Tagged: family
Our Betters
You know those semi-recent additions to highway signage? The huge black digital signs?
Well, last night, my windshield wipers were going so fast and making such a racket that I almost couldn’t read the message some of our betters felt necessary to share with me: “Rain and Wet Roads. Caution.”
This is as bad, probably worse than, as texture-less braille on the sign at the local park.
Parental Bliss
Your 4 year old is eating a watermelon wedge.
She loves it.
And you love watching her bite diligently closer and closer to the rind.
You turn away to talk to your spouse.
You turn back and there is no more watermelon. No red part. No rind.
Behind the empty plate on the table is nothing but your little girl wearing the satisfied expression that only comes from a job well done.
That is bliss.
“Had I Known”, The Game
I have all sorts of analogies for why I read—current favorite is, “Books are the map of life; find yourself.” But when I read something totally new—Vietnam War history in this case—I find myself continually considering, “Wow. Had I known this earlier in life, I would’ve…” and then a fun imagination game plays out.
How about you? What information have you read which forced you to play the game, “Had I known…”?
I just ordered a “F%#* Communism” flag, probably for ceiling of garage, because of my reading. (The one created by Paul Krassner and John Francis Putnam in ‘63.) I share this so y’all won’t think I only read for its mental fitness.
It was mentioned (as a sign, not a flag) in an article about the “defoliation” AF squadron whose classically AF Pilot wit-filled motto was, “Only YOU Can Prevent Forests.”
I can hear you now. “Why?” And, “Don’t you have toddlers?”
Because as much delight as this game provides, I don’t want my kids to play it regarding such a pivotal war.
Seriously though, do comment below with any instances that have initiated the “Had I Known” game in your mind.
My Fellow Americans, Do You Know Who You Are?
Here’s a passage from James Fenimore Cooper’s Afloat and Ashore, circa 1840s. (We would call it a YA adventure novel.)
“So I will concede that money is the great end of American life—that there is little else to live for in the great model republic. Politics have fallen into such hands, that office will not even give social station… (Italics mine).”
This is from a speech made by the main character, a 17 yr old.
My point is this: Do you honestly think MAGA or AOC is capable of increasing your opinion of politicians? There is at least 180yrs of evidence to support the idea that you’re a fool if you do.
The disdain you feel for politicians is in your blood no different than your blood is in your body.
Larry David Eats His Own. It’s All That Can Be Done to Bill Maher.
I’m not going to make it childishly easy, but I have a fantastic anecdote for why the Left’s constant use of Hitler will never work.
When my Ethiopian step-son first had an opportunity to get me a birthday gift after coming to America and joining his mom and I’s family, he got me a T-Shirt. The shirt was black and on the front had a bald eagle, mid-flight, and a rider. The rider was a superimposed George Washington, taken from presumably some famous painting.
I loved the shirt. I loved the gift. Most of all, I felt heard.
“Not bad,” I thought.
The first big opportunity to put the shirt on full display was the county fair. We’re talking small town Minnesota. This was during or around COVID and so everyone was already bursting to get outdoors cause a ruckus. Or I was. Like all small towns in Minnesota, there was a wildly disproportionate amount of Somalis and they were sure to be at the fair, for the proper American reason: boredom.
Imagine the scene for a second. I proudly walk out among this multicultural crowd, wearing GW riding a bald eagle. I am checking out the other whites’ shirts, and, as expected, they were mostly about how they would kill anyone who tried to take their guns.
The Somalis, like all immigrants, wore Puma brand gear. (I remember having like one Puma brand item as a kid and being terribly embarrassed by the non-Nike, Reebok, Adidas gear.) No matter, these kids are Generation Puma, through and through.
Now, reader, let this scene play out for a bit. I keep walking and scanning shirts. I also scan eyes to see if any ignite with patriotic sparkle and joy when they see my shirt.
None do.
You can imagine my disappointment.
Finally, while ordering dessert before leaving, a youngish white girl that was serving—likely a veteran’s daughter—said, “I like your shirt.”
I am not going to tell you the answer to the riddle, because I don’t believe you’re stupid. The point of my anecdote is to give a BIG clue as to why Larry David can only further evidence why the Left and Democrats are limited to reinforcement of their incompetence when they bring up Hitler. It can never take their intended effect.
Do you see?
The Good Fallout From The Space Bimbos’ Expensive Selfie
Before they had their fun, would you have been aware that there is a formal program called, “Commercial Space Astronaut Wings Program”? I hadn’t given it much thought, as on this topic I am generally awestruck immobile by yet another instance of uncanny synchronization of unrelated technology jumps. Can someone please explain how virtually every human being is able to view, in stunning HD, videos of the now weekly commercial rocket launches? Using Resurrection Sunday as a backdrop, we might say that it seems like physicists care more about letting others watch their work than religious zealots ever did.
I digress.
Regarding “astronaut” more broadly, it was always obvious to me what this meant, because as a former USAF pilot, I went to training with a guy that had a career goal to become an astronaut. Given my then (and still) adoration of AF pilots, his goal didn’t seem out of reach—indeed he seemed to be completing the exact right steps at the exact right time. If anything, I learned that I would never be an astronaut because I hadn’t even believed I was in the running until, after meeting him, I considered that if I was in the same training as him, surely I was at least had better chances than everyone else not in USAF pilot training.
So the definition for Commercial Space Astronaut Wings Program is: “Crewmembers who travel into space must have ‘demonstrated activities during flight that were essential to public safety or contributed to human space flight safety.’”
And that is still pretty weak as definitions go, imho. (And the bimbos would, under the most generous definition of “human space flight safety”, need to say, “I earned my Commercial Space Astronaut Wings!” Under no circumstance does the English language allow for them to be called Astronauts.)
But now we know. And that is a good thing.
Completing Blacks’ Translation of Blacks to Whites in a Way Only a Literate White Could Do
So this HS Track stabbing murder is still on my brain. There is a YouTube channel which consists of Black twin brothers reacting to the passing scene. In effect, they are comedians who specialize in highlighting the constant, loud, but relatively small, tom foolery of the Black Community.
Most recently in this murder case, the attorney held a press conference. As the thing unfolded, the Twins began to recognize and highlight what anyone would recognize—that it was essentially a paid advertisement for some new johnny-come-lately BLM type group.
Here’s the particular additional factor that I, and only someone with my resume, can add to help even these Twins understand more fully what we all witnessed taking place.
The reason the attorney repeats the name of his organization four hundred times throughout the press conference is because the Black Community, as a group, is still operating on oral tradition. If his intended audience doesn’t memorize the name of the organization in that moment, he will never see it blossom into whatever he believes it should and can become.
I know, I know. You want to tell me that Whites or Western Civilization aims for memorability too. But that is not what I mean. What I mean is that when these things happen, we’re (literate Whites) watching Old Testament or pre-literate or illiteracy in action. They are not just “us” but “different”. They’re actually not us. They are actually different.
The reason I write this is I believe only once we understand this fact have we obtained the almighty truth without which we have no foundation from upon which to act.
How An Old Eagle Scout Gives A New Eagle Scout A Knife
I don’t really have a relationship with my nephew who is a graduating HS senior. Without directly asking my sister why she got him involved in Boy Scouts, I imagined the answer to be fairly obvious and plain: she saw how it helped me in life, both with enjoyment as a kid and professionally in acceptance into USAF Pilot Training and ability to complete it successfully.
Her son is riding fairly high right now, with several notable achievements under his belt, including Eagle Scout and acceptance into a unique college program. When I visited recently for his birthday, I directed the concept with him to knives, just for fun. I was surprised that he knew a bit about metals being used these days. He also surprised me by an earnest delivery of how he was super practical in being content with cheap knives that got the job done. Being the uncle who was consistently tardy or absent on birthdays and Christmas his whole life, I figured I would take a moment and a rare handful of cash and get him a knife he would never buy for himself—and likely never use. I also wanted it to be one that he would forever associate positively with Uncle Pete.
To my shock and dismay, when he finished opening the gift, my sister and mom took turns nastily cautioning him about the dangers of bringing it to school. Essentially they warned him that he would lose many opportunities that are available to him today over such a thoughtless mistake. They both then looked at me with apprehension, bordering on respect, a kind of, “I hope you know what you’re doing” attitude. I credit them for not “disagreeing” or “revoking” the gift.
Keep in mind, this was only a week or two before the black kid murdered the white kid with a knife.
How did I, the Eagle Scout uncle, caution the newly armed man?
Later, and one-on-one, I homilized, “I had no idea that your mom and grandma would react like that.” This opening keeps me credible and trustworthy. “On the topic, I just want to say this.” This establishes that the sermon is brief and likely worthy. “I got you the knife partly because of all these recent achievements of yours.” This is a compliment; hard to not like a compliment. “But please know that if you were to do something stupid like ignore reality and bring it to school, besides the consequences, by my thinking, it would mean that all the achievements were counterfeit.” This was the respectful and powerful punchline.
He blushed hard and seemed hurt.
Then he shed any maturity he had just revealed unintentionally, if winsomely, and smiled and nervously giggled in what I supposed must be counted as a teenager’s acknowledgment of unsolicited guidance.
One Last Thought Before The Week’s Proper End
Smokin’ hot blondie Megyn Kelly read a killer’s journals into the podcast-o-sphere earlier this week. But that’s not the reason to care about such an odd pairing.
The reason to care is now that the Nashville shooter of 2023’s journals are public, any one of us can legitimately respond to a Woke, Leftie, Alphabet Mafia-type with, “You sound just like that mass shooter in Nashville. Get away from me.” With this you can cut through all the politics and get straight to the heart of the issue.
You can take it from me, or you can track down Mrs. Kelly’s podcast yourself. I suppose you can also read the journals quietly to yourself. But rest assured, the chick (yes, the shooter was a girl) wrote the playbook for the Left in her journal(s) of reasons. It’s messed up.
I Have A BIPOC Teenage Step-Son, Therefore You Should Listen To MY Take
For starters, “The Captain had turned on the Fasten Your Seatbelt Sign.” So buckle up.
I need to draw your attention right away to certain facts that I believe should be obvious, but due to everyone’s performative heightened sensitivities these days, aren’t.
1. This is a WordPress blog called Captain’s Log. I am a pilot. I was a pilot in the Air Force. You don’t need to know anything beyond this combination of demographics (male, writes blogs, flys aircraft professionally, did so in the USAF) to be certain that I am white.
2. This teenage step-son I have referred to is a step-son. Step. That means I am not some happy-go-lucky Academy Grad who adopts African orphans to keep up with the Joneses. In order to have a BIPOC (African—not African-American/Black) step-son, I must be married to a BIPOC wife.
3. This is one level deeper, but given that he is my step-son, I think it is fair for anyone to assume that in his mom’s eyes, he is an angel and can do no wrong. In other words, there is absolute and comprehensive discord when it comes to raising him.
Let’s move on to certain facts that are not available to even faithful followers.
A. He currently is testing the waters of HS Track and Field.
B. His haircut is near identical to the alleged murderer’s.
C. I have seen him taunt his opponents (in basketball) in similar language to “Touch me and see what happens.”
D. He and I haven’t spoken many words for over a year now. This silence went into effect basically since a time when circumstances led to me checking his phone and finding atrocious garbage, to include a selfie of him flipping off the camera (which also exists for the alleged murderer). In ol’ fashioned American Dad style, I subsequently took a hacksaw to his phone. He hasn’t had one since. And he lies so much that I have decided to back off rather than “fight, fight, fight.” (Which would be with BOTH him and his mom/my wife.) Additionally, I agree with the general philosophy, “There is no point in communication if there is no truth.”
Got the picture?
Backing up, regarding the dead twin, I find great consolation in Mark Twain’s humor. Perhaps you will too. He wrote
In other words, in the fullest sense, between the black kid and the white kid, the black kid got the shaft—what a stupid thing to do.
When I tell whites about the demographic decisions of my life, they reward me with such reactions as, “That is sooooo interesting,” and, “That’s what I love about you, Pete!” It feels good. It feels amazing. They are right. And “interest” is at least half the reason I live how I live. Who wants a boring life?
But the truth is that I also love America and believe in my heart of hearts that I have an excellently formed and accurate appreciation for what exactly America is. And I want America to do what stands before it as possible—even if it still feels unlikely. I mean, I want America to be a post-racial country. Let’s mix it up like no one has and enjoy the unpredictable result. What is the saying? “Variety is the spice of life.”
But no. No one else wants that. Nope. Instead, my dreams have resulted in having a step-son who models himself after thugs and a wife who indulges him at every step.
As I have read the interweb’s reactions and trolls, I have come across this tit-for-tat notion where the Black responds, “Sure, when you first hear there is a murder and one person is White and one Black, you are right to guess that the murderer is Black.” Then they add the kicker, “But when we hear that a school shooting has occurred, everyone knows it is a White kid.”
I also grant this assessment.
The enormous difference, and one which affects me directly, is every White purposely dresses different than school shooters! And in the cases where there is some similarity, it is honest-to-goodness poverty or ignorance that has led to it. No White kids (except the seemingly unending supply of actual copycat killers) are imitating the school shooters’ appearance.
School Shooters are LOSERS! It is why they do it. They are losers with no imagination, no creativity, no hope, and access to guns. Losers. They are people who I purposely avoid and counsel everyone to avoid. They are losers who I want nothing to do with. They are terribly easy to spot. And they are pitiful. Leave them alone and report them anytime they do something that can keep them from shooting up schools!
With this Black kid, the same cannot be said. How he looks and how he acts is exactly the way my immigrant step-son has determined is how “cool” looks and acts. Take any run-of-the-mill Black celebrity-filled room, and this kid would have fit right in—same for my step-son. But the school shooter losers? They got beat up for showing up. That’s why they are convinced they are losers and see no way out but violence.
My first instinct when I saw the Black kid’s picture(s)? I wanted to tell my wife to take my step-son to get a proper haircut. Do I seriously believe that something as seemingly trivial as a hairstyle can change a life? Absolutely. How do I know? Because it ain’t about the hairstyle. It is about the fact that some parenting is happening. Some adjustments. Some common sense. Some reality.
What have I actually done after this tragedy? Nothing. Why not? Let me reference a not-so-famous quote from a beloved crime saga.
Neil McCauley (appearance completely like the cop sitting across from him) says to Vincent Hannah (I have a movie poster over my beloved piano of the very coffee table scene):
“You see me doin’ thrill-seeker liquor store holdups with a ‘Born to Lose’ tattoo on my chest?”
In other words, my time with my wife and my step-son has persuaded me of that which even believably portrayed criminals know to be the truth: Some folks are born to lose.
There are days when I avoid considering how much damage this “interesting” kid can do to my life and family (future legal troubles that my wife insist I pay to help as one example). But they are not the majority.
Captain’s Log 