The speed at which our language is being changed is as dizzying as the particular changes are mind-numbing. In theory, we’re moving toward a kinder, more “inclusive” language, but if this is how we’re going to get there, maybe communicating by grunts would be more efficient.
The campaign to re-elect Bugout Joe Biden may, upon retrospection, conclude that it was a false economy to recruit as Biden’s makeup technician for last week’s debate a student from a mortuary college.
My driver license was up for renewal soon, so a couple of weeks ago I thought it would be a good idea to have my eyes examined. In retrospection maybe I should have had my head examined first.
As the multitude of cicadas sang briefly across the nation this past month, a storm blew one of them onto my path. Strange as it may sound, as I witnessed that little bug struggle through the aftermath, I was given a masterclass on dealing with my own storms.
Our media are covering this only slightly when at all. They are focusing on the astonishing discoveries that it gets hot in the summer, that Donald Trump is a jerk, and that the years have not been kind to already dimwitted and dishonest Joe Biden. The lesson? When it comes to our health, we’re on our own.
Things should be fixable and we’re obligated to know how to fix them. Not everything, perhaps, but small gas engines and many small electrical devices, absolutely. Replacing washers in faucets, entire toilets or parts thereof, an electrical outlet. These are among the things we should know how to do before we own any of them. Sharpening knives, lawnmower blades and scissors. Changing a tire. Basic skills.
As part of my privacy-oriented DIY “smart” television project I had looked at applications that consolidate the many live streams from television stations around the world into some kind of useful form. I accidentally heard about and was drawn to something by the (kind of poor, I think) name of IPTVnator. And it works.
I can barely hear right now. The cicadas’ songs are in full swing. One cicada isn’t that loud and many are still a wonder of the world, but what of the less pleasant cacophony of man-made noise we call “warnings” and “alerts”?
In 1974 my friend and mentor Sylvia Porter, the financial columnist, was summoned to Washington by the president, Gerald Ford. She had been asked to head a government effort to reduce inflation, which as a result of the 1973 Arab oil crisis had risen to 12.3 percent. When she got there, she was dismayed. The program consisted of red campaign buttons bearing the message “WIN.” Ford said the letters stood for “Whip Inflation Now.”
Who would have thought a National Review alum who has been a long-time Evangelical voice on politics, known for arguing for civility, would be a controversial choice to appear on a panel about politics in a conservative, Evangelical denomination? A few years ago, that’d have seemed absurd. Oh, for a few years ago.