I’m Moving

In today’s Progressive environment of inclusivity and civility, I no longer feel comfortable that Google will continue to ignore this blog.  I am therefore migrating off of Blogger to a privately hosted server.  This requires moving to WordPress.  The translation is not very clean.  A LOT of formatting problems, and I still haven’t figured out how to export the Disqus comments from here to there.

The site needs a LOT of work, but it’s up at http://smallestminority.org.  I have no plan to delete this blog, I’m just going to start posting over there (and probably copy over here for a bit.)

Blog Irregularities

So I posted a couple items down about election fuckery, and for some reason Blogger doesn’t post any older content on the front page.  Hitting the “Older Post” link gets you the older posts like normal.  Not sure what the deal is there, but I’m willing to bet it’s in the HTML of that post.  Sorry about that.

Going to Blogorado!

I attended Blogorado for the first time in 2017.  I missed it in 2018 due to my illness.  I tried as hard as I could to make it to the 2019 gathering, but that effort ended in disaster when I managed to blow up the engine in my truck, stranding me in Las Vegas, NM.  That was the most expensive vacation (that wasn’t) I’ve ever experienced in my life.  I could’ve taken my wife to Tahiti for what that ended up costing.

Blogorado 2020 is this weekend.  I leave tomorrow.  I’ve never needed a vacation this badly in my life.

I’m taking the T-shirts I had made for last year:  

That’s “the most photographed barn in Colorado.”  It’s gone, now, but not forgotten.

Meanwhile, at My OTHER Site

I joined Quora back in 2013.  In late July of 2019 I opened a personal “Space” there, which I cleverly titled “The Smallest Minority.”

I noticed this today:

This blog has at present slightly less than 2,000 subscribers.  I’m pretty happy with the alternate.  Yaaay me!

I Missed My Blogiversary!!

May 14, 2003 I put up my first post here at TSM.  That means this blog is now (carry the one…) seventeen years old.

In seventeen years I’ve hit “Publish” on 7116 posts, including this one.  I’ve lost my mother, lost my liver (but the new one is working quite well), gained a kidney (I now have three, but two are decoys), and I had a great-grandson for about 10 weeks.

We’ve had three Presidents in that time period, and been at continuous war with a noun the entire time.  Now we’re in the middle of an international overreaction to a pandemic.

It’s been a helluva ride so far.  Judging from what I’ve been seeing, Bette Davis’s admonition is even more valid today:

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKHUGvde7KU]

Vent of the Weekend

If you’ve read this blog for any reasonable period, you know I like to use other people’s words when they say something well.  Today I give you, in its entirety, a comment by reader Grumpy Old Fart to my post Quote of the Day – P.J. O’Rourke Edition from a few days ago:

Democrats are the party of hatred, envy and bigotry. It’s the basis of everything they do, and they use it at every opportunity.

If you disagree with them on race, it’s because you’re white (even if you’re Thomas Sowell, Mia Love or Marco Rubio). If you disagree with them about women’s rights, it’s because you’re a man (even if you’re Michelle Malkin, Ann Coulter or Megyn Kelly). If you disagree with them about gay rights, it’s because you’re straight (even if you’re Jimmy LaSalvia or Chris Barron). They’re not interested in empowering minorities, they’re only interested in punishing white people. They’re not interested in empowering women, they’re only interested in punishing men. They’re not interested in empowering gays, they’re only interested in punishing straight people. They’re not interested in helping people become successful, they’re only interested in punishing the wealthy. They don’t want justice, in fact they work hard to subvert it… because they pander to those who want revenge.

Of course, they always claim the opposite. But it wasn’t the Republicans who wanted a Supreme Court Justice who thought she was better than others because she wasn’t white or male. It wasn’t the Republicans who called Condoleeza Rice a “house nigger.” It wasn’t the Republicans who coined the term “white hispanic.” It’s not the Republicans who to this day call Justice Thomas an “Uncle Tom.” It’s not the Republicans who delight in “Teabagger” as a derogatory term.

It isn’t the Republicans who are proud to be associated with openly racist organizations like BLM, the NAACP and La Raza. It wasn’t the Republicans who proudly put a proven rapist in the White House in the 90s. It wasn’t the Republicans who were proud of voting for our last President because he’s not white. It wasn’t the Republicans who voted for Hillary because she’s not male. It’s not the Republicans who have fought tooth and nail to make it easy to get on welfare, but hard to succeed in business.

Democrats spent several years calling Republicans “terrorists,” “suicide bombers” and “hostage takers.” But the majority of Hamas supporters in America are Democrats.

I’m agnostic, and yes, I find it annoying when Christians act as if I’m some poor deluded soul who must be saved from his own stupidity. But at least Christians treat me as if I am a human being, and by their lights they are trying to help me. They’ll try to change my mind, but they don’t try to have me arrested or outcast when I don’t. The anti-Christian left thinks I should be punished for daring to disagree with them, if they concede that I should be allowed to exist AT ALL.

“Diversity” my hairy butt. I want my doctor, my lawyer, my local police and firefighters, even the guy who sacks my groceries, to be the best, and I don’t care what color they are, whether their underwear has a fly, or who they kiss when they go home in the evening. And because I have that attitude, I have been called a racist, a fascist, a white supremacist, a neo-Nazi, and just about any other derogatory name you can imagine. This is apparently what is known as “reasoned discourse” and “rational debate” among members of The Party of Tolerance™.

I have nothing to add to this.

Facebook

I deleted my Facebook account.  Deletion should occur on or before 6/28.  I don’t have access to the account anymore.  You want to get in touch with me, email works.  I think I’ll just return to blogging.  It’s less toxic.

This Blog is Old Enough to Drive

Sixteen years ago on this day I hit “Publish” on my very first blog post:

Is this thing on?

Apparently so. Too bad I managed to lose the opening essay it took me an HOUR to compose. Oh well. I’ll reconstruct it and put it back up later.

Welcome to The Smallest Minority, so named because most of the really good names Eject! Eject! Eject!, USS Clueless, Instapundit, Acidman, and so on were already taken. And while not a Randian, I accept a lot of Ayn Rand’s observations as accurate, and it was she who wrote: “The smallest minority on earth is the individual. Those who deny individual rights cannot claim to be defenders of minorities.”

This blog is about the rights of individuals, that smallest of minorities, so it seemed apt.

More (hopefully MUCH more) to follow.

And MUCH MORE did follow, damn, did it ever.  6950 more posts, plus this one.  Three of the four links above are now defunct, but this one soldiers on.

“That America will return one day, I know it will.”

Digging through the archives looking for something else, I stumbled across this old post. I liked it so much I thought I’d repost it here:

Old Aviators and Old Airplanes….

This is a good little story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its pilot, by a fellow who was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. It was to take to the air. They said it had flown in during the night from some U.S. Airport, the pilot had been tired.


I marveled at the size of the plane dwarfing the Pipers and Canucks tied down by her. It was much larger than in the movies. She glistened in the sun like a bulwark of security from days gone by.

The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, and then stepped into the pilot’s lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. It looked like it might have been combed, say, around the turn of the century. His flight jacket was checked, creased and worn – it smelled old and genuine. Old Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. He projected a quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of arrogance. He filed a quick flight plan to Montreal (Expo-67, Air Show) then walked across the tarmac.

After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check the pilot returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone would be available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he “flashed the old bird up, just to be safe.”

Though only 12 at the time I was allowed to stand by with an extinguisher after brief instruction on its use — “If you see a fire, point, then pull this lever!” I later became a firefighter, but that’s another story. The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from fuel fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold, then another, and yet another barked — I stepped back with the others. In moments the Packard-built Merlin engine came to life with a thunderous roar, blue flames knifed from her manifolds. I looked at the others’ faces, there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the lounge. We did.


Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his pre flight run-up. He’d taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All went quiet for several seconds; we raced from the lounge to the second story deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the P-51 as she started down the runway. We could not. There we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half way down 19. Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than before, like a furious hell spawn set loose—something mighty this way was coming. “Listen to that thing!” said the controller.


In seconds the Mustang burst into our line of sight. Its tail was already off and it was moving faster than anything I’d ever seen by that point on 19. Two-thirds the way down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The prop tips were supersonic; we clasped our ears as the Mustang climbed hellish fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the dog-day haze.



We stood for a few moments in stunned silence trying to digest what we’d just seen. The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. “Kingston tower calling Mustang?” He looked back to us as he waited for an acknowledgment.

The radio crackled, “Go ahead Kingston.”

“Roger Mustang. Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a low level pass.” I stood in shock because the controller had, more or less, just asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air show!

The controller looked at us. “What?” he asked. “I can’t let that guy go without asking. I couldn’t forgive myself!”

The radio crackled once again, Kingston, do I have permission for a low level pass, east to west, across the field?”

“Roger Mustang, the circuit is clear for an east to west pass.”

“Roger, Kingston, I’m coming out of 3000 feet, stand by.”

We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes fixed toward the eastern haze. The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream.


Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Her airframe straining against positive Gs and gravity, wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic as the burnished bird blasted across the eastern margin of the field shredding and tearing the air.



At about 500 mph and 150 yards from where we stood she passed with the old American pilot saluting. Imagine. A salute! I felt like laughing, I felt like crying, she glistened, she screamed, the building shook, my heart pounded.


Then the old pilot pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the broken clouds and indelibly into my memory. I’ve never wanted to be an American more than on that day. It was a time when many nations in the world looked to America as their big brother, a steady and even-handed beacon of security who navigated difficult political water with grace and style; not unlike the pilot who’d just flown into my memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of America at its best. That America will return one day, I know it will. Until that time, I’ll just send off this story; call it a reciprocal salute, to the old American pilot who wove a memory for a young Canadian that’s lasted a lifetime.

I know we still retain the possibility to be again what we once were, but I’m afraid that entropy will win in the end.  The culture of a nation reflects the philosophy of that nation, and ours is no longer that of John Locke and Adam Smith, but rather Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Immanuel Kant and Karl Marx, when it isn’t just “…a junk heap of unwarranted conclusions, false generalizations, undefined  contradictions, undigested slogans, unidentified wishes, doubts and  fears, thrown together by chance, but integrated by your subconscious  into a kind of mongrel philosophy and fused into a single, solid weight:   self doubt, like a ball and chain in the place where your mind’s wings should have grown” as Ayn Rand put it.

If you didn’t mist up a little when reading that story, you may be who I’m talking about.  

“That America will return one day….

I sure hope so.

Humbled

During my second, third hospital stay? my daugter set up a GoFundMe fundraiser, and – being cogent – I told her to take it down.  She did.  But the first 2-3 days of my last hospitilization, “I wasn’t all there” puts it mildly.  I’m currently on short-term disability, and I need a replacement liver.  My health insurance is great, but there’s only so much it covers so my wife told her to fire it back up again.

She raised $10,140 over a very short period, almost exclusively from readers of this blog.  Other bloggers such as Say Uncle (and I don’t have a complete list) linked to it.  Lots of encouraging comments were left with the donations, along with a lot of praise for the contents of this blog.

All I can say is, I’m humbled and grateful for all of you.  Thank you from the bottom of my soul.  Thank you for letting me join this tribe, where I have met, both online and in meatspace, some of the finest human beings anyone could ever know.

“Thank you” is inadequate for what I feel, but it’s the best I can do.