Aug 12, 2011

Ron Paul and the Seven Dwarfs

No one laid a glove on him last night, but, then, no one really tried to box him into a corner. Paul was his usual thoughtful self which is good for the national intellect, not so good for getting elected.

No one but Rick (I'm holier than Michele, honest) Santorum even swung hard, and he drew boos for saying Paul's Fed stance was "mostly wrong."

It's all background noise now, of course. The debate spin cycle has just a few more hours to run, and by the time the straw poll opens tomorrow the electrical teevee will overload circuits with news of Rick (I'm even holier than Santorum, plus I can do arithmetic and have cooler hair) Perry.

It is no longer about policy. It's about buses from the boondocks to Ames, full of people who made up their minds long ago. Paul has spent money on this little beauty contest. He has the buses and a much better organization than 2007. In the data-free expectations charades, he's tabbed to finish in the top three with Michele and Somebody Else.  The better he does, the more pressure on media types to  quit snickering every time someone uses the term liberty. 

(There are no polls about this straw poll. The universe is too small, the expected turnout ranging from just under 14,000 to maybe 18,000.)

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Rocinante is saddled and I've scrubbed rust from the lance.  A new edition of the TSA windmill identification guide is at hand. The house sitter/dog handler arrives shortly.  I am putting aside my general disinclination to join groups larger than 30,000 and attend receptions where people in shined Florsheims notice your necktie.  If this doesn't pay off in at least one belly laugh and several heartfelt grins, I am going to be one pissed off old war hose.



Aug 11, 2011

As Mr. Poe may have explained the straw poll...

The pestilence rages across the countryside, but in the palace Prospero entertains brilliantly. Hummingbird tongues and the finest Madeira please palates, and we dance away the hours while murmuring of our choices to replace the evil king.

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A man I admire greatly is coming briefly out of retirement to accept an unexpected  invitation to mingle with the mighty this weekend. He will enjoy the ball and all its dainties.  He will ignore the messengers bringing news of war, of riots, of  financial ruin from the outer world. Royal credential pinned to his doublet, he is  to be protected from all reality beyond the moat.  Like the real lords he will pretend there is no ominous thumping at the gate. And he will, for this brief evening, be correct in doing so. Have not the Duchess Bachman and Lord Perry assured him that they know the incantations to ward off Satan's power?

The gives my dear old friend leave to stay the night, to arise on Saturday and deliver his own ultimately futile decision. That the good doctor from the far province of  Texas should replace the king.

It will be ever so much fun, ne'er mind that lords beyond Ames will ultimately scorn the physician and choose a shaman to vie with the current crowned head.

And there will be other balls, laughter echoing from the gilded walls and unending waltzes from the musicians' balcony. My friend will not let his mind wander too far forward.  One should not enervate one's system with premature concern for  logical processes. Inevitability is a bore. Frightening, yet still a bore, so let others worry about the denouement.

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And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. 






Aug 10, 2011

Get a holster, mate

The appendix carry leaves something to be desired.

Uhhh, no, the gun didn't just "go off." Not even a pink Taurus will do do that.

The story doesn't tell us whether he can still count to eleven.

(h/t my buddy Alan)


Aug 9, 2011

Oh Hell, there goes the portfolio

Locked away with the canned meat and emergency medical supplies is my copper hoard, about ten pounds of pre-82 pennies.  Copper has fallen almost 7 per cent, to $4.10, and I am on the road to ruin.

Maybe worse, a forced trip to WalMart  yesterday triggers fear that the bulk packs of .22LR may be in danger as financial instruments. Winchester 555 packs have come down a dollar, to $18.97, the same as  the Federal and Remington 550s.  On the other hand, maybe Winchester is just correcting a marketing error. Perhaps the company couldn't make anyone believe the extra five rounds, the romance of the marque, and the  more colorful packaging  added up to an extra buck's worth of value. Still, the decline  gets my attention, and I'm sure glad I didn't buy any of these little beauties on margin.

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Elsewhere on the economic front, the  markets this morning prove me an idiot. I sort of predicted a further slide, but the Dow was up a couple hundred points a few minutes ago.

My defense is that the president and Tim didn't make statements this morning, and politicians with their mouths closed are always bullish signals.

Besides, QE3 is back in the news. Ben and the guvs are looking for ways to buy more Obama bonds with magic money. True, they are having some trouble figuring out how to spin it as something else which they must do in view of the fact that a number of high school graduates are beginning to see through the scam.

(As Warren Buffet said, "If I own a printing press my debt is always good.")