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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

For those two or three of you who forgather here over the decanter and walnuts on a regular basis, I’d just like to give you advanced warning that Ol’ Robbo may not be around much over the next few days, as his attention will be taken up with the first round of the MLB playoffs in which his beloved Nationals are set to take on the CubbiesLET’S GO, NATS!

However, before I plunge into the battle, I’d just like to say a word here about TeeVee coverage of same and how terrible and disturbing Ol’ Robbo thinks it is that, having come this far, I am suddenly robbed of my usual broadcasters and instead must be subjected to the likes of Joe Buck and others at Fox and MLB Network.  (2017 saw the Nats’ fourth pennant in six years – cough, cough – so I’ve plenty of experience now.)

I mean, regular season Nats games are covered on MASN (the Mid-Atlantic Sports Network) by Bob Carpenter and F.P. Santangelo.  This is the day-in, day-out routine for six months and 162 games.  These guys travel all over the country with the team.  They talk to the players and coaches (and management) every day.  They’re invested, if you will.  I will even go so far as to say (God help me), that they are part of the Nationals “Family”.

So how fair is it for them that after all this they’re suddenly replaced in the booth for October Ball by a parcel of folks who don’t give a rat’s ass about the team one way or another?  (And by the bye, I’ve got no problem whatsoever with a broadcaster showing bias in favor of his home team.)

And how jarring is it for Ol’ Robbo, who prizes routine and consistency and loyalty above most other things, to suddenly find a bunch of strangers opining about His Team?  (What the hell do they know or care, for instance, about beloved team nicknames like “Tony Two-Bags” Rendon or Michael A. “Tater“?)

It seems to me [pounds the table] that any team which makes the playoffs ought to be allowed to carry coverage of the games on both the national networks and its own home network.

Harumph! Harumph! Harumph!

Sigh.  Whelp, I know that my feeble voice isn’t going to sway the big money boys, and that things are what they are.  So what else is there to say, except:

GO, NATS!!!

UPDATE:  Okay,  the series is being carried on TBS, not Fox.  And it’s really not so bad:  I’d rather listen to Ron Darling than Joe Buck any day.  But my point still stands.

Meanwhile,  Ol’ Robbo is reminded of his love/hate relationship with October Baseball.  As of this update, the series stands tied at 1-1 after the Nats’ Bats finally awaken in spectacular fashion late in Game 2.  Looks like I picked a hell of a week to quit drinking. [Reaches for decanter. Guzzles.]

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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo has nothing either especially informed or even reasonably intelligent to say about the mass shooting on the Strip Sunday night except this:  I do wish people would stop calling what happened a “tragedy”.  A tragedy is an earthquake or an accidental fire in a high-rise or a school bus accident.  This was an atrocity and should be called and treated as such.  (And no, I don’t believe doing so involves surrendering our weapons of self-defense to the benevolent hand of the God State.)

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo had to spend some time this morning dealing with Amex’s customer service.  The first part was fighting my way past the automated “Alex” (or whatever her name is) customer service drone in order to hook up with a real person.  The second part included, among other things, arguing to someone in India that, yes, Mrs. Robbo was supposed to have full administrative rights and privileges to Ol’ Robbo’s little green card, thank you very much.

Grrrrr…..

Thinking about it, though, the positive side occurred to me:  How blessed am I that have a wife in whom I can so completely and confidently trust with such powers.  That she is the CFO of the Port Swiller Family is a comfort to me, not a concern.

Just saying.  From what I gather, this is not the case with many other couples in these wretched times.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo often takes a walk round the National Mall on his lunch break.  Over the course of time, I’ve seen many, many things there, but never something quite like this:

WASHINGTON — A 45-foot-tall sculpture of a nude woman could be coming to the National Mall for an extended stay. 

Organizers of the Catharsis on the Mall event are trying to raise funds to transport the R-Evolution sculpture from San Francisco to D.C. in time for this year’s event, which is set for November. 

The organizers say they have received approval from the National Park Service to have the structure on the grounds of the National Mall. It would stand next to the Washington Monument and face the White House.

The article says the purpose of the statue is to encourage people to “de-objectify” women’s bodies.  Or something.  I’m not sure how erecting a giant, unmissible object is supposed to do that, but whatever.  Also, if the way tourons take pictures of themselves pretending to prop up the Washington Monument is any indication, there are going to be hijinks a-plenty that the organizers of this thing probably didn’t have in mind.

Speaking of objectifying women, our Maximum Leader is back on the blogs with a post about the passing this  week of Hugh Hefner.  Ol’ Robbo can’t say that he thinks Hef’s legacy was a net gain for the culchah.

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo finally got around to watching Rogue One last evening.  I’m hardly what you would call a Star Wars fanboi (I still haven’t seen Episode VII), but I must say that I think I rather enjoyed the film overall.  A nice, tight story; good cinematography; a Death Star that seemed almost to possess a malice of its own.

And what I really liked was the fact that so many different characters were involved.  It felt much, much more like a genuine fight between Empire and Rebel Alliance, and not just another episode of Skywalker Family Squabbles© with a bunch of extras on either side.

If the film had a weakness, I’d say it’s that I really didn’t know much more about any of these characters at the end than I did at the beginning.

Also, I have to say the CGI appearances of Zombie Peter Cushing and Zombie Carrie Fisher disturbed me somewhat.  Being made to play a character even though you’re actually dead somehow just doesn’t seem right.

Nonetheless, as I say, I think I liked it.

On the other hand, I see there’s a new Star Trek series being launched, Star Trek:Discovery.  It’s already being called ST:SJW because it’s being marketed as having a real Hard Left vibe.  Thanks, but I believe I’ll pass on that one.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo hasn’t paid any attention to professional football for some years now, but I can’t help noticing that this “taking a knee” thing during the National Anthem seems suddenly to be escalating, and that The Donald is calling out the NFL for it.

Have the players (and owners) actually thought this thing through?  Do they really believe that their core audience wants to see football politicized like this?  Or that the average fan has the slightest bit of sympathy for the disrespectful faux-virtue-signaling of guys paid millions of dollars to play a game?  Are they so supremely confident in their market that they feel they can flip it the bird with impunity?

I certainly don’t think so, and I don’t think the Donald does, either.  And the vaporings of the MSM aside, I think his message for these guys to stop acting like assholes resonates mightily among a majority of people.  As the saying goes, you want more Trump?  Because this is how you get more Trump.

Anyhoo, I just hope this idiocy doesn’t spread into the MLB.  I did see where one guy on the A’s pulled it the other day, but hopefully that was a one-off.

UPDATE:  Good Lord – the lone Pittsburgh Steeler who stood up to this nonsense, an Army Ranger with three tours in Afghanistan to his credit, has now been forced to kowtow to the Machine.

UPDATED DEUX:  Greetings again, my fellow port swillers!  Ol’ Robbo heard the fellah in the office next door this morning comparing the Knee-Taker Brigade to Rosa Parks.  Figure that one out if you will.  Oh, and NPR told me this evening that The Donald is a complete awful because he’s wasting his time fighting this out on the Innertoobs while the people of Puerto Rico (pronounced “PWAIR-to REEEK-o“) are starving to death due to lack of White House assistance, IOW that Maria is the Donald’s Katrina.  Whelp, it turns out the island’s governor didn’t get the talking point.

I’ll be very, very interested to see how public opinion breaks on all this over the coming days.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Now that the days are beginning to draw in somewhat and it becomes duskier for both Robbo’s morning and evening commute, I once again observe that there appears to be a direct correlation between the darkness of a car’s body and the odds that its headlights are not on.  If I had a head for the mathematics, I’ll bet I could reduce this to some kind of formula.

Downtown this evening at a light round the corner from my garage, I came up next to a woman on a bike in the left lane.  Not only was she on a bike, she was also towing a toddler in one of those baby trailer things hitched on to the back of her bike.  In rush hour? This struck me as insane.

There are too many people who don’t seem to understand that courtesy to other drivers includes courtesy to the car behind you.  Remember when you’re coming to an intersection that the fellah behind you also wants to get through before the light changes.

Ol’ Robbo has always assumed that those rubber lines stretched out temporarily across roadways were used for counting cars and thereby generating traffic usage data.  Usually there are two or three of them grouped together.  I also assume this is to ensure count accuracy, rather than, say, to calculate speed.   At the moment, however, there are two groups of at least five such lines stretched across the parkway that Ol’ Robbo travels on his commute.  Why so many?

There is very rarely a day on which Ol’ Robbo does not mutter to himself at some point, “Goddam Murrland drivers!”

Greetings, my fellow port swillers and happy autumnal equinox!

Ironically, while the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor received its first blast of fall coolness in mid-August (three or four weeks early, in fact), we’re back up to more summah-like temperatures this weekend.

Go figure.

Speaking of which, Ol’ Robbo was intensely amused this week to see, via Ace, an article from Pravda on the Potomac admitting that the “science” behind Glowball Enwarmening is, well, maybe not quite so “settled” after all:

The new research, thus, seems to potentially empower a critique of climate science that has often been leveled by skeptics, doubters and “lukewarmers” who argue that warming is shaping up to be less than climate models have predicted…
Overall, the dispute raises questions about how widely the carbon-budget concept has proliferated — and just how much we actually understand it.
“It goes to show, this carbon-budget approach is still much more, let’s say, immature scientifically than what we often assume,” [Center for International Climate Research’s Glen] Peters said.

“Immature”?  You misspelled “fraudulent”.  This has never been about science, but always, always, about politics and inventing justifications for centralizing authoritarian power.

The back of my hand to it.

Anyhoo, Mrs. Robbo bought me a power washer this week and I intend to take advantage of the balmy weather tomorrow to use it on, well, anything that comes within range, I suppose.

Including Mrs. Robbo.

[Insert malevolent cackling here]

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Via the Puppy-blender, Ol’ Robbo came across this article on the fifteenth anniversary of the short-lived tee-vee series “Firefly“.

Ol’ Robbo never saw the show on network tee-vee, but came across it later and now owns the series on DVD and watches it every few months. Apart from the solid crafting and nifty dialogue of the show, in terms of its general spirit I consider myself to be a true Browncoat, especially considering all that is going on these days in the Imperial Swamp.

Anyhoo, the article prompts both a reminiscence and a question in what passes for Ol’ Robbo’s braims:

First, the reminiscence.  I’ve probably mentioned here before that the creator of “Firefly”, Joss Whedon, was a classmate of mine at the People’s Glorious Soviet of Middletown, CT.  Indeed, we lived in the same residential college.  All I remember of him back in those days was seeing him wandering round campus in some kind of daze.  Whether recreational pharmaceuticals were involved, I simply could not will not say.

Second, the question.  “Firefly” is stridently libertarian in tone, the crew of the good ship Serenity all opposed to the totalitarian impulses of the Alliance for various reasons, yet in his own life Whedon has been a knob-gobbling supporter of Progressivism in general, and Emperor Barky O-Beho the First in particular.  Why is this? Does he not get the paradox?  Or does he just not care?

The World wonders.

Oh, and as I’m on the subject of Whedon, I will state here and now that his adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing” is wretched, both in understanding and performance.

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Regular friends of the decanter may recall Ol’ Robbo posting a couple months ago about going in for an initial consultation for his first colonoscopy?  Whelp, yesterday I actually went through with it.

As Mal Reynolds would say, “Huh.”

As far as the prep work went, it really must have been a lot more awful back in the day because, despite the traditional hype, to me the whole biznay turned out to be a big nothing-burger.  I was expecting vile-tasting concoctions, nausea, cramps, and the like.  But the “EZ-2-GO” kit (no, I’m not making that up) was nothing but tasteless powders easily masked by Gator-Aid.  And while they certainly threw the bilge pumps into overdrive, which after all was the whole point, I suffered no other adverse symptoms.  And on the bright side, confined to the throne most of the afternoon and evening, I got a lot of reading done.

No, the really awful part of the prep to me was the fasting.  Ol’ Robbo found himself starving by mid-afternoon, and so hungry the night before that I could hardly sleep.  And as for the lack of coffee and wine? Just don’t even ask.

(By the bye, I understand that this kind of purging is a Thing among Left Coast and Hollywood types, as they think it provides some kind of physical and spiritual health benefit.  My G/I guy openly sneered at the idea.)

As far as the actual dance went, Ol’ Robbo’s greatest concern going into it, believe it or not, was having to put on the Gown of Shame.  A few years back, I had an endoscopy done at one of the local hospitals.  The ward was something like a stockyard, with G/I patients all over the place and bad moons rising all around.  Being a very modest fellah, I really didn’t want that.

Fortunately, this time I went to a practice that does all its procedures in-house.  They were more than respectful, and had a carefully-choreographed system whereby patients were moved about one at a time and strategic blankets were provided to keep one covered up until the moment the fun began.

And then there was the Nap.  Mmmmmm……the Nap.  Now that’s something that lives up to its hype.  “We go night-night now?” I asked the gas-passer.  “We go night-night now,” she said.  Deep, deep down in an instant, gradually rising to some pleasant but unrecoverable dream and then suddenly finding myself somewhat bewildered in a recovery bay with the G/I guy and gas-passer smiling down at me.

As for the recovery itself, reverting back to my prior hospital experience, I was expecting the “what’s your hurry/here’s your hat” treatment, but again I was pleasantly surprised.  In fact, I snapped out of it pretty quickly, but when I said I was good to go, they actually held me back a bit to be doubly sure.

Oh, and I’m fine.  They snipped out two or three baby polyps that they’re going to check, of course, but the doc seems quite unconcerned.  He says I don’t need to go back for another five years.

And about that gnawing hunger? I demanded that Mrs. R immediately take me to the nearest Chick-Fil-A, where I snarfed down a Hate Sammich, Hate Shake, and large order of Fries of Intolerance in nothing flat.  Mmmmm…..

The one last thing is that the post-recovery instructions said no alcohol for the rest of the day.  “Be damned to that,” I said to myself. “After what you just did, if you’re not going to buy me dinner, at least I’m going to buy myself a drink!”

** Obligatory title.

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