Tidings
Proctor’s Farm, painted by Peter Brook:
As is the custom here, posting will be intermittent over the holidays and readers are advised to follow me on X, or subscribe to the blog feed at the very bottom of the page, either of which will alert you to anything new as and when it materialises. Though Boxing Day seems a good bet.
Thanks for the company and the thousands of comments, many of which prompted discussions that are much more interesting than the actual posts. Which is pretty much the idea.
And particular thanks to all those who’ve made PayPal, Ko-Fi, or SubscribeStar donations to keep this rickety barge above water. It’s much appreciated. Should readers be overwhelmed with feelings of goodwill and an urge to express encouragement via currency, the tip jar buttons will relieve that terrible pressure.
Curious newcomers and those with nothing better to do are welcome to rummage through the Reheated series in search of entertainment. You may find things you’d missed. And this, needless to say, is an open thread.
To you and yours, a very good one.
I am full of brisket. And roasties. And carrots. And Yorkshire pudding. And…
I may have to roll towards the biscuit cupboard.
Merry Christmas from the PNW (8:55 am ). 38F degrees and foggy. We dry rubbed the prime rib roast last night. The butcher separated the bones away, so our GSD is going to be in 7th heaven with a raw one to gnaw later today.
Have a day filled with happiness!
[ Rolls towards biscuit cupboard, fluff accumulates. ]
Gravitational field?
Fascinating.
I always wondered about your clothing but was too polite to ask.
My pants, living in your head rent free.
Equivalent to somewhere in the region of 90 billion one-megaton nuclear warheads detonating simultaneously every goddamn second.
Twinkle, twinkle.
The Netherlands? 😉
The French, being provocative again.
The more you weigh, the harder it is to be kidnapped.
Lest you be concerned, I did make it back from the biscuit cupboard. Heroically.
Though I’ve now realised that the supply of gin and tonic, needed for its fortifying properties, is in the kitchen.
[ Rolls off of sofa again, muttering, aims for kitchen. ]
I wasn’t concerned.
Ooh. The Year Reheated should materialise in five hours and fifteen minutes, or thereabouts.
So there’s that.
[ Slurps fortifying gin and tonic. ]
If something noteworthy happens over the next 6 days, will you
retitle it The Year Reheated Reheated?
Yes, that should be his rapper name.
TMI, professor, TMI.
Phonics is “dehumanizing” and “colonizing”.
Not sure that these teachers are human.
Also noted here and here.
empathy and illegals: I have several friends who spent time in mainland China. They were self-employed. It was clear that at any moment they might be asked to leave, and after a while they were.
If you break the law to get into a country, sorry but my sympathy (and empathy) are strictly rationed. If you come here for free stuff, my empathy is zero.
When AI goes woke
from the tweet complaining about the mayor of Boston saying the city was always Somalian:
Most people would say that the Irish and Italians built Boston
and nobody in the replies is pushing back.
By the time of the potato famine, the city of Boston – the major settlement in an area which was never called “New Ireland” or “New Italy” – was over 200 years old.