en passant this morning. I parked the car, jumped out and forthwith noticed the patterns of water droplets on the roof. It occurred to me (he’s swift, I tells ya!) that the difference is due to the efforts of my home-made car polish versus the professional goop from Supercheap Autos. Have a beak at the below shot, and see if you can tell which is what and whose is which—
—and if you picked the professional as being the larger drops on the left, you get the chocolate fish*.
If you state the RHS as being better drops better formed, i.e. the home-made stuff … oh wow, you get top marks for
perspicas perpicsi perspex clever observations. Something to do with surface tension perhaps. Anyway, I have infinite faith in the preservative qualities of clean-burning natural beeswax. Hardly a proper trial but fun, and kept me out of The Spouse’s hair for a fun few days.
strutting my stuff along Tay Street heading east I cast mine eyes north and observed that God had been hard at work protecting the church roof. Okay, protecting bits of the church roof. Being of an impious and somewhat curious nature it behove me to query his somewhat eccentric methodology—
—but the other half of the roof (not in this shot) matched perfectly, as one might expect of the work of an infallible artificer. If it were me I’d have painted the lot, but then again stripes are in. Sometimes.
And I won’t ponder the apparent contradiction between the Vicar’s beaming smile of ‘Welcome, one and all!’ compared with that “If thou parketh here, thine chariot shall be dragged away forthwith” sign up on the wall. God indeed moves (cars) in mysterious ways, His wonders to behold.
EARLIER I HAD BEHELD
that the former Grand had a wee sign of its own out front, words to the effect that new owners were even now diligently beavering away within and renovating with mad rapturous abandon. I recalled that somewhere I’d read that Field Marshal Montgomery of Alamein had once stayed there—and the proud regurgitators had also posted another (larger) sign stating that “Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth stayed here in 1954″.
Lo, how the mighty are fallen and the beauty of The Grand lies slain upon the hills—
— but she shall rise once again, renewed restored and magnificent … but somehow I don’t think that HM the Q will be staying there again. The whole neighbourhood has gone down since then. Anyway, in the wee small hours the local hoons howl up and down that street in hotted-up hot-rods and muscle cars—a whole car load of them squelched themselves in the next street some months back when they became airborne and discovered that without ailerons and a working rudder there wasn’t much they could do to avoid the very solid brick wall fast closing in from dead ahead. Dead, of course, being the operative word; still, it takes all sorts …
SPEAKING OF WHICH
Ambling back after visiting one of my favourite stores for a wee drool through the TVs and latest electronic doo-dahs assorted I happened across this reminder that it’s almost time for the unwary to choose their poisons for the coming three years.
Americans pride themselves on Democracy and exporting it to nice folks who’d much rather be left alone, thank you; but it occurred to me that we Kiwis here in NZ are more democratic than they. We go to the polls to elect our dictators every three years, none of this four and five years rubbish that the Brits and Yanks are oppressed under. Or are those systems the logical rationing of scarce resources? Free market approach to politics, as it were? The mind boggles—but these blots (below) are beginning to pepper the rural landscapes and now even in town—
—and are a splendid example of what We, The (long suffering) People have to choose from. Like most ‘democracies’ we have just two viable political parties (National and Labour) and a whole host of wannabes. Sadly due to well intended unthinking idiots in the past the Wannabes are now the tails that wag the dogs. C’est la vie.
And if it were me I’d have sobered up long enough to put a few spaces where due between words, but hey: who said that politically correct necessarily means grammatically correct? (Okay, I take a few liberties myself but that’s from choice—those twats just don’t know any different).
IS THAT A BRIBE
above, or a threat? I gather that if they get elected some bugger will have to dig out to afford those (free?) homes for the poor folks. I imagine that it will be the taxpayer. So … what does millions of dollars taken out of the capital stream and sunk (not even invested: sunk) into such homes going to actually achieve?
Yup~! You got it. The votes of the lucky impecunious who are going to have nice free homes given them by a ‘caring’ government. If it works, that’s an achievement.
with bated breath to see what counter-offers the other semi-viable party will come up with. Free cars for all sounds hard to beat (hell, with the beeswax polish coating my old banger being all that’s twixt The Spouse and the elements, anyone giving me a free state-of-the-art car gets my vote and that’s a promise). No?
* No, I’m not being grubby here:
or should ‘laws’ more accurately be described as
(or conclusions, or consensuses (consensi?) or worse)?
“admissions of arrogant ignorance” would be closer to the mark. It’s amazing what you can get away with when you invoke the (iron-clad) Laws Of Statistics (see endnote). You may not agree of course. Your call, and whatever you do don’t consider any other possibility than ‘science is God‘.
“Somebody surviving at 35,000ft for five hours with no supplemental oxygen supply? I just don’t believe it,” John Nance, an ex-pilot and one of America’s leading aviation experts, told ABC News. “This is a first in medical science and a first in physiology … This is one of three things – a hoax, a miracle or we’re going to have to rewrite the textbooks.”
Peter Forman, another leading airline analyst, added: “The odds of a person surviving that long on a flight at that altitude are very remote, actually. I mean, you are talking about altitudes that are well above the altitude of Mt Everest.
To read more click: here, this blue bit
I JUST WISH
they’d admit that they just don’t (it means “do not”) know.
Actually I think that in many ways Science and Religion are simply two often mutually antagonistic sides of the same coin. But wait, call now and it gets better: religions sometimes call upon the sciences they clash with to prove(?) their case. As for the lads involved (why always boys? Oh well … maybe girls got less sense)(of adventure). “Everyone knows” that what they achieved is medically impossible; ergo God or Gods or Godesses or even little furry Godlings intervened on their behalf. I mean, it’s obvious, ain’t it? Sheesh—and they call me thick~!
Which if so would indicate an ability to do the impossible, unless the interventions were written into the script before Creation … but we won’t go into that. Too many worms in that particular can. It’s impossible to get a consensus on that bugger, not ever God Him/her/Their-self/selves could do it …
“How he survived, I don’t know. It’s a miracle,” said Tom Simon, an FBI spokesman in Honolulu who added that the boy’s story appeared to “check out”
To read more click: here, this blue bit
A miracle? Whatever else, always bear in mind this unarguable (from any perspective) fact: not even God(s) themselves can perform a miracle.
A Statistician is a man who, with his head in a pizza oven (at full blast) and his feet in a deep freeze is, on average, “Perfectly comfortable, thank yew”.
with my server. No emailing and no webbing for waaaaay too long but all seems normal once more. (Let me tell you, no nicotine junkie ever suffered as I have in the last 24 hours, deprived enough to become not only depraved but quite deranged. Thank heavens for clean-burning natural coffee … )
in an earlier post a picture of the first page of the introduction from a book by one of my favourite writers. I’m told that to the effect that she writes in rabid defence of ‘greed’. Not so, though.
So I state on her (Ayn Rand—only slightly deceased) behalf that one needs know where she’s coming from; and to state from my own perspective: (to wish) to retain that which you have earned as your own personal property isn’t greed—it is simple justice.
BUT FIRST MY PROMISE—
AND A REFERENCE TO KIPLING’S “IF”
from which I shan’t quote. I’ll leave it to anyone who may be interested to track down a copy and read it through—it applies to We, the Innocent; and the blatant manipulation of the language for what are indeed selfish ends (often sold as ‘altruistic’).
are coming soon to a Democracy near you. Specifically, to us. In New Zealand, God’s Own Country aka Godzone.
—the government you deserve. You’ve heard it before and it’s true. But at least if you don’t vote you can hold your head up high— if you do vote then you make your own bed and so forfeit any right to complain. By voting you’ve done nothing more than encourage and endorse a sick system. Not good.
I’ll bet that’s a bit different to what you’ve been told forever and swallowed without a quibble. Right?
” … Sadly today I am reporting to you yet another development that seems as if we are all living within the pages of Ayn Rand’s seminal work Atlas Shrugged.
You may recall from the book that John Galt, the enigmatic protagonist, started off as a young engineer at the Twentieth Century Motor Company.
When the owner of the company died, the heirs decided to run the business according to the new enlightened principles of the time.
Primarily, they let all the workers vote on how the factory was supposed to be run and how much everyone should be compensated.
And it was soon decided that “everybody in the factory would work according to his ability, but would be paid according to his needs.”
Naturally, bright hard-working employees soon left; they found themselves working around the clock for the benefit of others who felt entitled to contribute as little as possible.
John Galt was among the first out the door.
And not long after, the once successful company went bust. No surprise.
Unfortunately this is no longer fiction. Because in the Land of the Free, the United States Congress is striving to make Atlas Shrugged a reality.
Their latest brainchild is to set up a new government bank, stuff it full of taxpayer funds, and loan the money to American workers for the exclusive purpose to help them form collectives and buy the companies they work for.
It’s called the United States Employee Ownership Bank Act … “
Read more: Please click here
YOU’VE NEVER READ
Atlas Shrugged? No reason why you ever should have, really. It was written by a (hoickkkkkk—SPIT!) Russian; say no more. And what’s worse, she didn’t believe in democracy. Not as we know it (the utter bitch!) … and … she didn’t like politicians
or folks lapping it up on the taxpayer Gravy Train or folks serving their country from high office (you know, using taxes and guns to redistribute The Wealth. To each other).
So of course you won’t like her. In fact, as a free-thinking genuine lover of Democracy you’ll hate her guts. Actually, she’s one of my heroes. Her books may get a bit boring in places but if you read for content and can think for yourself (not easy, these days) then get ‘em while you can. It won’t be long before she’s a subversive and her books are burned—to not digress, do you remember the animated movie ‘Fievel Goes West’? There’s a scene where the wee mouse is in fear of/for his life but still manages to fork the big bad cat (John Cleese) right in the butt. It goes something like this:
“I want the subversive who did that found!”
“What’s a subversive?”
“Someone who doesn’t have long to live!”
The guy whose site the blue link above leads you to makes a great deal of sense. It is worth taking the time to wander around and read up large, bearing in mind the while that this is someone who thinks both globally and realistically.
SO—ELECTIONS IN NZ
Big fluffy deal. We get to change the very shonky hand on the helm for another incompetent also doing it entirely his own way. Vote? What’s the point? To exchange strychnine for arsenic … you may, if you so desire, but please leave me out of it.
So I brag often that I never vote. It may be considered an empty ‘accomplishment’ but it’s one I wear with pride.
And I never shall vote. Not until … not until someone makes a believable promise to not only listen to We, the People — but to actually do what WTP want rather than what he/she/it wants. It will be a very long wait, I tell you. It’ll see me out, that’s for sure.
So the next quote is from a mature lady who too often makes even better sense than I. And, dammit, she often says the same as me anyway—
“The most successful democracy in the world, where the government respectfully refers to the electorate as sovereign, is Switzerland.
The fact that not the Swiss government, but the people of the country itself actually make the decisions, has brought this about.
But surely New Zealand is a democracy?
The reality is – no. In actual fact, our democratic freedoms now extend only to throwing out one political party or coalition when it is perceived as having done so much damage that it should be removed, to exchange it for another”
Read more: http://www.100days.co.nz
is actually the social experiment-testing lab for the world. Sure, we have pretty scenery, umpty million sheep, a few cows and nice friendly huggable Maori warriors with almost as many tattoos as a high-school girl. But are we sovereign? Not in our democracy …
BIG OR SMALL
don’t necessarily have to contain anything. Anything tangible …
As in the imagery below. So responding a second time to this week’s friendly Challenge
and moving on …
We’ll take a quick look at the New Zealand national flag, which as the embodiment of patriotism and rah-rah stuff is meant to embody (okay, to contain) the aspirations of the nation etc etc waffle waffle waffle …
To me a flag is all very well and good, and as a colourful cloth it serves its purpose; but essentially once it’s done its dash it is nothing more than just another rag. Useful for polishing the car and that’s that—no cloth contains intrinsic virtue and/or merit; to say otherwise is to declare idolatory. No?
if not fond memories of departed heroes, and their cause? This sad and weary soul is atop the Invercargill War Memorial to the Southern dead of the so-called ‘Boer War’. Thousands of young adventurers flocked to the colours to defend the flag of Mother Britain against fellow colonials very much like themselves (except that most of them were just a wee but too Dutch) but who these days remembers, or really gives a damn? Even the living ones are now long dead and gone, all that’s left to contain their hopes and fears and boyish enthusiasm is this chap on his perch.
BUT WHILE WE
are on the subject of containers, his rifle magazine probably contained five rounds.
Each brass cartridge case contained enough oomph to accelerate its leaden bullet to supersonic speed and carry it a fair distance with reliable accuracy. Each bullet that hit home contained enough grief to ruin the happiness and well being of disproportionate numbers of people over and above the poor sod it smacked into. But the great prayers for the Empire, the rah-rah flag wavings and the speeches of the rabble-rousing patriotic stay-at-home politicians never contain such thoughts. Can a prayer contain anything other than mere words and desperation—?
this plinth contains at its base the actual wee memorial to those dear departed (long since history, now) and it’s quite possible the more pragmatic of the local Council members probably use it to store their gardening and road sweeping tools.
As for the departed—a major source of interest, puzzlement and discussion around wee campfires under the African stars was the CRACK of a Boer bullet en passant. Why, they asked in absolute bewilderment, at even great ranges when one can hardly hear the bang that ejected the bullet does it pass overhead, by, or through, with the crack of doom?
One World War 1 aviator I read mentioned in passing that he thought the bang of a bullet was the sound of the shot itself being dragged along behind it. Of course we today are much better educated and have such knowledge built into us from the cradle. But are we clever enough to insist that any politician wanting a war go out to fight it himself/herself in person?
SO HAVE WE
taken note of any message contained in war memorials or do we still respond like Pavlov’s pups to the sound of drums? (I had to ask drums ‘cos I don’t think anyone down here can play a real bugle these days—at all our ANZAC dawn parades and stuff all we get is blasted trumpets and cornets and things)(not that the average dewy-eyed punter would ever notice the difference. Thank Veles.)
they say, “will out”. Nice, sweet, and inspiring of the warm fuzzies. But so what? What’s the use of yesterday’s Truths today, even the greatest of them? If Truth is to be of any use to We The Great Unwashed … it must be timely.
AND FOR A FINAL THOUGHT
we won’t find real or relevant Truth contained in any government communique. Quite the opposite. No?