CSotD: Issues of timing, accidental and otherwise

The Duplex (AMS) nearly gets the Accidental Timing Award, and I say “nearly” because, first of all, Putin would be way over-matched and I’m sure would refuse to compete, and, second, as I’m writing this at 5:25 EDT (and editing at 7:42), we can’t find either of them.

My theory is that they’ve set off together for the Free French garrison in Brazzaville, but I could be wrong.

Meanwhile, Marty Two-Bulls gets the Intentional Timing Award for marking the anniversary of the Custer Battle, and he’s pretty accurate on those famous last words, though I’m sure Autie had a few more comments before things were over.

In fact, there was an old joke that his last words were “Where the hell did all those Indians come from?” and that’s actually pretty likely.

In addition to Son of the Morning Star, I’ve read a good biography of Crazy Horse and Wooden Leg’s autobiography, which he dictated in sign as an old man. It’s far more than his memories of the Custer Battle, but that’s a quite detailed part of things.

The tribes traveling together would set up in a kind of crescent or semi-circle, with the Cheyenne at one end, the Hunkpapa at the other and a half dozen other groups — a few thousand tents — between them.

Custer mistook the Hunkpapa village for the entire encampment and so maybe never found out where the hell all those other Indians came from.

What is most striking in Wooden Leg’s account of the battle is the bewilderment of the native warriors when a substantial number of the desperate, outnumbered Americans began shooting themselves.

Wooden Leg reports that they were absolutely astonished, that they’d never heard of such a thing, and, while there was rejoicing over the victory, they took no pleasure in having witnessed that.

And also on the topic of “taking no pleasure,” you may not remember the exact date of the battle, but you can always come close because the speed with which news got from the battlefield back to headquarters and thence onto the wire meant it hit American newspapers back East just in time to put a real damper on the Centennial Celebrations.

So it goes.

Juxtaposition of the Day

(Brewster Rockit — Tribune)

(Deflocked — AMS)

I’ve been practicing some selective weeding lately, but the more I start unfollowing the naive folks as seen in Brewster Rockit, the more those who post as seen in Deflocked rise to the top of my feed.

Twitter is easy: I’ve blocked Elmo and the Freedom Caucus, which sounds like a pop band, so the only way I get their bad vibes is when someone feels compelled to tsk-tsk by retweeting whatever hateful crap they’ve posted.

Facebook is trickier, because I do have personal friends there but I don’t need to see what they had for dinner on every day of their fabulous vacation. Fortunately, it’s safe to assume their fabulous vacation will last fewer than 30 days, so a little temporary snooze will solve that problem.

And unless you are coming to a county fair near me, I don’t need to see every caricature you’ve done.

The real head-scratcher is the people who respond to questions from like-farmers and other potential scammers, those who ask if you recognize a kitchen implement or a TV star from the past, or who want to know your favorite movie.

Most are radio stations attracting responses from people who have never heard of the station, much less listened to it, so they can use the massive number of clicks to defraud potential sponsors.

But sometimes somebody blunders into a more toxic scam, where all their friends addresses are being skimmed off and resold, or where nastyware is being implanted on their machines to be passed along to yours.

No? How many times have you seen friend requests from someone who is already your friend?

Most people who get hacked are volunteers. And you can’t unfriend them as quickly as they can sign up to be hacked.

And on a related note, I’ll confess to having given on-line dating a shot several years ago. I had several on-line conversations but only three or four actual dates, which is enough to have made me laugh at this Pardon My Planet (KFS).

I can’t vouch for how many of the guys look like this, having only a sample of one to work with and he’s fantastically handsome.

But I do find it instructive that, when you get to the restaurant for that Big Date, you have to flag each other down.

If you even faintly resembled your photos, it would seem possible to pick each other out of a crowd.

Oddly enough, the one date I had who looked like her picture was a graphic designer.

Go figure.

Rhymes With Orange (KFS) reminds me of a similar pub here which, when they first expanded onto the sidewalk, was dog-friendly, but then banned them, because a pup had peed on the sidewalk and some patrons were, I dunno, afraid the puddle would suddenly leap up and land on their plates or something.

Elder son asked one of the waitresses, “You do serve college students out there, don’t you?”

To which she laughed and said if it were up to her, the dogs would be welcome and the frat boys would have to be tied up outside.

Jeff Stahler gets an Accident Timing Award for this Moderately Confused (AMS), but he doesn’t get a laugh from me, consarnit.

I got an email yesterday from Travelocity telling me of a change in my flight reservations for the AAEC Convention in October. I’m used to those 20 minute tweaks that happen, though they almost always turn a leisurely time between planes into a mad dash.

This time, American Airlines — may the Bird of Paradise fly up their nose — decided that, instead of arriving in San Francisco at 4:20, I should arrive at 11:08, with a leisurely six-hour layover at O’Hare.

They offered no better itinerary and Travelocity can’t just swap airlines or cities (I’m halfway between Burlington and Manchester). But they do allow cancellations in these cases, so we wiped the slate clean and started over.

Now I can’t remember what airline I booked or which city I’m flying from, but it’s in my email and, besides, I’m sure they’ll tell me when they cancel my flights.

Stan Drake was one helluvan artist

(The Heart of Juliet Jones — KFS)