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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Well, the local classickal station is at it again with their semi-annual pledge drive.  Each time this comes around, Ol’ Robbo finds himself cringing just a little bit more.  Why?  Because every single time, not only do they use exactly the same format, they also use exactly the same language: the same scripted hooey about “community” and “the Arts” and “therapy”; the same pre-recorded plugs for promotional gift CD’s; even the same listener commentary (most of which is inane).   You’d think that after years and years of this they might try something different, especially as they’re always on about not making this or that pledge goal.

To be absolutely fair, Ol’ Robbo tried to think up some alternative fundraiser ideas himself, but really didn’t get much further than a model based on Python’s Blackmail Sketch.  Yes, it would be mighty effective, especially here in the Swamp, but somehow I don’t think the station’s board would be much interested.

By the bye, I’ve been slipping them some coin for years and years.  If I find out that some of this is leaking over to their teevee operations, especially as PBS is going full-on SJW with the kidz, I may have to rethink that very hard.  (Not saying they can’t do it, just saying I won’t voluntarily pay for it.)

And speaking of musick and money, Ol’ Robbo learned this week from comments over at AoSHQ that there exists a director’s cut of the movie “Amadeus” that contains a scene in which Constanze offers to prostitute herself to Salieri in order to get some badly-needed readies for the Mozarts.  I never much liked the movie anyway since it plays so very fast and loose with the actual facts of Mozart’s life, but this is positively obscene.

One fellow Moron said yes, the movie is inaccurate, but it’s telling the story from Salieri’s point of view and he was lying and delusional.  First, that’s a slander on Salieri.  Second, I don’t think it comes across that way from the screenplay, since there are many scene outside of Salieri’s scope of vision.  And third, for a large chunk of the audience, the movie is the reality, as it’s the only source of biographical information about Wolfgang to which they’ve likely ever been exposed or will be.

Another said well the fact was that Mozart was a true genius and wound up in a pauper’s grave and that wasn’t right.  Well, it wasn’t lack of appreciation that put Wolfgang in a pauper’s grave, but his wife who, as a new widow with two small sons and almost no assets, had to be as thrifty as possible.  (Besides, this practice was quite common in Vienna at the time.)  And why hadn’t his musickal genius brought the family greater fortune while Wolfgang was still alive?  Because as a businessman and professional, he was an absolute idiot, with neither the patience nor the foresight to put down roots, pay his dues, bide his time, build up a body of goodwill, or seize real opportunities when they presented themselves.  (Ol’ Robbo often wonders what might have happened had Mozart gone to London along with Papa Haydn, as Peter Salomon so wanted him to do.)  That’s why.

Harumph! Harumph! Harumph!

[Ed. – I didn’t get a “Harumph!’ from that guy over there.]

UPDATE: Oh, by the bye, in my younger days, I’d have finished this post with the YooToob of “Rock Me, Amadeus”.  I like to think I’ve outgrown that now.  Instead, I direct your attention over to Friend of the Decanter Zoopraxiscope Don, who reports that tomorrow is World Fiddle Day and provides some toe-tapping samples to get us in the mood.  A glass of wine with you!

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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

How about a quarter of unconnected thoughts to start the week?

Firstest:  Despite the fact that it was cold and rainy in Your Nation’s Capital today, Ol’ Robbo went out for his usual lunchtime walk round the National Mall.  And as I trudged along, I was accosted by a nice-looking young woman -evidently from her accent a tourist from either the Caribbean or Africa – who wanted to know where the “Mall” was.  When I swept my arms around and said, “This is it”, she got a dumbfounded look on her face which I immediately knew meant she had been expecting a shopping mall.  This very same thing happened to me a year or two ago and at that time I was too surprised to respond tactfully.  This time, however, I kept my wits and said, “No, there aren’t any regular stores, but all the museums have nice gift shops.”  She seemed pleased.

Also, as I rounded the reflecting pool in front of the Grant Memorial, I noticed the air was full of swallows buzzing back and forth over the water in search of flying yummies.  I always love seeing this, as I also do the new hatches of Mallard chicks paddling to and fro across the pool’s surface.  Alas, this is my last spring to indulge this before my office moves away.  Gonna miss it.

Segundo:  Ol’ Robbo is very pleased that the two Elder Gels have gainful and interesting employment this summah.  Eldest started today working at Wolf Trap – she’s helping with set-up at first and will work concessions once the season starts –  and seems quite excited.  This sort of thing is right up her alley, combining the Arts with Hospitality (to which she’s always been drawn), and the more I ponder it, the more I wonder if this summah might not lay the ground-work for a future employment track.  We shall see.

Meanwhile, MIddle Gel is in the midst of an intense May-mester stats course, but when she’s done she intends to stay down in the Tidewater working for a dive-outfitter.  (She fell in love with scuba this year.  Also, boyfriend is down there.)  She’ll get paid to work in the store, but she also has a three-year internship for which she doesn’t get paid, but gets her dive-certification fees (which are hefty, so I gather) waived.  (As part of this, she’ll be going down to the Keys at some point this summah to help the outfitter conduct a dive for some clients.)  When she’s done, as I understand it, she will have gained her professional dive certificate, which she plans to parlay into graduate work and an eventual career possibly in marine biology.  (This is not a far-fetched idea at all.  Sistah’s hubby is in the field and is very enthusiastic about the opportunities for bright young ladies coming up.)

We’re not requiring Youngest to get a steady job this year, as she’s got a month’s worth of Bible Thumper Camp plus the college tour.  She herself said just yesterday, however, that she really needs to earn some money.  Musick to Ol’ Robbo’s ears.  I suggested she go with babysitting: Not only is it flexible, a responsible kid in these parts can make a killing in sweet, sweet, non-reportable cash payments.

Trois:  Regular Friends of the Decanter may recall Ol’ Robbo’s mention of his genealogy-obsessed cousin who regularly offers up new and intriguing bits of family lore?  (I believe the last time I mentioned her here was in connection with her news that one branch of the Family had been present on the Virginny Frontier in Colonial times and had suffered losses in Shawnee attacks on Kerr’s Creek in 1759 and 1763.)  Well, she’s at it again.  While in town this past weekend to go out with Mrs. Robbo, she informed me that she had definitely established our direct family tree in the neighborhood of Carlisle, PA, then very much the frontier, in 1763.  “Gawd,” I said, “I hope they weren’t mixed up with the Paxton Boys!” She’s enough of a history nerd that she laughed at the reference.  But I’m not so sure it wasn’t a possibility.

The Fourth Thing:  Well, Ol’ Robbo is off to watch “Bend of the River” which turned up today in his Netflix queue.  It’s not the best of the Anthony Mann/Jimmy Stewart westerns:  “Winchester ’73” takes that honor.  And why?  Because in the latter, Jimmah is driven by righteous anger to hunt down the no-good brother who murdered their father.  That I can accept completely.  But in the former, Jimmah plays an ex-Border Raider under Quantrill seeking redemption for his past wickedness by doing right.  Jimmah? A cut-throat hooligan? G’wan with ya!  I just don’t buy it.  But I like the film anyway.

Oh, and a Bonus:  At least Ol’ Robbo’s beloved Nats can’t lose today, seeing as they aren’t playing.  Sheesh. 

 

Ol’ Robbo generally confines himself to two posts a weekend, gardening on Saturdays and God-stuff on Sundays, but I think this weekend merits a dividend:

Today is May the Fifth, Cinco de Mayo.  An obscure (to Americans, at least) date in the history of Mexico’s path to independence, now transmogrified by Big Alcohol into an excuse for blatant debauchery much on the level of New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day.

Yesterday, however, was May the Fourth.  An ordinary date now transmogrified by Big Hollywood via a horrible “Star Wars” clinch into something rapidly approaching a new secular holiday.

You may decide for yourselves which one Ol’ Robbo finds more repulsive.

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

I believe I mentioned the other day that Eldest decided to come home for reading days before her finals in order to drop off a load of her junk.

She and I got talking last evening about a History of Judaism** class she’s taking this semester.  The Rabbi who teaches it claims to be a Conservative.  Ol’ Robbo doesn’t know much about the strains and gradations of American Judaism these days, but from some of the things the Gel tells me have come out of this one’s mouth, there’s no real difference between Conservatives and Reformed anymore.  The Gel is still trying to wrap her brain around the idea that modern American Judaism is mostly cultural, not religious.

Anyhoo, the Gel told me about a discussion the class had concerning Abraham’s haggling with God over the fate of Sodom.  In the end, according to the Rabbi, Abraham was trying to “hold God to a Higher Standard”.  This is code language Ol’ Robbo has heard in many other forms from time to time and loosely translates into, “I’d worship a God only if xhe was more like Me.”

The Gel was having none of it.

“What are you talking about?” she said. “God is omniscient, omnipotent, and timeless! Nobody could challenge Him to be ‘higher’ because He’s already the Highest!  Abraham was looking for mercy and maybe thought he could change God’s mind, but he didn’t have the slightest chance because God’s mind doesn’t change.”

To her credit, the Rabbi has got used to the Gel calling her out on things and doesn’t punish her for it.  She acknowledged that yes, the Gel’s viewpoint was at least a valid one.

Sigh.…Do none of these people who think they can out-God God read Job anymore?

In the same conversation with me, by the bye, the Gel roundly damned Humanism, said the term “The Enlightenment” is a wholesale fraud, criticized another history professor for making the class study the Battle of the Wabash to show the United States Army “wasn’t perfect” (“Where the hell did he get that strawman?” she said), and generally condemned anyone who applies 21st Century sensibilities to historickal facts (in this case, American colonization of the Ohio Valley) as idiots.

That’s my Gel!

 

**Mrs. R’s family, on her father’s side, are Sephardic Jews who can trace their ancestry all the way back to getting chucked out of Spain during the Inquisition.  This fact has always intrigued Eldest Gel and has largely shaped her academic interests.  Most of her studies have focused on religious history, particularly in Renaissance Europe, and she’s spent much of her time trying to uncake the mud of Modernist interpretation to get at it.

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo was interested to read over at the Puppy-Blender’s again today the report that Louis Farrakhan had been banned from FacePlant and Twatter, originally and hilariously as a “right-winger”, but latterly identified merely as an “extremist” once the derisive guffawing got too loud.

I mention this because back in the day of my academic career at The People’s Glorious Soviet of Middletown, CT, one of the campus militant groups invited Farrakhan to come speak.  All hell broke loose:  Lots of other organizations demanded that the invitation be rescinded; there was a persistent rumor that the Jewish Defense League planned to bomb the offices of the student newspaper; and a couple days prior to the speech there was a notable uptick in the visible presence of both campus security and town cops.

And of course a protest was organized to take place outside the venue where Farrakhan was speaking.

Now Dear Ol’ Wes was renowned back in the day for what Ol’ Robbo more than once referred to as the “Protest de Jure“.  The kids were always out demonstrating about one thing or another, Apartheid all the way through zoo abuse, to the point where I literally saw hall-mates of mine get into arguments over what day it was, what protest it was, and what was the appropriate costume/signage.  Indeed, as cartoonist to the campus conservative newspaper, I even went so far at one point as to propose a generic protest placard – readily amendable at the last second – to avoid these awkward situations.

That’s Ol’ Robbo – always trying to help! (It didn’t go over very well.)

Anyhoo, what marked the anti-Farrakhan protest different from all the other eleventy-billion gripe-fests that occurred during Ol’ Robbo’s time as a student was the fact that I actually attended this one.

Yep, marched, sat, listened to a bunch of speeches, marched back.  (No, I did not chant.)

Mind you, Ol’ Robbo didn’t participate because he thought Farrakhan should not have been allowed to speak in the first place, as so many of my fellow protesters evidently did.  No, I turned up simply to show my poor opinion of the things that came out of Farrakhan’s mouth (and still do).  He has the right to rave, I have the right to say he’s raving.

I thought that was what free expression was all about,  Silly me, at least in the eyes of our Social Media overlords.

Speaking of Ol’ Wes, friends of the decanter may be interested to know that the most recent passenger to climb into the Donk 2020 Presidential Hopeful Clown Car, Colorado Senator Michael Bennet, was a classmate of mine there.  I didn’t know him back in the day, and only became aware of his name when the alum magazine glommed on to his Colorado senate election campaign a few years back and started puffing him.  This evening, I went so far as to pull out our old yearbook and look him up.  The face is vaguely familiar, but I still got nothing.

I’d assume that in the unlikely event Bennet wins in ’20, a request from Ol’ Robbo based on our undergrad ties for an appointment to an ambassadorship – to, say, the Vatican or the Court of St. James – would more than likely fall on deaf ears.  Eh.

 

***Classic Blues Brothers reference actually based on The Skokie Affair, required reading in Con Law, at least back in my day.  I hate Illinois Nazis, too.  But to be frank, Elwood had no biznay running them off that bridge.

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

With the arrival of spring and its legions of tourons in Your Nation’s Capital also has come the reappearance of the ice cream truck fleet.  For whatever reason, it seems to Ol’ Robbo that there are more of them parked around town this year than previously.  (Actually,  more food trucks in general.  I dunno if this is due to a relaxation in regulations or a booming market or some combination of both.)

I know several of them within my immediate vicinity and can follow their movements from one spot to another by their signature tunes blaring out over their loudspeakers, much the way I follow birds from the porch of Port Swiller Manor.  There’s one that plays “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”.  Another seems to be trying to corner the high-brow market with a selection from Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake”.  A third offers up an old song called “Red Wing” which I happen to know only because The Dook and Lee Marvin give a drunken (and historickally impossible) rendition of it in “The Comancheros“, a favorite movie of mine.  And then there’s the one that plays  a portion of Joplin’s “The Entertainer”, which frankly makes me grind my teeth in memory of every kiddie piano recital in which I was made to participate during my misspent yoot.  (I never learned it myself – the Joplin piece I studied was the “Maple Leaf Rag” – but some other kid always, always played it. And poorly, too.)

I hear all of these (and others) both during my lunchtime walks and also as I slog out of the City during my afternoon commute.  And what I can’t help wondering is this:  Even a few moments of listening to the same ten second loop of blaring, metallic, synthesized musick over and over and over and over again makes me start to twitch.  How the heck do the fellahs who run these trucks stand hours of it without flipping out?

I suppose they just manage to blot it all out, somehow.  (What are the pot laws in Dee Cee these days? Pretty lax if I’m not mistaken.)  Pretty sure I wouldn’t make it through my first day without suddenly seizing an ice-cream scoop and running amok up and down the Mall, laying into everyone I could reach.

UPDATE: Speaking of ice cream brings to the surface an amusing (to me, at any rate) recollection from my time at the People’s Glorious Soviet of Middletown, CT.  I had the same roommate my junior and senior years.  In many respects, we could not have been more opposite.  I was a conservative, Christian, traditionalist jock from South Texas.  He was a 90-pound Jewish liberal from Jersey.  (Our arguments over Jim Morrison, for example, were epic.  Roommate: “He was a visionary genius!”  Self: “He was a goddam hippy punk!”)

What made it work was the fact that we had very, very similar senses of humor.  He put me on to Firesign Theatre, for example, which I find quite clever and amusing even if it is hippy stream-of-consciousness drug humor. In return, I broadened his Monty Python exposure.  One of our favorite practices was to buy the Weekly World News and to cut up and rearrange the headlines, thus making them even stranger than the originals.  These we would tape to our hall door for the benefit of our hallmates.  (I lived on a very radical leftist hall.  They never could quite decide what to make of me, in large part because of things like this.)

More to the point, the only class we ever took together was a basic Macro Econ class.  It was taught by a native-Polish prof who studied in Britain.  Where other econ profs used the word “widgets” to describe a basic unit of production, this prof used “ice cream”, I suppose in an effort to engage our fleeting attention.  In order to get around the problem of breaking that commodity down into individual units, he would say “ice creams“.   My roommate and I both noticed this and both found it funny, especially as served up in a plummy Brit accent.  It got to the point that if we accidentally made eye-contact in class when the prof offered it up, we’d both break down in helpless giggles.

Ah, yoot.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo is patting himself on the back this morning because he actually made the effort to go out and cut the Port Swiller Manor grass last evening after work ahead of today’s forecast showers and thunderstorms.  So Ma Nature is free to throw her weight around all she likes this afternoon as far as I’m concerned.  (Not that she will now, of course, the fickle hussy.  I’ve heard exactly one clap of thunder this entire spring so far.)  Also, as we’re still in the Octave of Easter, today is a Bacon Friday for me.  So Ol’ Robbo is in a pretty durn good mood overall.  With that in mind, how about a bit o’ random?

♦  Not that I touch on politicks much here, but I must say I’m a bit surprised that Creepy Uncle Joe Biden decided to throw his hat in the ring for the Donks’ ’20 nom.  I suppose the Establishment figured he’s their best hope, as She Who Must Not Be Named will shortly be radioactive and there’s not much else available on the bench.  I’d be even more surprised if he actually gets it, as the Jacobins seem to have completely hijacked the Party and will eat him alive.  (My guess at this point would be an eventual ticket composed of some combination of Crazy Uncle Bernie and Kamala [nickname not repeatable on a family blog] Harris. In sane times, we’d be looking at another McGovern/Mondale-level blow out, but I’m not so sanguine about that just yet.)

♦  Speaking of benches, Ol’ Robbo is bitterly disappointed that his beloved Nationals are finishing up April as a .500 club.  This is troubling both because the NL East is so competitive this year that every game is probably going to count come September, and also because we seem to be picking right back up with the same mediocrity we displayed all of last year.  Is it too early to set my hair on fire and call for the sacking of Dave Martinez?

♦ How are the Gels, you may ask? Doing well, thankee.  Middle Gel is in the thick of freshman finals right now, and later will be going back for “May-mester” to take statistics, a task I do not envy her.  Eldest is just finishing up junior year classes and will be coming home next week to drop off a load of junk before heading back for her own exams.  As for Youngest, the college search is ramping up this spring.  We’re mostly looking in-state, but we’ve also got our eye on Miami of Ohio.  Want some fun facts about the place? My great-grandmother’s family lived in the area of Oxford, Ohio from about 1800 until the mid-1950’s.  In fact, a couple of them were alums of the school, I believe.  They had a house in town that was eventually bough and torn down by the University as part of its expansion.  They also owned a mill outside of town along Four-Mile Creek that served as a stop on the Underground Railroad until the end of the War.  (They were stout Scots-Presbyterian Abolitionists, the lot of them.)  The Mothe always insisted that Great-Granma ‘Rilla was crazy as a loon and that it was her family’s blood which gave all of us descendants our own peculiar taint, but the history is pretty neat nonetheless.

♦  Speaking of gels, did you see the article about the Scottish Maritime Museum being bullied by vandals into ceasing to refer to ships as “she”?  That reminds me of one of my very favorite lines from “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan”, where Spock says simply and elegantly as the Enterprise clears moorings, “Take her out, Mr. Saavik.”  Oh, and I suppose you also heard about Kate Smith being unpersoned by the Yankees?  If Ol’ Robbo ever found himself in Yankee Stadium – not that I’m likely to – I’d be belting out “God Bless America” at the top of my lungs during the 7th Inning Stretch, and be damned to these thugs and bullies.  Oh, and while I’m at it, a trio of Murrland Congress-critters is now trying to get rid of the statue of Robert E. Lee at Antietam.  Ol’ Robbo is old enough to remember when airbrushing people out of history was the study of Kremlinologists and was considered a Bad Thing.  I’m also old enough to remember when Orwell’s “1984” was considered a cautionary tale and not a how-to manual.

Anyhoo, enough of that.  As I say, I’m in a good mood today, so how is it that three out of my four bits of random are so cranky?  Well, you’ve got to keep your eyes open and your wits about you these days, but at the same time, illegitimi non carborundum.  (They hate that, by the way, bless their hearts!)

And now I’m off to go see about some of that bacon.  Sweet, sweet, delicious bacon……………

UPDATE:  Well, Ma is coming through, it would seem.  The first of the afternoon t-showers just rolled through and it looks like another one will be here in just a few minutes.  So I’m about up to seven claps of thunder on the year so far.  Now if Ma really likes us, she might just rain out Youngest’s softball game tonight, not because I don’t want to see her play, but because I’m so comfy where I am right now….

 

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Pray let us raise our glasses in honor of Lew Wallace, born this day in 1827.  I bring this up for a felicitous reason I’ll get to in a moment.

Wallace had quite the life.  Starting out as a lawyer, he enrolled in the U.S. Army and served in the Mexican War.  In the Civil War, he served primarily in the Western Theater as a brigadier general.  He did well at the Battles of Forts Henry and Donelson, but owing to garbled communications, was out of position at a critical moment on the first day of Shiloh, thereby invoking the wrath of Grant, who thought it was Wallace’s fault.  (It wasn’t, and Grant rather grudgingly admitted the error later in his Memoirs.)

For this black mark, Wallace was banished to second line command positions, where he eventually wound up in charge of a small force along the Monocacy River outside Frederick, Murrland that, in 1864, suddenly found itself the only organized military unit between Washington D.C. and a flank move by Jubal Early out of the Shenandoah Valley.  Hopelessly out-gunned, Wallace nonetheless deployed his small force, which deployment delayed Early’s move by a day and bought enough time for re-enforcements to be rushed to the Washington defenses.

As Wiki notes, Wallace also served on the military commission for the trials of the Lincoln assassination conspirators, and presided over the trial of Henry Wirz, the Confederate commandant of the Andersonville prison camp (who I believe was the only Confederate war criminal ever hanged by the Union).

Later, Wallace became governor of the New Mexico territory and personally met Billy the Kid.

But what makes today’s birthday especially apropos are the facts a) that Wallace became a writer in later life and was the author of Ben-Hur, which was an insanely popular novel in its day, and b) that Netflix just delivered the 2-DVD set of the Heston movie version of the book, which I plan to watch over the weekend, as Mrs. R and Youngest Gel will be out of town visiting her parents and I’ll have Port Swiller Manor to myself.

I’ve never read the novel, although I am tempted to check it out.  However, reviews I’ve seen suggest it is somewhat overwrought and ponderous in style, and I’m a little hesitant to tackle it even for historickal purposes until I get some better feedback.

As for the movie, it’s been ages, and I think the last time I watched it I dozed off somewhere around Heston’s visit to the leper colony.  Fortunately, as I say, it came in two disks this time, so I have a natural way by which to split up my labors.

Anyhoo, with the coincidence of Wallace’s birthday and the arrival of the flick, why not celebrate?

 

**Obligatory, because that’s exactly what’s popped into your head, isn’t it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo was most surprised to learn of the passing this week of former Senator Earnest F. “Fritz” Hollings of South Carolina at the age of 97, because I hadn’t even realized that he was still alive.

I actually met Ol’ Fritz one time.  My newly-retired parents were living in South Carolina while I went to law school, and through writing to his office I snagged a summah internship with the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation, on which he was, I believe, the Ranking Member at the time, with McCain in the Chair.  Or perhaps the other way round, I can’t remember.  (It was, by the bye, an utterly useless gig from a substantive point of view., but it gave me my first up-close-and-personal peek at the Swamp.)

Anyhoo, one afternoon Hollings came round the office to say an official “thank you” to those of us there for the summah.  As I shook hands with him, he asked me where in South Carolina I was living.  When I told him, he said, “Ah, big CO-caine bust ’round theyah a few weeks back.  Lotta drugs confiscated…lotta money…some cars and guns…..You weren’t mixed up in any of that now, were ya?”

“Noooo…..” I replied, “But I haven’t heard from Mom and Dad for a while now….”

He was good enough to laugh.

Somewhere or other I’ve still got the autographed photo of us shaking hands, Hollings looking every inch the politico, Self looking like a depraved moron.

Anyway, rest in peace.

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Youngest Gel has a softball game this evening.  This morning Ol’ Robbo said to her, “So, you guys are playing Washington & Lee tonight, right?”

“Oh, noooo,” she replied, “They changed that.  It’s now ‘Washington & Liberty High School.”

Cor’ lumme, stone the crows.

I suppose this happened as part of the fallout from that highly-suspicious biznay in Charlottesville a year or two back, and I somehow just missed it.

Well, my politickally-correct pretties, let Uncle Robbo put you some knowledge: You think “Liberty” is a harmless, even good substitute for an unpersoned badman now, but if the country keeps veering farther and farther toward leftist totalitarianism, that word, too, will become double plus ungood wrongthink, a foul rallying point for the hoarders, wreckers, and saboteurs among those of us kulaks who still believe it to be an individual right given to us by God instead of a collective one only to be doled out (or taken away) by the State as it sees fit.

Just see if it doesn’t.

My own Dubyuhnell stopped short of such nonsense for now, mostly I suspect for fear of alumni wrath. But I’ll bet it’s still in the cards somewhere.  I don’t really have much to do with the school anymore since it lurched left, but I still have alumni plates on my car.  If they ever actually do change the school’s name, I’ll keep those plates just by way of flipping them off.

Just see if I don’t.

UPDATE:  I went to the school’s website to find out where it actually is located and was surprised to see it still listed as Washington-Lee.  My first hope was that maybe Youngest had been mistaken, but a further Binging  shows that yes, they voted to change the name, but it only happened a couple months ago.  Feh.  I suppose that school site is in for one hell of a Politburo-style whitewashing, because it’s chock-a-block with the school’s history and traditions, complete with its linkage to my old school.

UPDATE DEUX: And bang on cue, Insty is carrying a story today about the National Guard changing their Minuteman recruiting logo because today’s kidz are too damn stupid and ill-educated to even know what a Minuteman actually was.  (Plus, flint-lock muskets are totes scary!)

The most chilling thing is that these idiocies are planned and deliberate.

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