An Impervious Rage
Speaking, as we were, of people for whom anger is a credential, a kind of emotional jewellery, this seems apposite:
My fury has been bottomless. I drink my morning coffee from a cup that says, “I hate to wake up when Donald Trump is President.” The constancy of my outrage has been exhausting, yet I have not yet found a way to quell it — nearly each day has brought a new reason to stoke the fire. But a day with my daughter, communing with the angry and the aggrieved, seemed a good way to try.
Ruth Mayer, a woman seemingly oblivious to the implication of her own words, recounts her pilgrimage to the ‘Women’s March’ in Washington DC. It’s a tale of cultivated umbrage, car trouble, and a moment of reflection, narrowly missed.
Via Darleen.
People with yachts, basically.
I was given a used inflatable dinghy from a yacht and after I repaired all the air leaks it actually floated.
I was hoping for a readership of aristocracy and jet-setters. People with yachts, basically.
Instead…
Oh my. I’m afraid I shall be a huge disappointment.
As a 100% Englishman, I find myself in rather vulgar company. Is it time for tiffin?
“I lean heavily towards GFY, but that’s me.”
Seems reasonable to me. Nobody, but nobody, needs to know the colour of my skin or where my great-grandparents hailed from. They are matters of supreme irrelevance to anyone but my nearest and dearest.
“I must admit I have been puzzled by the reaction to Trump (and Brexit) ever since the election (and referendum). It all seems so out of proportion.”
Not to the passengers on the gravy-trains which those events threaten to derail, it isn’t. This is the sort of thing they stand to lose:
“I was hoping for a readership of aristocracy and jet-setters. People with yachts, basically.”
I visited the Royal Yacht Britannia once at Leith, if that’s any… oh, actually, now I come to think of it, I have attended a Royal garden party at Holyroodhouse. Twenty years ago. Didn’t actually meet the Queen, to be fair, but I did see her quite close up. She’s shorter than you expect.
Yeah. This isn’t helping, is it?
My parents get a Christmas card from an actual Baroness every y… nah. She’s only a life peer anyway.
English, Irish, Scots, Welsh, and German, here. If I got any whiter I’d be an albino.
Brit, French, Spanish, German. I’m constantly at war with myself.
I was hoping for a readership of aristocracy and jet-setters. People with yachts, basically.
Well, my ancestors owned and ran the west coast of Scotland and the outer isles . . . . where I expect by this point there’s only a few million of us about some point or another on the globe . . .
Is it time for tiffin?
She’s marvy.
I was hoping for a readership of aristocracy and jet-setters. People with yachts, basically.
This is what we yacht-owners have to put up with. Even mention the sea and some Johnny-come-lately blogger who probably eats peas with a knife is angling for an invitation.
Heh. It was the “eats peas with a knife” that felled me.
Californian by birth (to my eternal shame). Texan by choice!
Somebody hand me another Bud Light.
Now, now. No need to punish yourself like that.
I was hoping for a readership of aristocracy and jet-setters. People with yachts, basically.
– No refunds. Credit note only.
People with yachts, basically.
I have a yacht; if you saw it you’d realise what a low bar you’ve set. It may be a mouthful, but can I suggest ‘People with yachts who don’t see all the other yachties put out extra fenders every time they enter a marina’ as an alternative? For the aspirational…
I have a yacht; if you saw it you’d realise what a low bar you’ve set.
Clearly, I should have specified giant bejewelled yachts. With helipads. And heated pools.
No refunds. Credit note only.
I see what you did there.
Clearly, I should have specified giant bejewelled yachts. With helipads. And heated pools.
I used to look pretty good in a speedo. No, seriously. Girls even said so. Well, they were competitive swimming girls…but still…
I used to look pretty good in a speedo.
I’m not sure where this is going.
“People with yachts…”
I spent decades crewing on small racing yachts, from which I concluded: If you like yachting, make sure somebody else owns the damn thing and will cough up for the expensive repairs. There was hardly ever a race where we didn’t do at least a couple hundred $ in damage, and quite often $1-2 K. In other words, only the nutty own yachts. I was happy to trade getting bruised on the foredeck in exchange for keeping my bank account intact.
“I used to look pretty good in a speedo.”
Kids, take advantage of that while you can. That is, for instance, how I got my wife 33 years ago.
David, I have just the girl for you. Check out the “Fancy Kristen” posts at
https://jalopnik.com/tag/fancykristen
“Hello, poors.”
Remember – potato goes in front.
I’m not sure where this is going.
…says the man in a velour blogging thong…
says the man in a velour blogging thong…
Ooh. That reminds me.
[ Reaches for shopping list. ]
“Talc. Large.”
David, if you get white marks on the George V chairs again, the morning shift cleaners (motto: Cathargo Delenda Est) are gonna be pissed.
I saw Adnan Khashoggi’s yacht in Puerto Banus many moons ago. Not that that’s anything to brag about…
WTF am I supposed to write down?
My friends and I, indeed our entire class, faced just this sort of problem way back in grade 6 when the govt sent a survey around to the schools. We managed it readily enough on our own, and under “ethnicity,” we wrote “Canadian.” Problem solved, and we never gave it moment’s thought after that.
…(motto: Cathargo Delenda Est) are gonna be pissed.
I hope you know that motto is rayciss and triggering to those of us with North African-American heritage, and don’t get me started on “Berber” carpeting.
Sorry, but shouldn’t it be carthago delenda est?
Or, rather fuller: ceterum censeo delendam esse Carthaginem
I do like that Cato’s family name means piggy.
Boat (noun): A hole in the water into which you throw money
Tolkein, thanks for reminding me not to drink while posting.
Snobbery is a terrible thing, David. It’s a Tradition, you know.
“I eats my peas with honey;
I’ve done it all my life.
It makes the peas taste funny
But it keeps them on my knife.”
– – – And gone, totally VANISHED from the Hive-Mind, is even a faint recollection of Eight Full Years of:
“The people have spoken.”
“Elections Have Consequences”.
“We WON — get over it”.
“This is how democracy is SUPPOSED to work”.
“You can try again in another four
years, until then HE IS OUR PRESIDENT”.