CSotD: Crazy Words, Crazy Tune
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Let’s start the day with an all-WashPo Juxtaposition.
I will confess, I gave up on Bob Woodward’s “Fear” about a third of the way through. As noted here before, it felt rushed, with a lot of incidents but without a unifying thread, which doesn’t make for engrossing reading.
But it does start with the Hidden Genius pushing a meeting with the Saudis against the judgment of old hands, and that, in turn, led to Dear Leader boasting of a multibillion arms deal.
Which mostly didn’t happen at all, and what small portion of which did happen was set up by the Obama administration.
Not Obama personally. His administration.
Because, unlike this presidency, that one had an actual administration, which included (get this!) actual ambassadors.
I know. Such a waste of resources, such a bloated government.
Telnaes picks up on this news-and-analysis, which is that a president who is mired in personal debt and questionable deals is possibly not the best person to investigate his buddies for murder.
Meanwhile, Toles points out that, as Woodward also notes early on in his book, Dear Leader does not appear to know how economics actually work, which may be why Wharton modestly withheld his name from any list of honors at graduation, despite his boast that he had terrific grades.
He should have kept some calendars.
And so, as his suicidal tax cuts blew up the deficit even faster than anyone expected, even his erstwhile allies have begun to wonder what the hell he was thinking.
The Fed put the brakes on, the market readjusted and then both Trump and a discouraging large portion of the media lost their shit, because they don’t understand how it all fits together, either.
I was, however, heartened to hear several analysts suggest that everybody take a deep breath and don’t look at your 401k and for goodness sake don’t pick at it or it will never heal.
Whatever cuckoobird policies are happening in the White House, the market will, over time, work itself out, and unless you just happen to need your money during a low tide — to pay for a kid’s college or to handle medical bills because your insurance sucks — you’ll be fine.
It’s the part where we make friends with murderers and tyrants, and where we alienate our military and trade allies, that you should focus on, because that won’t necessarily self-correct.
The Fed, and the market itself, will put the brakes on idiotic non-policies in the financial sector, but the way to mitigate the embracing-murderous-tyrants part of this farce will be in our hands on November 6, and there’s nothing automatic or predictable in how that check on foolishness is going to play out.
This may be the most our nation has relied on a bunch of 19-to-22 year olds since D-Day, because David Rowe spells out where we’re at, and we can’t keep going this direction much longer.
And anyone who thinks this correction will be automatic is just the kind of damn fool who got us here in the first place.
Vote. And take a friend with you.
And now for something completely different
Speaking of things I thought everyone had figured out, Tank McNamara has been talking about boxing, a sport I was astonished to see pop back up on television a couple of years ago.
Howard Cosell, whose national prominence was largely based on his coverage of the sport, walked away from boxing in 1982, which is before anyone currently in the sport was even born.
”Nothing ever changes,” Cosell added. ”I’ve done all I can. We’ve seen the thumbless glove, we’ve seen Earnie Shavers and Ray Leonard hurt their eyes, I’ve seen Benny Paret and Willie Classen and Cleveland Denny and Duk Koo Kim die.
”Yet we still have laissez-faire. You’ve got two championships. The networks must take some responsibility for that. You’ve got sleazy promoters. You’ve got reporters who are afraid to look at boxing. I’ve had it. No more.”
No, Howard, nothing ever changes.
We fret over the fate of football players, and the NFL tries desperately to limit the potential for brain damage while protecting the integrity of the game while fans wonder if that’s even possible.
And then they switch channels to watch a sport in which intentional infliction of brain damage is how you win.
And isn’t a shame how Muhammed Ali ended up?
Yes, but hush: They’re about to ring the bell for the next round.
On a much lighter note
Half-Full places Goldilocks in a Starbucks, spouting some Starbucks gibberish about cup sizes.
Our little town finally got a Starbucks a few months ago, which didn’t impact me until someone gave me a gift card to the place. I was initially a little reluctant to use it, because I don’t speak Starbuckian, but then I remembered something: I’m the customer.
So I’ve taken to going there and asking for small, medium or large and, you know what? I get small, medium or large.
I suppose there are places where they’d correct your usage, but we’ve only just gotten the store.
We’re still too small town to have the attitude.
Juxtaposition of the Dogs
(Bliss)
My pooch turned eight the other day, which is more than middle-aged for a Ridgeback, and, while he’s likely got another four years or so, it does bring up the issue of succession.
There is a temptation to bring in a youngster now, so that the mature dog can teach the young. But you have to time it carefully. I waited too long once and my old boy was genuinely dismayed to have such chaos in his quiet life.
In any case, as I weigh the options, I’m impressed that Paul Gilligan has the big dog failing in a class of little yappers, because I have yet to identify a small breed that will STFU.
But Harry Bliss notes the disadvantage of continuing my string of 100-pounders.
Though you sure don’t spend as much time searching through the grass with a bag over your hand.
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