Paladin, Paladin, where do you roam? One of the coolest things about Have Gun Will Travel is the end theme, sung by someone named Johnny Western. In the first season the theme consisted of only the first four lines, later expanded, the credits rolling while Richard Boone ambles into the frame on a horse, does that thing with his hat, and then saunters into the distance.
Have Gun Will Travel was not only the coolest Western of the 1960s, but one of the coolest TV shows of all time. The rugged and enigmatic Richard Boone had a certain gravitas, a "thing" he did with his hat which was a signature move, and a way of ambling along with his horse on a loose rein. He was so charismatic that we almost forgot that he was actually a hit man, a hired gun and bounty hunter who was incredibly selfish and egotistical. But OH, he had style! From his ruffled shirts and his quotations of poetry, he was a ladies' man, but in the inevitable final shootout he was as alpha male as they come.
I was delighted to discover that this stark four-note theme was composed by none other than my favorite movie composer, Bernard Hermann, who wrote the score for Psycho, Taxi Driver, and many other classics. He says so much with so little, kind of like Paladin himself.
Angler Andy Hackett lands one of the world's biggest goldfish ever caught. The gigantic orange specimen, aptly nicknamed The Carrot, weighed a whopping 67 pounds, 4 ounces.
(CNN) — Here's a fisherman's story that's no tall tale.
After a 25-minute battle, UK angler Andy Hackett caught a colossal carp, nicknamed "The Carrot," that weighed in at a staggering 67 pounds, 4 ounces (30 kilograms). The giant fish is believed to be the second largest of her type ever to be caught, according to BlueWater Lakes, the fishery in France's Champagne region where the giant lives.
With its striking orange color, the massive goldfish-like creature easily stands out as it swims below the water's surface. The Carrot, however, has proven to be a challenge to catch. Hackett landed the prized fish, a hybrid of a leather carp and a koi carp, on November 3 while visiting the lake site.
"With normal fish, you struggle to see them if they're just under the surface, but The Carrot is obviously bright orange so you can't miss it," Hackett told BBC. "It's a much sought-after fish, not many people have caught it, it's quite elusive."
BlueWater Lakes provides anglers with a private spot to try a hand at pulling in one of its many fish weighing over 50 pounds (22.7 kilograms) — and some even over 90 pounds (40 kilograms).
"We put The Carrot in about 20 years ago as something different for the customers to fish for. Since then it has grown and grown but it doesn't often come out," fishery manager Jason Cowler told the Daily Mail. "It's not the biggest resident in the lake, but by far the most outstanding."
After Hackett pulled in Carrot and had her weighed, she was released back into the lake. The fishery has a "no retention" rule put in place, so anglers never carry the fish onto land. The BlueWater team also noted on its Facebook page that the fish are treated for any injuries before their prompt release back into the water.
The fishery has monitored Carrot's growth fairly often, as she was pulled in nine times by fishermen last season. After breaking the 60-pound (27-kilogram) mark for the first time in February, the carp swam free for nine months until Hackett reeled her in.
The average domestic goldfish weighs less than a pound, but the species can reach much bigger proportions in varying circumstances. If given lots of space, with the proper diet and water conditions, carp species, including goldfish and koi, have the potential for a large amount of growth, which explains Carrot's impressive size.
Often the largest found goldfish are unwanted pets that have been released into the wild by their owners. Discarded animals can negatively impact the delicate balance of a natural habitat. Invasive, football-size goldfish were found in a lake in Burnsville, Minnesota, in July 2021, resulting in city officials pleading with residents to not release their aquatic pets into the lake, as they could harm the local environment.
"A 70-pound carp is a really big, impressive fish," said Dr. Zeb Hogan, research biologist at the University of Nevada, Reno, and former host of the "Monster Fish" show on the National Geographic Channel. "There are actually different kinds of carp that are relatives of goldfish, that get really big, that are found in Europe and Asia — some of which can get up to about 500 pounds."
The growth seen in these hefty fish is referred to as indeterminate growth, a condition in which animals grow rapidly when young and continue to increase in size after reaching adulthood, according to Hogan.
"They just keep growing, the longer that they live," Hogan said. "It'll just keep growing and getting bigger, and maybe in a few years someone else will catch it and it'll be even bigger."
The fishery team said on Facebook that Carrot is "in excellent health and condition," and could even live for another 15 years or more. "Long may her stardom continue," the team added.
When we originally bought this album in 1951, it came with a very classy-looking Songs of the Pogo hardcover book with all the music (written and arranged by Norman Monath) and lyrics by Walt Kelly. I also remember some lavish illustrations from the Okefenokee Swamp. Alas, all of this has been lost, at least to me. A few relatively-pristine copies of the original record are still floating around, and someone transcribed a very clean-sounding one onto a CD which also contains some very weird Walt Kelly readings. (Probably available on YouTube.) But the words are now only available through somebody-or-other's auditory transcript, and as always it's laced with mondegreens (misheard lyrics, as in "Scuse me while I kiss this guy"). I have done my best to correct these, but again, I had to rely on my ear. Potlocky was the most fiendishly difficult to decipher, and after a couple dozen listenings I gave up on a few lines and gave it my best guess. Some of these seem to venture into the land of the surreal, or fall into the category of verbal jazz. I am very sad Gershwin didn't live to see and appreciate Songs of the Pogo - somehow I think it would have delighted him.
Go Go Pogo
As Maine go oh-so Pogo-go Key Largo, Otsego to Frisco go-to Fargo, Okeefenokee playin'
A-possum on a Pogo Stick around and see the show
Go over land alive-a band o' jive will blow go-Pogo I-go you-go who-go to-go Polly-voo go, From Caravan Diego, a-Waco and Oswego, Tweedle-de he-go she-go we-go me-go Pogo. Atascadero wheeler barrow, some place in Mexico Delaware Ohio and you don't need the text to go Wheeling, West Virginia
With ev'rything that's in ya. Down the line you'll see the shine From Oregon to Caroline Eenie meenie minie Kokomo-go Pogo. Tishimingo, sing those lingo, whistling go. Shamokin to Hoboken Chenango to Chicango It's golly, I go goo-goo goin' go-go Pogo. (musical interlude) Atascadero wheeler barrow, some place in Mexico Delaware Ohio and you Don't need the text to go. Wheeling, West Virginia With ev'rything that's in ya. Down the line you'll see the shine From Oregon to Caroline,
Yes, eenie meenie minie Kokomo go Pogo. Tishimingo, sing those lingo, whistling go. Shamokin to Hoboken, Chenango to Chicango It's golly, I go goo-goo goin' go-go Pogo!
Editor's note. I wasn't going to comment on these. Really, I wasn't, because what can you say? It's the craziest explosion of verbal popcorn I've ever seen, with twists and turns and convolutions, puns on puns. But even that doesn't begin to describe it. This particular song, sung by Walt Kelly in a gravelly voice that reminds me of my Uncle Aubrey, needs to be heard to be believed. Can you imagine, when I was three or four or five years old, trying to decipher what this meant, and how the grownups all seemed to know already? He uses a lot of place names in this one, but gives them a twist, like "caravan Diego" (San Diego?), "Tishimingo, sing those lingo, whistling go" -wait, wait, I know who this sounds like! Gerard Manley Hopkins, with his bizarrely twisted grammar and inverted sentence structure, strange vocabulary and useage, and punnish use or abuse of similes. I especially like "Wheeling, West Virginia with everything that's in ya". Though the album is called Songs of the Pogo, this is the only song that mentions Pogo at all, and it's nothing to do with the comic strip. It's just a form of verbal scat-singing that riffs on the sound of Pogo: I-go-you-go-who-go-to-go-polly-voo-go. I wonder now if some of Pogo's fans were a little disappointed in this, expecting Albert the Alligator caterwauling with his ukelele. Whence that Wince? I was stirrin' up a stirrup cup In a stolen sterling stein, When I chanced upon a ladle Who was once my Valentine. "Oh whence that wince, my wench?" quoth I. She blushed and said, "Oh sir, Old daddy isn't stirrin' Since my momma's been in stir." This one is a masterpiece of alliteration. I had no idea then what a stirrup cup is - it took until about last Friday to find out. Stirrup cup: a cup of wine or other alcoholic drink offered to a person on horseback who is about to depart on a journey. OK, so I DIDN'T know what it meant. I thought it was just "a drink" or mulled wine or something, and let the "stirrup" part go as an obscurity. "In stir" is another archaic expression, something to do with being in jail, but I don't think the average person would know that. Nice how it fits together with "stirrup cup" - didn't even notice that until just this second.
Northern Lights Oh, roar a roar for Nora, Nora Alice in the night, For she has seen Aurora Borealis burning bright. A furore for our Nora! And applaud Aurora seen! Where, throughout the Summer, has Our Borealis been? This is one of Kelly's more haiku-like poem/songs. Pongs? Soems? It looks simple, but just try doing it. I had a cousin Nora once, Irish, and this song reminds me of her. And that's all I can say. It's beautiful, it is. Take care of the sounds, as Lewis Carroll once said, and the sense will take care of itself. Also, I like the way Nora Alice and Borealis sort of reflect each other. Slopposition Oh, once the opposition was completely opposed To all the supposition that was generally supposed But now the superstitions that were thought to be imposed Are seen by composition to be slightly decomposed Kelly wordplay, not as great as some, but they can't all be Go Go Pogo, can they? There is a nice echo between the "ition" words and the "osed" words in each line. Come to that, I couldn't do it, at all. A Song Not for Now A song not for now you need not put stay A tune for the was can be sung for today The notes for the does-not will sound as the does Today you can sing for the will-be that was. This one is REALLY simple, but Norman Monath's tune is innocent and sweet. The arrangements in this album generally are a tad lavish, and some of them are even precious. But those were the times. There IS an innocence about Pogo the character that keeps the strip from becoming too cynical or smart-alecky. As time wore on, Kelly became more angrily political, and I think that took something away from it.
Twirl, Twirl Twirl! Twirl! Twinkle between! The tweezers are twist in the twittering twain. Twirl! Twirl! Entwiningly twirl ‘Twixt twice twenty twigs passing platitudes plain. Plunder the plover and rover rides round. Ring all the rungs on the brassily bound, Billy, Swirl! Swirl! Swingingly swirl! Sweep along, swoop along, sweetly your swain. Again, the alliteration is glitteration, but when we get to "platitudes plain", I think of it as a place, a plane, or perhaps an airborne vehicle. These things fall on the ear more than they live on the page. Anyway, I don't think a standard-issue mind could think of the line "plunder the plover and rover rides round". It might be Rover, for all I know. There IS a dog in Pogo, isn't there? (I can't get it out of my head now. Platitude's Plane.) Parsnoops Oh, the parsnips were snipping the snappers, While the parsley was parcelling the peas, And parsing a sentence from handle to hand Was a hornet who hummed with the bees. The turnips were passing the time of the day In the night of the moon on the porch, When the shape from the shadows so shortfully shrift That the scallions were screeching the scorch! I don't know, I don't find this one very friendly, but I don't think anyone else on the planet could have written it. The Monath tune is kind of jaggedy somehow, and I find it uncomfortable. There are moments in Kelly where I feel kind of frightened, like I'm wandering around in a mindscape that is a tad too bizarre.
The Keen and the Quing The Keen and the Quing were quirling at quoits, In the meadow behind the mere. Tho’ mainly the meadow was middled with mow, And heretical hitherto here. The Prince and the Princess were plaiting the plates And prating quite primly the peer. And that’s why the Duchess stuck ducks on the Duke For no one was over to seer. Now violin only with pizzicato:
Plinky, plinky, pa-lunkity plank, plank, plank
Pa-lunky, pa-lunky, plink plink plink plink plink
Arco, zoom-zoomety-zoom!
Ska-weakity, squeaky squeak-squeaky ska-weak Con sordino squeaky ska-weak Now sensa sordino, squeak squeak squeak sque-eeak Now pizzicato, plunk plunk plunk Plunk, plunk! This one is a favorite, perhaps my all-time favorite, not just because of the gorgeous Spoonerisms but because of the delicate violin passage at the end, with instructions from the baritone. All the instructions are technically correct, by the way - I checked with my violin teacher, who was quite impressed. We all know what pizzicato is. Arco means long, smooth bows. Con sordino means playing with a mute, sensa sordino is playing without a mute. The "squeakity squeak" is most familiar from my own musical instruction.
Man's Best Friend What gentler heart, what nobler eye Doth warm the winter day, Than the true, blue orb and the oaken core Of beloved old dog Tray? I never knew why a dog would be called Tray. Again, the reference is obscure, an old Stephen Foster song that I had to look up: Old dog Tray’s ever faithful,
Grief cannot drive him away,
He’s gentle, he is kind;
I’ll never, never find
A better friend than old dog Tray.
Tray is one of those Southern names, like Trey, sometimes used as a baby name. Has some card-playing meaning, and something to do with fives. It reminds me of other Southern names with II or III after them. Treat Williams comes to mind. Erica Jong had a wild Southern character named Dart, and another one called Trick that was probably a play on Treat. And then there's Ring. As in Lardner. Note that all of these names represent things: a tray, a treat, a dart, a trick, a ring.
Don't Sugar Me Oh, I may be your cup of tea, But, baby, don’t you 'Sugar’ me! Don’t stir me, boy, nor try to spoon, Don’t sugar me, 'cause us is throon! I won’t sip a lip with you, less You want a granulated lump or two, Just roll them eyes right out that door, Them saucer eyes ain’t square no more. All them things, them diamond rings, Them stuff you promised me, Were figments, Newton, sure as shootin’, Shootin’ sure as A, B, see The teapot pouts that the kettle’s blue, It don’t work out that spar is true, Just boil away, boy, don’t sit and brew, Don’t sugar me, cause us is through! This is a torch song with a twist. It has probably the greatest concentration of puns and double meanings of any of them, along with great lines like "don't 'Sugar' me, 'cause us is throon!" "Them stuff" always impressed me, along with "figments, Newton". One thing Kelly does, especially in this one, is use common phrases in strange ways: "a granulated lump or two", "roll them eyes right out that door", "boil away, boy, don't sit and brew". "Don't sugar me" is an interesting choice, because it can mean dumping sugar on/in someone or something, or being over-familiar with endearments. But he says it better.
Whither the Starling Whither the starling and whither the crow? And whither the weather when wither the snow? The weaver’s wet daughter has damped the clothes With wavelets of water left over from snowthes.
Left over from snowthes,
Left over from snowthes, Right over and under
And yonder she goes. "Wavelets of water left over from snowthes." I feel like that right now. We had a record snowfall over Christmas, it's all melting now, and we're having to deal with those wavelets of water. Left over from snowthes. And there is just something wonderfully wacky about "the weaver's wet daughter". Willow the Wasp There were some wasps in our town Who, with their wonderous wives, They suckled at the bramble bush In search of lovely lives. And, when they saw the bush was dry, Quick!, each and every one, They wrapped it well in wire barb, To shield it from the sun. Outstanding line: "In search of lovely lives". I have long wanted to use this as the title for something. "Wire barb" used to bother me as a kid, I can't say why. In fact, I found the whole song disturbing, with its shivering minor-key strings. Of course, the term WASP had not been coined yet.
Truly True Gamboling on the gumbo, with the gambits all in gear, I daffed upon a dilly who would be my dolly dear, Oh dilly, I would dally, if you’d be but truly true, How silly, I must sally off to do my duly do. Nice, but nothing special, except for the barbershop harmony. Many Harry Returns Once you were two, Dear birthday friend, In spite of purple weather. But now you are three And near the end As we grewsome together. How fourthful thou, Forsooth for you, For soon you will be more! But – ‘fore One can be three be two, Before be five, be four! Not sure if he wrote this for one of his children. Kelly did feature adorable baby animals in the strip, such as Pup Dog and the mysterious "woodchuck" Grundoon, anthropomorphized into completely human form.
Potlucky Briskly breathing brackish brine, Brazenly we bray, Simmering songs of swimming swine, Scattering Saturday, Hearts are heavy, clubs are trump, Diamonds are in rough Spades are spotty, jokers jump, Dummies are enough Can we eggplant, can we corn, Can we succotash? String we strong beans for the morn Masterful moustache. Deathly dumplings made of mud, Grace our festive board, Free from auntie flees the flood Tropical storm discord, Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, now, Cup ye now an eye, Weary deary keary cow, Moo and kicks his pie, The speaker spoke the reeler wheels A kingdom for a hum, A rub a dub, a dub mobile Oh rub a dub, A dub. This song should be illegal. "Masterful moustache" is probably the only line I can mentally process. I had to piece together various parts of this lyric which were badly mangled/mondegreened, but I am still not sure I got it quite right. This is another place where I get a little scared, for some reason. He makes language do stuff it just doesn't want to do.
The Hazy Yon How pierceful grows the hazy yon! How myrtle petaled thou! For spring hath sprung the Cyclotron, How high browse thou, brown cow? Some group apparently recorded this fairly recently, and no one had any idea where it came from. It has a hazy harp accompaniment that slowly fades, along with the singer's voice, at the end. It may well be a play on the odd statement or question, "How now, brown cow?" - which I never understood, so. . . I'll look it up. . . "A nonsense phrase with no real meaning as such, although it also is sometimes used as a jovial greeting. This phrase used to be used in elocution teaching to demonstrate rounded vowel sounds. It isn't clear when it was coined or where. It was certainly known in the USA by 1942, although probably earlier. People used to pronounce this as 'high nigh brine kai'." That last bit is, of course, the Canadian pronunciation.
Lines Upon a Tranquil Brow Have you ever while pond'ring the ways of the morn, Thought to save just a bit, just a drop in the horn To pour in the ev'ning or late afternoon, Or during the night when we're shining the moon? Have you ever cried out while counting the snow, Or watching the tomtit warble hello... "Break out the cigars, this life is for squirr'ls, We're off to the drugstore to whistle at girls!" Ah! "Drop in the horn" is another one, a very obscure, old, perhaps even Elizabethan term (Kelly having a mind for this historical Southern stuff). It means the last bit in a bottle of booze. Until I figured this out, which took only 56 years, I didn't know what "to pour in the evening" meant at all. I thought the guy was sort of pouring like vapour, like those monster creatures who waft under the crack of a door. I love that "when we're shining the moon" - sheer poetry - and the cry, "Break out the cigars! This life is for squirrels."
BONUS. Here's a splendid Kelly site that you could easily get lost in. Great reproductions of his Sunday colour comics, along with much older stuff. Wonder where he got permission? http://whirledofkelly.blogspot.ca/
I don't know how I would have survived the long, dark, dry portage of the pandemic without my birds. Of course they're not "my" birds - not anyone's - which is one of the things I love about them. Though it's different each time, with a different mix even in the same locations, birds are not random. They move where the food is, drawn by low water levels which don't require as much work to get at the really good gunk that they eat. The Big Fat Brown Duck, now known as Bruno, almost replaces my beloved Bosley and Belinda - though not quite. And he may indeed end up in the same place, killed by a predator, because he lacks the wild instincts that drive the birds away from danger and towards FOOD and shelter. I've been spotting him in the mallard flock for a couple of years now, and it's as if he has his own YouTube fans now, with WAY more views than I used to get. I am virtually certain he or she is a specimen of the domestic meat-raised duck called the Khaki Campbell. Seeing Bruno on such a consistent basis is gratifying, but I know I'd follow my birds anyway, because they have kept me more-or-less sane during an insane time. Thank you, Bruno.
I have wanted to do a comparison of these two for a long time now. Was there a link? Probably not, unless Fritz Lang liked to copy things from Harold Lloyd movies. And yet - there IS something surreal about his man on the clock, a tiny figure struggling to hold on to the huge hands, the hat falling off, the face of the clock alarmingly falling forward - the crowd gasping below. I have never sat through all of Metropolis, as it's just too bloody long and even boring, but I've seen excerpts which really do seem to be prophetic. But prophetic of what? Do I spend my life, my one and only life which grows shorter with every passing day, contemplating Armageddon, the apocalypse, Dystopia? No thanks. I'd rather make YouTube videos and watch birds and collect trolls and fuss with my plants. It's what I do. Crying doom, if doom comes, and so far it hasn't, is a waste of time anyway, as it won't change anything. If it's too late, I might as well make the best of the time I have.
Does it ever end? No, it does not. The troll collection frightens me a little bit, when I see how it has grown organically from just a few trolls I had lying around. But I LOVE coming up with new and innovative ways to display them. It's one of the great joys of my life to be able to share this hobby with others.
MAUREEN CALLAHAN: Wait — this is a joke, right? DUI defendant Kerry Kennedy
gets scandal-engulfed Alec Baldwin to give hypocritical beta-royal Meghan
Markle... a human rights award? Please make it stop!
The award – named for RFK's iconic 'Ripple of Hope'
speech delivered in Cape Town, South
Africa at the height of apartheid –
recognizes 'moral courage'. The bravery to speak truth to power.
'They went to the oldest institution in UK history
and told them what they were doing wrong,' said RFK Human Rights President
Kerry Kennedy, removing all doubt that she has despoiled her late father's
legacy and stripped this honor of any real meaning. 'That they couldn't have
structural racism within the institution . . . I think they have been heroic in
taking this step.'
To Kennedy's (dubious) point: The Mandela
comparison never gets old.
Here was Meghan in New York Magazine's The Cut last
August, telling us that she had gone backstage after a performance of 'The Lion
King' when a South African cast member 'looked at me and . . . he said, 'I just
need you to know: When you married into this family, we rejoiced in the streets
the same we did when Mandela was freed from prison.'
As this very outlet reported, that lone South
African cast member said he had never met Meghan Markle.
Hosting this year's event, with tickets starting at
$2,500 and going all the way up to $250,000 — basically, the equivalent of a
down payment on a nice 6-bedroom house— is none other than Alec Baldwin.
(Above, left to right) Kerry Kennedy, Meghan Markle and Alec Baldwin.
No one dismissed this whopper better than the great
man's grandson, Zwelivelile Mandela, who told DailyMail.com that 'Nelson
Mandela's release from jail was the culmination of nearly 350 years of struggle
in which generations of our people paid with their lives. It can never be
compared to the celebrations of someone's wedding.'
A wedding paid for with $42.8 million of taxpayer
money, Britons lining the streets and cheering, a surfeit of goodwill that
Harry and Meghan promptly and grossly tossed aside.
Reportedly Meghan Markle said on her first royal
tour, just months later: 'I can't believe I'm not getting paid for this.' So
they sauntered out the palace door, hats and grievances in hand, seeking and
getting monster paydays from Netflix and Spotify.
To paraphrase Kerry's late uncle John F. Kennedy: What
profiles in courage.
As to that claim of racism: Queen Elizabeth II was
no racist. In fact, she was such a close friend and admirer of Nelson Mandela
that he was among the very few to call her 'Elizabeth' — not 'Her Majesty' or
'ma'am' — and gave her an affectionate nickname: 'Motlalepula,' which
translates to 'come with the rain,' her first visit having taken place during a
torrential rainstorm.
King Charles is a vocal admirer of Islam and
studied Arabic to better understand the Quran. He's a critic of Western
materialism and outspoken champion of climate action.
Queen Elizabeth
and then-Prince Charles fast-tracked the biracial Meghan into the royal family,
and Charles himself walked Meghan halfway up the aisle at her wedding.
These are the 'structural racists' Meghan and Harry
so bravely confronted?
Incredibly, Harry and Meghan will be honored at the
RFK gala alongside Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky. Two of these
honorees are not like the other, am I right?
And it gets better: Hosting this year's event, with
tickets starting at $2,500 and going all the way up to $250,000 — basically,
the equivalent of a down payment on a nice 6-bedroom house— is none other than
Alec Baldwin.
Yes, the man who accidentally shot and killed his
coworker and has since expressed zero guilt — 'Someone is responsible,' he told
ABC's George Stephanopoulos last December, 'and I can't say who that is, but I
know it's not me' — has been tapped to emcee a human rights event.
As to that claim of racism: Queen Elizabeth II was no
racist. In fact, she was such a close friend and admirer of Nelson Mandela that
he was among the very few to call her 'Elizabeth.'
(Above) Mandela and Queen Elizabeth in July 1996
This is a value system only the ultra-left could
abide. It's an episode of 'SouthPark,'
an Onion headline, a Bizarro-world event.
Zelensky aside, it's more the Olympics of
Victimhood than the vanguard of human rights activism.
Yet it's to be expected from Kerry Kennedy, a woman
for whom self-awareness is a foreign concept. She has spent her tenure grinding
Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights (terrible name, by the way) into meaningless
virtue-signaling. She spends her time chasing after celebrities and high-level
donors hardly synonymous with human rights.
To wit: other honorees this December are Frank
Baker, head of private equity firm Siris and recent purchaser of a $32 million
Palm Beach mansion; Bank of America CEO Brian Moynihan and billionaire Michael
Polsky, CEO of renewable energy company Invenergy, which last year sued Worth
County, Iowa, in an attempt to force the company's wind projects on the area.
What any of these titans of industry have done for
human rights is beyond me, but we're supposed to trust Kerry Kennedy here — a
leader who, as former employees told me back in 2016, treated her human rights
staffers like dirt.
'For someone who's a human rights lawyer,' one told
me, 'I don't think I've ever met someone who cares so little for the people who
work for her.'
'In general,' said another, 'she treats everyone as
the person who would go get her coffee.'
Well, that's one thing she and Meghan seem to have
in common.
Meghan Markle, who as a newly-crowned duchess on a
tour of Africa, bemoaned on camera that 'not many people have asked me if I'm
OK'; whose reported bullying of royal staffers led to resignations — to say
nothing of reportedly reducing Kate Middleton to tears, as Tom Bower reported
in his book 'Revenge.'
Meghan also leveled vile, unfounded, unspecific
accusations against the royal family as patriarch Prince Philip was on his
deathbed and, with her husband, has since claimed endless victimhood from a
$14.5 million Montecito mansion while clinging to the very royal titles they
say represent the British royal family's racism, colonialism and elitism — I
mean, really, who better?
Incredibly, Harry and Meghan will be honored at the RFK
gala alongside Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky. Two of these honorees
are not like the other, am I right? (Above) Zelensky is seen on screen
during NATO session held in Madrid
on November 21, 2022
But let's throw a huge event with an astronomical
cost-of-entry-fee to celebrate hypocrites of all stripes, and highlight Harry
and Meghan — two people who laud themselves for charitable qualities they don't
seem to possess, who lecture us all on how to live from their multimillion
dollar palatial estate, eco-warriors who fly private at every opportunity, who
complain publicly about how hard they have it, how misunderstood they are and
who insert their frankly picayune grievances into our daily lives.
This is satire, right? An ultra-liberal host, one
most rational people believe guilty of manslaughter, awarding two spoiled
middle-aged beta royals a human rights award.
Volodymyr Zelensky deserves so much better.
Elevating Alec Baldwin and Harry and Meghan to his level — insulting and vulgar
doesn't begin to cover it.
If those three are humanitarians, then truly, I
ask: What are the criteria?
If you're Kerry Kennedy, that criteria is
upside-down, bonkers, berserk. This is someone who demonized her lifelong best
friend and sister-in-law after she committed suicide, in a pathetic defense of
her brother. Someone who smashed into a tractor trailer on a New York highway and
left the scene, who then did what privileged people like her do best — gripe
publicly about what a bum rap she got, how life is so unfair for rich and
famous people like herself.
'[It's] a terrible policy,' she told the Today show
after her acquittal, ' . . . pursuing every case of driving under the
influence.' Yes, pity the reckless driver impaired by substances.
If you're Kerry Kennedy, you're using your human
rights foundation as a piggy bank to take out a $2.4 million line of credit,
traveling for 'work' and staying in $500-a-night hotels, using inherited money
and fame as some kind of proof that you're smarter and better than everyone
else.
And if you're Meghan Markle — hey, you're just like
Nelson Mandela.
BLOGGER'S NOTE. Every once in a while I just have to run a story on these two, though I can't bring myself to write it. I can't look at pictures of them, listen to their whining, griping voices, or watch videos in which they smarm up to people they want to grift. I don't know when this will end - or if it will, or if - worst of all - Meghan does fulfill her ultimate goal to be President of the World. Trump had it, for a few years anyway, until his own insanity brought him down. But I'd rather have Trump in for another four than even contemplate this raving bitch in charge of anything at all.
Normally I'd break up the text with images, videos, gifs, etc. - but this time I couldn't bring myself to use any image except the one which sums it all up in ONE picture. Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!
The immortal Bing Crosby. Though I never thought much of his voice, he was 70-something years old when I first heard him, and was relying on crooner dynamics to salvage what was left of his voice - but here, oh my! The pitch, the tone, the dynamic strength behind that honeyed voice. He has every trait of the finest singers in the world, including power that he barely uses. The movie scenes are charming and prove his comic chops, as well as his ability to beguile an audience even some 90 years later.
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Blogger's note. It never ceases to amaze me with what reverence people approach the work of Dylan Thomas. You can't even throw one brickbat at the guy! If he were alive he'd be too drunk to notice anyway. But of all his hallowed writings, even more hallowed than Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which holds the record for the most misquoted poem in the history of the world ("Don't go gently into the night"; "Let's go gently into the night"; "you should go gently into the night, listen to me, I'm your hospice worker," etc., etc.), this one is the most hallowed, even more hallowed than Halloween.
As I was saying (and in this I am approaching the windbaggedness of my own chosen subject), there is one particular work which is considered his Masterpiece. This is Under Milk Wood, in which the ravelled and burlap-clad townsfolk of Llareggub (which is, surprise-surprise, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, "Buggerall" spelled backwards) declare themselves as if each one of them stood on a soapbox in the Town Square.
These people are "good" because they are RURAL: they live in small towns, which makes them Real. They aren't big city folk with their evil habits. They shine with goodness even if they are total rotters and ratfinks. We love them. We love them because Dylan Thomas loves them, and Dylan Thomas loves them because they are lucrative.
It's pretentious, it's showy, it's writing that calls attention to itself, a thing I loathe beyond description. I've probably reviewed 350 books in my time (and if that sounds like a lot, I wrote three or four a month for years and years, and doesn't that add up, folks? Or can't you do math?). It's verbal fireworks, it's "oooooooh" and "ahhhhhh" and "oh, isn't it marvelous", which (like all showing off and verbal swaggering) it isn't.
In my tireless and demanding research for this thing, I discovered how many different versions of this "play for voices" have been produced over the years. God knows how it was supposed to be presented: each player standing in front of the audience with a paper bag over their head? (for after all, each one has an annoying habit of introducing him/herself so there won't be any confusion: "Fiddle-dee-dee, I am Mr. Prothero the Butcher! Come and see my meat!" And stuff like that.)
The thing was made into a movie, of course, with Richard Burton playing the town drunk. I discovered today that there was a highly-praised dance version, though how you can dance in Welsh is simply beyond me.
What next, I wonder? Under Milk Wood performed in American Sign Language? With semaphores, or maybe in Morse code? How about Dylan Thomas on Ice?
There's no end to it, it seems. In my exhaustive (and exhausting) research, I stumbled upon a far better writer who never got his due because he was too busy fuming bitterly about how his famous rival Dylan Thomas got all the babes, even if his prick was as limp as a pickled eel from the Llanfairwlllpggygygogoch Tavern.
His attempt to copy Dylan Thomas almost succeeded until he got partway through the play and broke into one of his inebriated rants. Plus people were just a little puzzled by his name: Dullyn ("Cosmo") Thomas: didn't he look just a little bit like Kramer from Seinfeld? Since Seinfeld wouldn't be invented for another 40 years, it was a strange comparison to make.
So here, without any reservations except for the quality and relevance of the work, I present a heretofore ignored and neglected masterpiece.
Under Skim Milk Wood
by Dullyn Thomas
Hark! Listen ye! Come closer, closer! until ye can breathe in me foul alcoholic breath. For I am about to tell’ee of many things! Of many things, yes! that you are not interested in. Of many quaint people! Of many quaint folk in the buffling, baffling, blustering, blistering darkness, buffooning like circus-tents in the sussurating Swansea spring, of many fair quair folk who aren’t like anybody, see, 'cause I just made ‘em up on the spot.
About the old lady, Mrs. Teacozy, who used to sit on her front porch and wonder when the tide would come in. Which is strange, because Mrs. Teacozy lived 450 miles inland.
About Mr. Prothero, the scientist, who blew off his hair doing an experiment in the bedroom and lost his wife’s favour forever, for he blew off his dick at the same time.
(Which is a shockingly earthy, sexual, explicit thing to say. Oh my goodness, Dullyn Thomas is such a sensualist and was probably great in bed.)
First voice: Lookee here, I’m dead! Can’t you tell?
Second voice: Frankly, this play’s so dead, I can’t distinguish it.
Third voice: Extinguished, are you?
Fourth voice: Oh, the wordplay, the wordplay!
Fifth voice: Yes let us gasp at the wordplay as if we’re seeing the fireworks. Which in fact we are.
Mr. Curmudgeon: And you mean to say, me lad, that you don’t think of all this play-writin’ business as just a lot of literary showin’-off?
Me lad: Yes, me Mr. Curmudgeon. It IS a lot of literary showin’-off, but that’s just the point.
Mr. Curmudgeon: The showin’ off?
Me lad: No, the point.
Plump Young Lady in the Bushes: And then I seduced him, aye. I rolled around in the grass gettin’ me dress dairty, and I opened me legs and I sinned and sinned until me diaphragm exploded.
Fifteenth voice: Oh Mr. Playwright, please, please, isn’t it about time this play got started? I meansay, up to now it just doesn’t seem to have much of a point.
Mr. Cadwalladwrrwrr: Oh but the point is, I drownded at sea fifty years ago and it were wonderful. Now the fishes swim through me eye sockets and eat me brain.
Mrs. Cadwall-whatever: You bastard, get back into bed and sairvace me!
(Oh, the earthiness! The bawdiness! The Chaucerian attempts at naughtiness!)
So. Ye heark. Heark ye, for the citizens of Blowitoutyourarse are about to Speak. They don’t have much to say, but that never slowed down that other Mr. Thomas up until now. Moreover, I am about to reveal his Literary Secret, his method. Dullyn (responsible for the stage name of the famous folk singer, Bob Dullyn) collared some lad in the White Horse pub and had him scrawl down any-such-thing because he had a publisher’s advance, see? So it was time for him to get right poetical-like.
Miscellaneous voice: Yes. Nothing inspires the poet like a few dozen pints of Guinness, a pathetic publisher’s advance that’s already spent and a towering deadline, after which will follow a timely and merciless lawsuit. So it were time Mr. Thomas began to write about his imaginary little village, which to avoid being sued for libel he renamed Lllargybargybrwllltwlltwwlt –
Another Plump Young Lady, but not as seductive: - which keeps on changin’ its spellin’ - just to confuse the tourists – who come to here to Blowarse, as we like to call it, to see the heavin’ bleedin' whales in the place of his boyhood – that other Thomas, I mean, the one who could write –
Parson Lllewwellynn: Silence, woman! Shut thy slutty mouth and speak no more! Thou hast been found out: thou possesseth a vagina and will be cast into everlasting hell because you suddenly realized it!
(Oh, the tight-lipped pastor – such wicked mirth at his expense!)
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