just maybe, they were desperate to escape Spanish.

Look how long it takes to say things:

“50% more fiber!” is just seven syllables. But in Spanish (Cincuenta por ciento de fibra más!) it’s 11. That’s 57% more syllables to tell me I get 50% more fiber.

“Officer! That man took my baby!” (9 syllables) translates into the 14-syllable-long, “Oficial! Ese hombre tomó a mi bebé!”  I got news for you: ese hombre is half-way to the next county by the time you spit that out.

In the sign above, telling employees that they must wash their hands takes a mere six syllables in English. In Spanish, 14. By the time you’ve read that in Spanish, the guy who read it in English has finished blow drying his hands with one of those heatless, earth-friendly dryers and is at the bar with your date, who was impatiently wondering what was taking you so long but is now agreeing to go check out this dude’s F150 king cab. The only thing waiting for you at the bar is the tab.

English is also much simpler because it’s flexible enough to slam words together and still have them make sense. Look how long it takes to tell someone in English that the 3 oz. Dixie Cups they’re buying are for use in the average bathroom: “Bath Cups.” That’s it. “Bath Cups.” You get it. You know they’re cups for the bathroom. Now look at the Spanish: “Vasos para el bano.” Four words, seven syllables to say “Bath Cups.” Even if you just say “Bano Vasos” it’s twice as long syllable-wise.

The Spanish version of “War and Peace” must be nearly six hundred billion pages long.

This isn’t to disparage the Spanish language. I recognize the lyrical quality to Spanish. It’s a beautiful language. But that’s no excuse for loquaciousness. English can be beautiful, too. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?,” “Do not go gentle into that good night,” “Kirk to Enterprise, three to beam up.” See? Gorgeous. And brief.

It's Time For a Name Change

Having lived here for 20 years now, I can tell you there’s a lot to like about western Pennsylvania. The names of some of the places, however, don’t make the list. I’m not sure where these names came from, but someone should give them back. It’s our only hope.

Blawnox

I’ve always imagined that the elder in charge of announcing the winning entry of Blawnox’s naming contest got as far as, “And the official name of our community is” when he suddenly threw up. The town stenographer tried to spell the sound of retching as best he could and, voila. “Blawnox.”  Since then, I’ve learned that the founders waited too long to name their town, and the only three names available were Stinktown, Upper Diphtheria and Blawnox. After 52 ballots, Blawnox beat Stinktown in a runoff by one vote.

Leet

That’s not a name. That’s a facial tick.

Leetsdale

A town of facial ticks.

Pittsburgh

I know it’s a tribute to William Pitt, a friend of the colonists, and that’s all good and whatnot. Still, these are two pretty harsh syllables slammed together and they just don’t sound good. Back in 1907, when Pittsburgh annexed Allegheny City, they had a golden opportunity to pick the better of the two names. They blew it. Bad. Don’t believe me? Which name do you think has a better chance of completing this sentence: “And the 2024 Summer Olympics are awarded to…”? Pittsburgh? Uh-uh. Allegheny City? “Why, that sounds like a lovely place to hold the Olympics!”

East Pittsburgh

They should have just called their town “Too Lazy to Feign Originality.” “There’s Pittsburgh. We’re east of that. East Pittsburgh. Motion to adjourn? Good. Commence drinking.”

Wall

I guess “Roof” and “Floor” were taken. “Support Beam” was a close second in the voting.

Glen Osborne

That’s not a town. That’s a B-movie actor who died under very mysterious circumstances. “Glen Osborne was found dead this morning inside his laundry chute. He was wearing a Spanish bullfighter cape. Several goats were found locked in his attic. Police suspect foul play and are still searching for the murder weapon, which is believed to be a ham.”

Plum

“I live in Plum” must sound funny to immigrants. “You live in Plum? Your wife, she live in Peach?”

Green Tree

If ever a bunch of town founders mailed in a name, it was the guys who founded Green Tree. They looked for something distinguishing about their town, and all they came up with was a tree? That’s green? What tree around here isn’t usually green? If they found a blue tree, then I could see naming a town after it. Folklore has it that Green Tree’s founders joined the westward migration and established the town of Flatter Than Hell, Kansas.

Munhall

I think that’s actually the title of a Neanderthal chieftain. 

Pittcairn

“Cairn” is from the Irish and denotes a manmade pile of stones. So this is William Pitt’s pile of stones. Fantastic. Why not just name it, “Please Don’t Come Here”?

Squirrel Hill

I know it’s a lovely part of town and all, but seriously? You named it after squirrels? Squirrels are goofy little mental cases that run around burying nuts and immediately forgetting where they put them. Watch a squirrel some time. Just as soon as he finishes covering up the nut, he stands there and thinks, “Shit. Where’d I put that nut?” Then he runs fifty yards away and starts digging frantically because for some reason, he’s convinced that that’s where he left it. On top of that, what hill in Pennsylvania ISN’T loaded with squirrels? Every hill we have is squirrel hill.

Rankin

If you want to guarantee that the town you’re founding will always be well known for it’s assortment of eyesores, call it Rankin. Or Pus. Or Goiter. How about Gammy Leg? Snot? Maggot! No, on second thought, Rankin sounds worse. That’ll do the trick.

Wilmerding

These guys just had to be drunk. 

The Best. News. Ever.

They say you always remember every intimate detail of where you were and what you were doing when you receive life-altering news. I had one of those moments recently. It was in my living room, late at night, walking from our side room to our living room. A voice on my television said, “The national tour of Phantom of the Opera will take it’s final bow.”

Why will that moment live in my mind forever? Because I hate — and I do mean HATE — the Phantom of the Opera. I hate everything about it. I hate the music. I hate the mask. I hate the t-shirts and the typeface and the promos spelling the word “fantastic” with a “ph” and Andrew Lloyd Weber for writing it and Michael Crawford for nauseatingly caressing every sappy note of every sickening ditty.

And in case you’re wondering, no. No, I’ve never seen it. I wouldn’t see it if you paid off my house. There’s only one way I’d go see it and that’s if I got to personally meet Andrew Lloyd Weber afterward. Because I’d kick him right in the nuts. I’d wear a tuxedo and pack boots for the occasion. And I’d be hitting the squat rack months beforehand.

I hate Phantom because it would never leave me alone. Ever. This miserable, overblown piece of dreck has pestered me and haunted me and annoyed me for over twenty years.

It all started with a co-worker who had a cassette tape of the soundtrack. Instantly, I didn’t like it. Which is no big deal. If I don’t like it, I won’t listen to it. But no. No, she played that tape at least once a day for months. By the 50th time I’d heard it all the way through, I wanted to unwind that tape and personally strangle the entire original Broadway cast with it. Including the stage manager.

Maybe that early exposure increased my sensitivity to it. All I know is that for over 20 years, my blood pressure has instantly spiked every time I hear that obnoxious overture:

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

I could never escape the Phantom, though I desperately wanted to. For years, my radio kept telling me to go see the Phantom at the “beautiful Pantages THEE-uh-tah in Toronto, Canada!” with that melodramatic overture playing for 60 seconds behind an announcer who sounded like he just threw back a jigger of lye. But it must have worked, because that ad ran several times a day for YEARS on every radio station I listened to. Sports, classic rock, new rock, country, news/talk, Gregorian Chant, Hindu hits, Jesus-fish… all of them. I’d be driving along, minding my own business when suddenly…

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

You can trace the advent of road rage to that particular commercial.

Then of course, it would come to town. And even though it sold out every show roughly 26 seconds after tickets went on sale, they still advertised the living hell out of it for months. I’d be watching a Pirates game, or catching up on the news, or flipping around the radio looking for a song when suddenly…

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Then I’d have to listen to people talking about what a marvelous show it was. “Did you see Phantom? Oh, you HAVE to see Phantom! Phantom is wonderful! I LOVE Phantom. I won’t miss Phantom! I got my Phantom coffee mug. Phantom, Phantom, Phantom!”

And then, three days ago, as I spent my customary seven minutes an evening channel surfing for anything other than ultimate fighting or CSI Miami reruns, I heard it again.

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Only it was different this time. Before I could reach for a lamp to throw through the TV screen, I heard those beautiful, beautiful words: The national tour of Phantom of the Opera will take it’s final bow.

Instantly, my blood pressure receded. Thank you, God. My long personal nightmare is over. It’s leaving. It’s finished. The stage will go dark. Hopefully forever. Good riddance. May it rot in hell from whence it came. 

The Best Survival Kit

I recently renewed my membership in the NRA, primarily for two reasons:

1. Government is a lot friendlier when people can shoot back;
2. They have some great gun raffles. 

Number two is important, because there are a couple of guns I really want, and the NRA tends to give them away once a year. One is a very nice side-by-side shotgun, the other a well-built .50 caliber Hawken flintlock muzzleloader. The problem is, they both cost more than I’m willing to part with presently. So it’s cheaper to buy a membership and take my chances, even though I’m 0 for 20 in this scenario.

But as a consolation prize this year, the NRA did give me a wonderful free gift for renewing my membership: the Official NRA Survival Kit. It includes a pseudo Leatherman tool, a flashlight and a knife. That led me to wonder…

Why the hell is the National Rifle Association giving me a knife?

I mean, seriously. You’re a GUN organization. And you’re giving me a knife? That would be like the Beer of the Month club giving me a free corkscrew.

I wouldn’t expect a free gun because they’re expensive, of course. But what about a cleaning kit? Or a sling? Or a can of bore cleaner? What can I do with a knife that I can’t already do with a gun (only louder)? Kill a squirrel? Scare off an intruder? Untangle a knot? No!  

Come to think of it, the NRA has to know that if I join their organization, I likely already own a gun or six. So why do I need any survival kit at all? A gun IS a survival kit. Say you’re lost in the middle of the woods somewhere and along comes a bear or a rabid coyote or the hillbillies from Deliverance. What’s more likely to get you out of those woods alive:

     A) The above survival kit (in a handy carrying case), or

     B) A Remington 870 Express 12-gauge pump action shotgun

Don’t think too hard on it because the answer is B.

If you said “A,” well, you’re in for a brutal encounter with Darwinism some day.

Still, I’m not complaining. My Official NRA Survival Kit was free after all, along with my subscription to American Hunter magazine, which is often chock-full-o’ gripping stories of harrowing escapes from Cape Buffalo. None of which involve a four-inch knife, by the way. Or a flashlight. Or a faux Leatherman tool. Just a really, really big gun.

IT'S THE LAW

Years ago, it was our commonwealth’s mission to make sure visiting drivers felt welcomed. “You’ve got a friend in Pennsylvania” was the warm and fuzzy greeting that met motorists who crossed the Mason-Dixon line or entered from any of our neighboring states. “Come on in,” the signs were saying. “We’re glad to have you.”

Today, sadly, it’s obvious that that heartwarming slogan is not only gone; it’s long, long forgotten.

On the most prominent signage along our interstate highways, the implied comfort of “You’ve got a friend” has been replaced with an oft-repeated and implied threat: IT’S THE LAW.

That’s a pretty drastic departure in tone. “You’ve got a friend” says “Come on in, relax, have a cup of coffee, spin a yarn and leave your worries on the other side of the border.” “IT’S THE LAW” says, “YOU DO WHAT WE SAY, SERF, OR YOU’LL SUFFER OUR WRATH”

Not quite the same is it?

Yet, there it is on sign after sign — warning after warning telling motorists to do as they’re told… or else:

BUCKLE UP. IT’S THE LAW.

TURN HEADLIGHTS ON IN WORK ZONE. IT’S THE LAW.

LIGHTS ON WHEN WIPERS ACTIVATED. IT’S THE LAW.

KEEP RIGHT. PASS LEFT. IT’S THE LAW.

ALL SNOW MUST BE REMOVED FROM MOVING VEHICLES. IT’S THE LAW.

Maybe the slogan on the welcome signs should be, “YOU’VE GOT AN OVERBEARING, MEDDLING COMMANDANT WITH A GOD COMPLEX IN PENNSYLVANIA.”

Oops, almost forgot the most important part: “AND HE’S A FILTHY HYPOCRITE.”

You see, Pennsylvania is big on telling you to follow the law, but the people who write the laws are free to break them at will. And pretty much without consequence to boot. Oh sure, sometimes the powers that be sacrifice a bozo to appease the disgruntled masses, but for the most part, lawmakers as lawbreakers is the norm here. And even when they are caught and convicted, they’re barely punished for breaking THE LAW.

Take convicted State Senator Vincent Fumo. He bilked state taxpayers of at least $4 million and was tried and convicted. Federal sentencing guidelines and a probation report recommended 21 to 27 years in prison. State prosecutors were asking for 10 to 15. The judge in the case gave him two and a half. But don’t get too upset. He’ll be out before then for good behavior.

So technically, you’ve still got a friend in Pennsylvania, provided you’re a powerful and well connected yet corrupt politician.

But since the state is so fond of telling everyone what THE LAW is, maybe they should consider a few more signs. Like maybe a reminder for PennDOT about what exactly they’re supposed to be doing. Start with their mission statement:

“PENNDOT provides services and a safe intermodal transportation system that attracts businesses and residents and stimulate (sic) Pennsylvania's economy. IT’S THE LAW.”

Of course, they do no such thing. (Hell, they can’t even make their subjects and verbs agree.) They provide lousy roads that are poorly conceived, constructed and maintained so as to create government make-work jobs in a state that couldn’t attract business without bribery if their lives depended on it.

Here’s one for our illustrious elected officials:

“A balanced budget must be approved by July 1. IT’S THE LAW.”

Pennsylvania has made a habit of ignoring this particular law — without consequence, of course. Ed Rendell has turned breaking this law into an art form by constantly demanding new taxes and higher spending as his solution to absolutely everything, then holding state employees hostage until the legislature caves to at least some of his useless spending.

Here’s a beaut:

“No member of either House shall during the term for which he may have been elected, receive any increase of salary, or mileage, under any law passed during such term. IT’S THE LAW!”

Back in ’05, they got around this through something called “unvouchered expenses” which jacked their pay 16-32%. The Supreme Court probably recognized this as an unconstitutional act, right up until they discovered that their own salaries got bumped up, too. Ta-da! It’s legal! Eventually, a near revolt by the citizenry scared the legislature into repealing the raise, but the courts let them get off Scott-free. Which means they can completely ignore that very clear constitutional prohibition at will in the future.

But by God my headlights better be a blazin’ if my windshield wipers are on or I’m gonna be dragged before the magistrate and made to pay an exorbitant fine.  

After all, IT’S THE LAW.

So, according to Article I Section 21 of the state constitution is this:

“The right of the citizens to bear arms in defense of themselves and the State shall not be questioned.”

That is, if you think it’s actually a state worth defending.

Eyjafjallajokull.

If you’ve happened to read any news reports in the past week, you’ve learned that a volcano is wreaking havoc with air travel in Europe.  This, of course, is normally a union job, but I digress. In virtually all of those printed (or webbed) news reports, you’ll see the name of the volcano, Eyjafjallajokull, written out like any third grader should be able to pronounce it. Which any third grader can, provided said third grader lives in Iceland, which is where Eyjafjallajokull is located.

But here in the States, Eyjafjallajokull is not a word. It’s what happens when a ferret walks across a laptop.

It would make sense of course, and be totally courteous, if the news outlets spelled Eyjafjallajokull  the way it sounds. If they did, they’d come up with something like Ayafyatlayokut, which isn’t a lot better. But still, a reader could get close to the proper pronunciation. However, AP and Reuters reporters would never dream of spelling Eyjafjallajokull with the letters which, in English (which we speak), actually make the sounds they hear when someone in Iceland pronounces the name of the volcano. No, no. They’re more global than you or I. And by God, they’re going to prove it by spelling it the way they spell it in Iceland. If you don’t know that those double “L”s make a “T” sound, it’s because you’re dumber than they are. Or more parochial. Same difference.

“But that’s not how they spell it in Iceland,” they might say. True. But look very, very closely at a globe. You may notice something surprising: This isn’t Iceland. By the reasoning of “That’s how they spell it,” Ichiro Suzuki’s name should always be printed in Japanese letters. “Pravda,” the Russian newspaper, should be spelled BP3MR (and the R would be backwards). King Tut’s name should always be spelled with a couple of fish, a Sphinx head, rippling water and a stick. So why is that volcano spelled like someone tried to type with their elbows?

This disregard for the way we pronounce letters in our American culture is nothing new. Take Duke basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski. I’m sure Krzyzewski is how they spell Shishevski in Poland, but again, please see the aforementioned globe. This isn’t Poland. In America, the letters in “Krzyzewski” make the sound “Kurzyzooski.” If you want America to pronounce it “Shishevski” maybe you ought to spell it that way. But if you’re more in love with the way it looks than the way it sounds, then good luck in that big game against NC State, Mister Kurzyzooski.

This constant bending to the grammar rules of foreign countries is how we Pirates fans ended up with a back-up catcher by the name of Jason Jaramillo. And yes, it’s pronounced “Jayson HairaMEEoh.” Someone needs to tell this feller that “J” makes one sound in American English, and that’s the sound of “Jar,” “Jerky” or “John Wayne.” How do we acknowledge that rule in Jason’s first name, then abandon it one word later? If some guy from Chicago insisted on the same treatment in a foreign land, he’d be labeled an “Ugly American.”

But here, we have to be politically correct and avoid the scorn of our American culture-hating elitists for being narrow minded xenophobes. So to that end, I’d like to remind you that if you’re traveling to Europe, beware Eyjafjallajokull. Back in 1821, it erupted for a whole year. Hopefully, it will do the same this time around. You’ll need that long to learn how to speak Icelandic. 

How to Kill a Cat.

Up until a couple of days ago, I’d never heard of the rare flat-headed cat of Southeast Asia. But to be honest, I haven’t heard of most animals that don’t come with a side of fries and/or hush puppies. That and the fact that the closest I get to Southeast Asia is the Pad Thai lunch truck in the Strip District.


Today, however, I’m so happy to have learned about this elusive creature. because I realize that the flat-headed cat can teach us all a valuable life lesson: namely, that the people orchestrating the green movement are dangerous idiots.


These, of course, are the masquerading Marxists who still prophesy the doom of “global warming” and advocate for draconian energy reduction, even though Phil Jones, former head of the Climatic Research Unit of the University of East Anglia (from which the warmers got all of their alarmist data) admitted that there has been no global warming in the last 15 years. And that the CRU fudged data. And that they ignored the Medieval Warming Period (500 YEARS of global warming) when depicting how the earth has warmed over the centuries.


Today we learn that their lunacy is about to wipe one critter off the face of the earth. Because, according to nationalgeographic.com, more than half of the flat-headed cat’s lowland habitat is quickly becoming vast biofuels plantations.


You remember biofuels. They’re going to save the planet by replacing fossil fuels, which are the culprit behind the global warming that hasn’t been happening for the last 15 years but actually DID happen for 500 years in Medieval times (which was long before fractional distillation was discovered) no matter how much Phil Jones tries to ignore it.


You remember too, I’m sure, the greens pushing for biofuels like ethanol made from corn. Remember when all of our vegetables went way up in price a couple years ago? That’s because farmers started swapping out other foods to grow corn, the price of which was artificially inflated by new ethanol mandates.


Anyhow, just like compact fluorescent light bulbs, which contain mercury but we all have to start using anyhow because they reduce the use of fossil fuels (but not by nearly as much as once thought, which doesn’t matter because they’re not warming the planet anyway), biofuels have proven to do more harm than good environmentally, given the vast quantities of fossil fuels required to grow, harvest, distill and transport them. To date, however, this has not been enough to dissuade the ecomarxists, who only care about control and money, both of which they’ll get in spades if we adopt their agenda.


Now, given that their nonsense is on the brink of a real and tangible ecological result (the eradication of a species) we’ll see how truly eco-conscious they are. If they do care about the planet, they’ll call for an end to biofuels mandates (but still advocate for research). But don’t hold your breath. Their agenda isn’t environmental. It’s political.


Oh, and just as an aside, if, say, Exxon-Mobile were endangering this cat by drilling in its habitat, do you think the story may have made it to the evening news, the New York Times, NPR and the Washington Post? Yet somehow, this story hasn’t. Interesting.

The Latent Anti-Stupid Gene

At some point in your life, you’ll hear (if you haven’t already heard) someone make a crack about the stupidity of the average American. “DFA” (Dumb F*** America) is the slur people often drag out to disparage the great unwashed masses who oppose their latest, greatest idea, opinion, poem, finding, theory, reform or theatrical release.

But Americans aren’t dumb. They may be distracted, misinformed or too busy to get all the facts, But on the whole and as a whole, they’re not dumb. And they recognize dumb eventually. Sometimes, they may even tolerate dumb for a short time. But eventually, they have no time for it and will go to extremes to circumvent it, even if that means breaking the law.

Take Pittsburgh’s West End Circle construction, now in it’s third year. (NOTE: Three years to fix a bottleneck is dumb.) After two-plus years of minor messes in the Circle, City engineers and other geniuses have finally succeeded in creating a mess of impressive proportions. Traffic now backs up an insane distance every day. It’s a design fiasco that is so complete, it could not have been better implemented intentionally.

This has been going on for weeks, and people have been patient. They’ve put up with it for a good long time, even though the magnitude of the mess makes no sense. But at some point, tolerating stupidity is no longer an act of patience or civility or civic duty. Patience becomes an act of stupidity in and of itself.

Today, people lost their patience with stupidity.

Steuben Street heading toward the West End Circle is diverted to one side street that hooks on to the now-lone main drag into the Circle. Problem is, coming up from the West End Valley are at least four other roads that also must now divert onto that same road. Traffic to and on the side street off Steuben backs up for well over a mile. You might expect some police officers there directing traffic to mitigate the morning disaster. There aren’t any. Which is dumb.

This morning, after creeping roughly 100 yards in 30 minutes, people started blowing through a gap in ROAD CLOSED signs on Steuben to find a less congested side road connecting further down the main drag. One car after another after another decided that the designated route was too stupid, too ineffective, too obviously flawed to observe for one more second, traffic laws be damned.

What they did was, technically, break the law – a law that mandates a behavior that is maddening, slow, inefficient and agitating. Some might call that irresponsible, selfish or even dangerous. I call it independent and wholly justified. That fierce streak of independence is in our DNA. It’s the trait brought over by the independent people that founded and built this country. It’s a virtue, a strength, a glaring positive.

It’s good to see that that gene, however latent, can still be awakened. Because with the staggering amount of stupid that’s creeping our way from Grant Street, Harrisburg, Washington and Turtle Bay every day, we’re going to need it.

Pittsburgh Paralyzed!

Schools were closed again in Pittsburgh today, one week after the very first snowstorm to hit this city in recorded human history and possibly well before that.

With only four days notice of the impending deluge of snow, the storm caught everyone by complete, utter and total surprise, including the Mayor, who was stuck an hour outside of town at a ski resort where he was celebrating his seventh birthday.

Over 21 inches of snow hit Pittsburgh on Friday and Saturday, February 5th and 6th.  The National Weather Service warned the city to expect 8 to 14 inches of snow, setting a new government record for accuracy. By Wednesday, streets in nearly every city neighborhood remained unplowed. The rivers however are snow-free.

The storm and its attendant inconveniences have rallied the population of Pittsburgh. Residents of the city’s diverse neighborhoods have banded together in a show of endurance and community spirit to do what Pittsburgh does best: complain.

They’re complaining primarily about the mayor and city council, all of whom were re-elected recently in spite of widespread and widely publicized incompetence, corruption, economic ignorance, demonstrative dishonesty and an abject lack of sense.

“Who’d have thought that a bunch of total idiots could have screwed something up this bad,” asked one resident whose street is buried beneath eight feet of permafrost. “At least I can console myself with the knowledge that I pay exorbitantly high taxes. Not like those dopes in the suburbs with cleared roads living miles from downtown. Which I can’t get to anyway unless I find an Iditarod sled team in my basement.”

Mayor Ravenstahl has promised to have all the roads cleared city-wide in time for the Pirates’ home opener on April 5, “unless it snows again. And really, what are the odds of that?”

Just An Observation

The Postal Workers Union sent this offer via the United States Postal Service to a guy who doesn't live at this postal address. You'd likely think the Postal Workers Union, or the Post Office, or the postman would have noticed that. Well... you'd be wrong.

Our Sunday Best

Years ago, that ubiquitous phrase meant that you were going to the house of the Lord, and as such, dressed as respectfully as if you were to be in the company of a king.

In some places, that still holds true.  At nearly every predominantly African-American church I’ve passed on myriad Sundays, dapper men wear suits and hats and the ladies wear bright, faultless dresses. There’s something at once charming and impressive about that.

On the other hand, about the only time you’ll see white people dressed that well in a Catholic church is when they’re lying in a casket.

For the most part, there’s nothing wrong with dressing a bit casually for church. Personally, I’m about as comfortable in a suit as a cat in a bathtub. But at some point, dressing down crosses the line from “casual” to “what the hell is wrong with you?”

Take Pittsburgh, for example. On any given Sunday, you can look around the church and see grown men and women smartly decked out in their finest Steelers jerseys. Now, that’s fine if the line you’re standing in is for a couple of beers and a footlong. But in a Catholic church, it’s kinda ridiculous, given that Catholics believe they’re standing in line to receive the body, blood, soul and divinity of the Son of the Living God. Do you really think that an appropriate top to wear for this Eucharistic mystery is Ben Roethlisberger’s big ol’ number seven?

“Ah, what’s the big deal?” some ask. “It’s not like the Apostles dressed up for Jesus.” Well, yes, that’s true. But on the other hand, they weren’t wearing a licensed replica throwback Barabbas tunic either.

Seeing Steeler jerseys at Mass makes me wonder what Father Robert J. McCoy would think of today’s church fashion. Father McCoy was our parish priest growing up in the Juniata section of Altoona. He was a no-nonsense man, a veteran of World War II and no fan of the creeping informality that began infesting the church after Vatican II. I’m pretty sure that had you walked into Holy Rosary Church in the 1970s bedecked in your best Lambert jersey, Father McCoy would have put you in a half-nelson and thrown you head-first through a stained glass window. Had you’d been paralyzed in the incident, Father McCoy would have then promptly taken to the podium and made a heartfelt financial appeal to fix the window.

However, in the era of Christ-as-self-esteem coach, I’ve yet to see a priest bat an eye when a jersey-clad parishioner walks up to receive communion. They’d probably tell you they’re just glad the Steelers fan is at Mass.

So am I. They make my khakis and polo shirt look rather formal. 

Snow, Please.

Imagine a guy with a beard. A nice, bushy, white beard. He looks nice with that beard. Distinguished. Warm. Friendly. Then one day, he shaves the beard, only to reveal a face full of scars, pockmarks, lopsided moles, puncture wounds, bug bites and a birthmark shaped like a vomiting goat.

That's Pittsburgh in winter when the snow melts.

This time of year, western Pennsylvania sprouts a bumper crop of ugly. There's no sugarcoating that fact. Without snow, this place ranks right up there in dismal with post-eruption Mount Saint Helens. It's brown and gray and dead and depressing. Ever see a promotional photo of Pittsburgh in winter with no snow? No. You know why? Because it's fugly, that's why.

We had an inch and a half of rain yesterday, and all people are saying is, "Well, at least it wasn't snow." Yeah, that would be awful if this vista of mud and leafless trees and naked scrub brush and brown grass and crooked telephone poles were to be covered up by a blanket of pristine white snow. Thank God it rained and now I can see every discarded milk jug in every decomposing patch of thickets along every dilapidated guard rail.

"Well, you don't have to shovel rain."

This is the frequent refrain from folks who'd rather suffer Seasonal Affective Disorder than push fluffy white snow to the curb. I guess an increased risk of suicide is preferable to an increased risk of heart attack.

Unfortunately, these folks are getting their way right now. This gray, lifeless day could last another three months. They may be happy, but I'm praying for snow. Everything's dead out there. It might as well be buried.

Scott Brown Saves the Democratic Party

Republican Scott Brown won the election for Ted Kennedy's seat in Massachusetts tonight. It was a shocking victory in a state where Democrats outnumber Republicans roughly 3-1. But the big winner tonight is the Democratic party.

That's because Democrats in the house, senate and white house were on a suicide mission to ram through unpopular legislation: the health care takeover, union card check, unfathomable deficits and cap and trade (and tax and regulate and dictate and plunder). These pieces of legislation ran counter to the will of the people who recognize them for what they are — cash and freedom grabs that would pay off democrat special interests to the detriment of the rest of the country. Passing them meant almost certain defeat on election day.

But in winning tonight, Scott Brown has ended the filibuster-proof power of Democrats in D.C. In so doing, he has put up a roadblock to legislation that the vast majority of American voters despise. And in so doing, he has put off the November slaughter of democratic politicians who were poised to fall on the sword for government health care, insane and unnecessary green regulation and free-choice obliterating gifts to big labor. Those democrats who were ready to lose their seats to advance these nation-altering laws are now off the hook: odds are, they'll never come to a vote.

With these issues off the table, Americans' anger will abate over the next few months. They won't remember that their representatives were on the brink of pushing this country into virtually irreversible socialism, only to be rescued by Republican senate voter #41. Republicans won the battle tonight. But come November, tonight's victory will make it exponentially more difficult to win the war.