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Probably terrorist. Definitely dead.
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‘An ISIS flag was attached to the pickup rear hitch.’
Retreat, as of today, is in the air. We dynamic postmoderns will race through the 5 Stages (Incredulity, Anger, Irony, Snark, RETREAT), and conclude on the one that will have us eyeing that extra, kind of do-nothing room in the house and sizing it up as a site of Stoic Elaboration — a place where you bolster yourself with Marcus Aurelius and with bolsters.
This sort of thing. Ideally, you want high windows and a view - urban or rural, but something of interest to contemplate as you sip your Senecan Brew. On stormy days, switch to What does not kill me makes me stronger-esque Nietzschean aphorisms. Or the astringent poetry of Weldon Kees.
... Water and wind and flight, remembered words and the act of love
Are but interruptions. And the world, like a beast, impatient and quick,
Waits only for those who are dead. No death for you. You are involved.
You are involved; no point, even in your tranquil new tearoom, in being uninvolved. Daily books and teas and views stimulate and calm you (all good tea stimulates and calms), and ready you and steady you for the bellowing bastards abroad. Your tearoom is indeed a retreat from imperiling stupidity; but, you know, as Henry James put it:
Life is, in fact, a battle. Evil is insolent and strong; beauty enchanting, but rare; goodness very apt to be weak; folly very apt to be defiant; wickedness to carry the day; imbeciles to be in great places, people of sense in small, and mankind generally unhappy. But the world as it stands is no narrow illusion, no phantasm, no evil dream of the night; we wake up to it, forever and ever; and we can neither forget it nor deny it nor dispense with it.
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More on emergent tearoom culture after I sit on the beach for awhile.
Unlike the proposed congestion fee in Manhattan that did not go into effect, the fee here is not one-size-fits-all. Here in the Hamptons, the fees charged will vary with the value of the automobile. Cars with low value, such as old Toyota Corollas, will be charged $5 per entry. Cars of midsize value, up to $60,000, will be charged $50 per entry. Cars valued up to $100,000 will be charged $200 per entry, and cars valued over that will be charged $999 per entry. The idea is to go easy on the locals, but hit the wealthy with a fee they wouldn’t mind but would seem appropriate. By the way, for cars valued over $250,000, the fee is zero. We are happy to have the ultra-, ultra, ultra-rich here. And though they will pay no fee, voluntary contributions will be appreciated, either by check, cash, stocks, bitcoin or money order. All will be tax deductible.
Sure it is. You can go after a child.
Mr. Miller stopped paying some of the family’s bills, including, according to a lawsuit, the maintenance and docking fees for their Van Dutch speedboat — a frequent backdrop for late-night parties shared on Instagram. Such models generally sell for more than $1 million…
… Emergency medical workers found Mr. Miller unconscious in a white Porsche Carrera that he had rigged to poison himself …
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UD never knows quite what to do with the NYT’s luridly fascinating chronicles of the downfall of high-flying, risk-taking idjits. She enjoys the F. Scott Fitzgerald fizz of these accounts, the lascivious tell of the departed’s lethally high-end products and adventures, his sudden weeping in corporate meeting rooms as the walls close in …
Since the fool in this case saw fit to borrow tens of millions of dollars he couldn’t pay back, and then to saddle his wife and small children with his debt (he left a big life insurance policy, but will it pay out?), one feels okay not feeling much. I mean, pity. I guess. But since the facts of the case are so stereotypically cautionary, so much the oldest allegory in the world, the specific person to whom it happened gets lost, and one not too guiltily feels comfortable reading the account the way most people are reading it – as a final twisted chapter of clueless conspicuous consumption, the short sad bio of an Instagram braggart who meets his apotheosis in a cloud of high-performance, super-exclusive, carbon monoxide.
“Dude I won’t even take calls from Ukraine,” [JD Vance said] three weeks after House Republicans blocked additional aid to help Kyiv repel the Russian invasion. “Two very senior guys reached out to me. The head of their intel. The head of the Air Force. Bitching about F16s.”
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On Republican megadonor Sheldon Adelson:
“Never met him. He’s dead. Don’t care.”
He opposes no-fault divorce, including those who do so to leave abusive marriages. He’s compared abortion to slavery, supports a national abortion ban and rejects exceptions for rape – “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” he said. He called women without children “miserable cat ladies” and villified working moms as bad parents who want to “shunt their kids into crap day care so they can enjoy more ‘freedom.’” For him, universal child care amounts to “class war against normal people.”
You can sit around with the gin running out of your mouth; you can humiliate me; you can tear me to pieces all night, that’s perfectly okay, that’s all right. You make me sick. Be careful Kamala. I’ll rip you to pieces. Total war. .. Kamala is 108… years old. She weighs somewhat more than that… There are limits. I mean, a man can put up with only so much without he descends a rung or two on the old evolutionary ladder, which is up your line. Now, I will hold your hand when it’s dark and you’re afraid of the boogeyman and I will tote your gin bottles out after midnight so no one can see but I will not light your cigarette. And that, as they say, is that… You’re a monster – You are. You’re a spoiled, self-indulgent, willful, dirty-minded, liquor-ridden… In my mind you’re buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it’s much quieter. And please keep your clothes on, too. There aren’t many more sickening sights in this world than you with a few drinks in you and your skirt up over your head. Or “your heads,” should say. You can go around like a hopped-up Arab, slashing at everything in sight, scarring up half the world if you want to. But let somebody else try it? No. YOU SATANIC BITCH.’
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[thanks, albee]
The unseen but clearly felt presence of Mr. Obama in particular has brought a Shakespearean quality to the drama now playing out, given their eight-year partnership.
… and VP Harris Trump.
Paul Berman weighs in.
The students want to chant these things, of course, because these slogans are transgressive. But no one wants to say what the transgression is because it’s too horrible. So we’re having a mass euphemism event: Horrible things are being advocated by people who deny that they’re advocating it.
… It’s very difficult for people with liberal ideas to recognize the extreme and frightening views that are actually upheld by totalitarian movements. In Hamas we have radical Islamists who’ve shown us in real life what they’re actually for by acting on their principles. And there’s an inability or reluctance to see that. So we have a mass movement in defense of Hamas that calls itself a mass movement in defense of human rights. It’s a blindness, but within the blindness is a seduction and a fascination. That’s evident in the transgressive thrill students feel in chanting those chants.
“Trust me,” he says, “I lived this, and friends of mine died because of this stupidity.”
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“[T]hey’re playing into the hands of the right wing in this country. And what terrifies me is that this could end up bringing [Donald] Trump back into power.”
Scathing Online Stormy explains hyperbole to the defense.
The defense forgot that Stormy was editor of her high school paper.