Some of you might wonder why I haven’t commented more on the Tucker Carlson fracas. Partly it’s because every time I think about him telling viewers on Friday night that he would see them next Monday, when at that very moment the pink slip had already been written out with his name on it, I am overcome with mirth and cannot type.
A couple of weeks ago, I was watching video of people fighting on the street in Washington A group of Trump guys surrounded an Antifa kid and started pounding the living s**t out of him. It was three against one, at least. Jumping a guy like that is dishonorable obviously. It’s not how white men fight. Yet suddenly I found myself rooting for the mob against the man, hoping they’d hit him harder, kill him. I really wanted them to hurt the kid. I could taste it.
Then somewhere deep in my brain, an alarm went off: this isn’t good for me. I’m becoming something I don’t want to be. The Antifa creep is a human being. Much as I despise what he says and does, much as I’m sure I’d hate him personally if I knew him, I shouldn’t gloat over his suffering. I should be bothered by it. I should remember that somewhere somebody probably loves this kid, and would be crushed if he was killed. If I don’t care about those things, if I reduce people to their politics, how am I better than he is?
Tucker Carlson, Text message to one of his producers.
But really, here I am admitting that I am taking pleasure in the public humiliation of Tucker, another human being. I excuse my behavior by pointing out that this particular human being is an absolute ass.
It helps to consider that until this latest version of a Friday Night Massacre, Carlson was a Republican kingmaker, with the ability to make or break careers in the ugly shambles that is the Grand Old Party today. A man who made his living reducing people to their politics, and who has continually encouraged whatever the opposite of the better angels of our nature are. He has done that every single day he came to work, for years, and has profited greatly by doing so.
And as to how “white men fight?” Has Tucker forgotten completely the story of Emmet Till? The whole revolting history of lynchings? The attempt to systematically eradicate the Native American population? These stories all involve a bunch of white men abusing or killing another person or persons.
The Tuskegee Institute has recorded the lynchings of 3,446 blacks and the lynchings of 1,297 whites, all of which occurred between 1882 and 1968, with the peak occurring in the 1890s, at a time of economic stress in the South and increasing political suppression of blacks.
Wikipedia: Lynching in the United States.
In that same Wikipedia article are some generally accepted criteria, again from the Tuskegee Institute, for considering something to be a lynching. (I find it very sad that there are criteria for such acts)
- There must be legal evidence that a person was killed.
- That a person must have met death illegally.
- A group of three or more persons must have participated in the killing.
- The group must have acted under the pretext of service to justice, race, or tradition.
How do “white men fight?” You’d think that I should know, since I am about as white as they come. In fact, you can’t even take a photograph of me during the winter because I disappear completely against snowy backgrounds. All you see is an empty puffy coat. And if I were to use my personal example, many white men fight by walking or running quickly in the opposite direction whenever confrontation arises.
This is not to diminish the damage done by we pale-faces, but history shows that whites fight pretty much like every other color of human does. Some of us fight bravely and honorably. Some of us fight as cowards and murderers. There really is only one race, folks, and we are all in it.
The Lakota people have a phrase worth thinking about. It is Mitákuye Oyásʼiŋ, and what it says is that we are all related.
I like that.
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As a child I was easily amused, pretty much as I am today. One of those items often found near the cash register in gas stations or small restaurants used to be the donkey weather barometer.
There would be a cardboard placard with a hole punched in the animal’s butt, and a short piece of rope dangling down from that opening.
I thought they were hilarious. I owned at least two of these things as a little kid, both of which have long ago gone to glory.
This morning I realized that I have my own version of this gewgaw living with me every day, right here in Paradise. It is Poco the cat. He is now 84 years old in human years, and his once lustrous and elegantly smooth coat has become scruffy. (As has mine, come to think of it). It was around 1 A.M. when he came into the room where I was working, and I automatically reached out to pet him. I found his coat to be wet, the first indication that I’d had that a light rain was falling outside the darkened window.
Thinking more about it, I realized that on very cold days his fur is notably cold, and on those days that are blessed by wind he sometimes looks like a four-legged sack of cowlicks. It’s all the same sort of thing, the major difference being that he needs to be brushed and fed now and then.
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A Clarence Thomas gallery. As you look through them, keep in mind that The Nine are allegedly the best the legal profession has to offer.
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We’re traveling to Durango on Saturday to see both grandchildren in plays. This will be Aiden’s last performance in high school, so it is kind of a big deal. He’s a talented young man with a good heart.
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Yesterday we replanted the small succulent bed in the back yard. These plants were promised to be hardy enough to be outside through the winter. When we asked the salesperson at the nursery if they were guaranteed to survive until next Spring, he paused thoughtfully and then replied that ordinarily that would be true, but with our track record … all bets are off.
I didn’t take offense, but I did record his car’s license plate number, just in case I ever need it in the future.
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Ornithology Department
Spotted a flock of somethings in a tree across the irrigation canal out back on Saturday morning. Using the binoculars it was obvious that not only were they beautifully colored, but had big heads and bills. Out came the Sibley manual and there they were: Evening grosbeaks.
A little bigger than a sparrow, there were about thirty of them flitting about the still-bare branches of the tree. I had never seen this bird before, here or anywhere else.
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Little Home In The Valley 