I’ve added three new blogs to the blogroll to start of 2018. Only discovered these guys in the last few days but highly recommended for your daily reading pleasure.
Check them out.
Sovietman was kind enough to purchase my first book Pushing Rubber Downhill, and then was even kinder to review it.
There’s a secret place just outside Melbourne on the Yarra River. We normally don’t spread the word too widely because we don’t want it to become crowded with bloody tourists, but because you’re my mates, and mostly in America anyway, I’ll tell you about it.
It’s called Pound Bend. The river does a large, irregular loop and comes back to itself. You park your car in the middle then float down the river on a lilo or boogie board or, like some people I know, a baby pool with beer-filled esky.
To float all the way around, through the bush and past occasional tiger snakes, takes about three of the most relaxing hours you’re ever likely to enjoy. And when you’re finished you can walk back up to the carpark from the other side and go home.
You can’t see what’s ahead of you because each twist and turn hides the way ahead. Sometimes the bush becomes thick and jungly. Sometimes the river slows over rocky shallows and you have to get out and walk. There are deep, cold waterholes, ancient river red gums and occasional sand bars that make a good spot to stop and sunbathe or piss.
This is what Pushing Rubber Downhill is like. The young Adam starts in one spot, you think you can guess where he’s headed, then all of a sudden there’s a bend, an unexpected cataract and he’s on the other side of the world getting scammed by a Ugandan hit man.
Read the rest. And then pick up a copy if you haven’t already done so. It’s the only way you can support me as I don’t go around begging on Patreon or whatever else the loser kids are using these days.
Vox Day has repeatedly warned people that posting photos of your children on the internet is obnoxious at best and dangerous at worst, (particularly if you leave the metadata on the pictures so that people can find the location as one wag noted.) Now a 16 year old Italian boy has successfully obtained a court order that prohibits his mother from posting pictures of him online without his permission.
Vox calls it photo-preening.
It’s natural to be proud of your children. But they do not exist to serve your ego, and as a parent, you should be far more concerned about protecting their privacy and their futures than in trying to demonstrate to everyone what a wonderful father or mother you are, or how fabulous your genetic legacy happens to be, or showing the distant relatives they barely know what they look like. That’s what Christmas cards are for.
I don’t take photos, I don’t own a camera, and I haven’t bothered to learn how to use the camera on my phone. I hardly take my phone with me anyway. If the bad guys ever try to track me then most of the time they’ll think I’m at home.
The good wife and I have departed for a week on the Italian slopes. Thankfully this year it has snowed. Last year the strip of artificial ice down brown hills looked like a vanilla slurpy down a …
Keep her movin’.
Anyhoo, I have a few posts coming up this week but mostly I’m just going to be ignoring the internet. Any first time commenters will have to wait for approval until my triumphant return.
Happy Friday to all of you deplorable rascals. The big news this week was Google all the way up until the point where President Trump made the observation that perhaps first world nations bringing in hordes of slum dwellers from the shitholes of the world is a poor idea.
It’s not the mega-back flips of outrage being employed by the usual prog wankstains that’s of interest; it’s the wide mouthed howls of ‘how can this be’ from supposed conservatives that’s really entertaining. What’s more fun – watching progs meltdown over something when nobody would have given you 1/1000 odds that it wouldn’t happen; or watching faux conservatives meltdown when they’re supposed to be pretending to be nominally conservative?
I know where my popcorn’s buttered, and it ain’t on watching the usual freakshow progs.