The Vanishing Facebook Referrals

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I guess I just don’t understand how things work, social media-wise.

This past week I’ve been averaging approximately no Facebook referrals per day, and it beats me why. I haven’t been censored–well, what I mean is, no one has told me I’ve been censored.

I wonder: could it be that a whole lot of people have left Facebook, and there’s no one around to do whatever it is that somebody does to create a referral? Could their traffic be that far down? If it is, they’ve got problems.

Anybody heard anything about that?

If You See This Movie Coming–Run Away

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It’s rainy, cold, and dreary here today, Patty and I are tired, we want to just veg out and relax–but if we get another movie like the turkey we discovered yesterday, I am not answerable for the consequences.

House, starring William Katt–actually, I’m not sure “starring” is the right word: more like he was shanghaied into it by people who hate him a lot–is one of those schlocky horror movies from the 1980s that seems to have been the work of half a dozen writers writing bits of it without consulting among themselves and just tacking it together somehow.  It also features chintzy special effects that wouldn’t scare anybody who hadn’t blown good money to see it.

So first the ghost is all-powerful and then, suddenly, for no reason at all, he isn’t; and first the haunted house is in the middle of the suburbs, and then it’s right on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, and the monsters are all made of cheap foam rubber, and… ah, fanabla! It is as if the writers had declared war on continuity.

And then we read that this fiasco, this abomination… won awards! And people said they liked it!

Who can understand such mysteries?

Whatever we wind up watching today had better be good.

The 300th Chapter of ‘Oy, Rodney’

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In her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular has skipped from Chapter CCXCI to Chapter CCC. “I crave the reader’s indulgence,” she writes, “and I promise to go back and write those intervening chapters as soon as the police stop coming around here to investigate the toothpaste rolls I made for Mr. Pitfall. It was not my fault he ate too many and is now in intensive care at the hospital. Besides which, Chapter CCC is a milestone which I wanted to reach as soon as possible.” Of course, she could have written it first and saved herself the trouble.

This is how we wind up with half the roof blown off the top of Coldsore Hall, the Marquess of Grone found crouching behind some old steamer trunks in the attic with his hair frozen straight up from his scalp, babbling about the ghost of the medieval sorcerer, Black Rodney, stealing his pocket watch, and a whole mob of Scurveyshire peasants, armed with torches and pitchforks, disappearing under the vicar’s backyard wading pool. We have no idea how any of this happened.

Chapter CCC opens with the marquess in bed and Lady Margo Cargo bending over him with a can of fishing worms. He thinks she’s Queen Victoria, with whom he once played Chutes and Ladders.

“Please, my lord, try to concentrate!” Lady Margo coos. “Tell me what these things are, wriggling around inside this can.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, Your Majesty, but I am allergic to frumpweed and I wish you would remove it from under my nose,” whimpers the peer of the realm.

“Is he any better today?” asks Lord Jeremy Coldsore, standing in the doorway and doing his best to strike a dignified pose despite having two left feet.

“Oh, much better!” cries Lady Margo. She and Lord Jeremy cannot get married until the stricken peer recovers. “As you can see, those frozen hairs are falling out and his eyes have stopped rolling. But he’s still confused about certain objects.”

“My aunt is still weeping in the garden.” Lady Petunia, the marquess’ wife, has been weeping steadily ever since a piece of the chimney fell on her. And of course there was that business with the sliding board.

“I showed this chapter to my editor,” Ms. Crepuscular interjects, “and he says it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. He is a great believer in skipping chapters. And now I have to stop because the police are at my door again.”

 

Raise the Voting Age

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There’s a lot of talk suddenly, all throughout the Western world, of lowering the voting age. But I think we should raise it.

I’m not one of these people who moans about not enough people voting. I think too many people vote–way too many. (And some of them too often, too–but that’s another issue.) Public policy is serious business, demanding sober thought. I realize that sentence has just launched me, as from a catapult, out of the mainstream. But these days the mainstream is almost always the wrong place to be.

A reason often given for allowing 16-year-olds to vote is to get ’em into the voting booth in a hurry so they can vote to shore up the Climate Change mob. The fact that it’s so easy to recruit teens to this sham cause is a very strong argument for not letting them vote, not ever.

Here’s the truth. If you’ve only been on this earth for 16 years, no matter what your natural gifts and talents, you simply haven’t been here long enough to acquire the amount of knowledge and experience it takes to be a responsible voter. It doesn’t occur to you, for instance, that our glorious leaders who scare us with tales of rising sea levels are out there buying beachfront palaces–which they do because they know the sea levels are going nowhere, and they don’t themselves believe a single word of the fraud they’re selling us. Ditto their private jets, their limousines, their lavish banquets at Davos. They don’t believe a word of it.

Nor do teens have the experience to pick up on certain things that, to older folks, stick out like sore thumbs: like when a left-wing UN “expert” lets it slip that only communism or socialism can **Save The Planet!** from global warming. Even better, communism with a world government behind it! That sets off our radar. But teens haven’t yet lived long enough to have that equipment.

Even without lowering the voting age, far too many alleged adults base their votes on misinformation (which they were either too lazy or too busy to check up on), lies told to them by politicians and nooze media, irrational passions and personal prejudices, profoundly silly “reasons” (like identity politics), misdirected anger, or the kind of pure whimsy, totally un-serious and irresponsible, that inspires votes for hopeless third-party candidates.

Raising the voting age to 50 would be a good start, although it wouldn’t solve the problem of foolish people casting foolish votes. So we ought to start talking sense about what kind of restrictions ought to be put on voting, and see if we can find ones that work.

Psalm 46, ‘Our Refuge and Strength’

I read this Psalm this morning–Psalm 46, “God is our refute and strength”–and I want to share it with you.

God’s providence is woven into the fiber of the physical universe, sustaining it moment by moment. But He is also the Lord of Hosts, mighty in battle: and when He intervenes in history–watch out!

‘The Anti-Bible Magic Trick’ (2015)

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Leftids think everyone is stupid. They think we can’t see through clumsy tricks like this.

The Anti-Bible Magic Trick

If Jesus Christ is not the Lord and Savior, if He was only a nice guy who had some eccentric ideas, once upon a time–if He even existed at all–why do they rage against Him so? Why do they want to strip people of their livelihoods for believing in Noah’s Flood? I mean, you see what happens to their faces…

Heck, I get exasperated when they spout their fairy tales of Man-Made Climbit Change: but that’s mostly because they want to use it as an excuse to tell other people what to do.

They need new writers. Their old ones are out of ideas.

‘Light of the World’

I hope you don’t mind me posting this hymn again–Light of the World, by Charles Wesley, performed by Maddy Prior and the Carnival Band. This is a pretty dark world without the light of Jesus Christ!

Unpredictable Cats (with a couple of dogs thrown in)

You can always predict exactly what some people are going to say or do (you can think of as many examples as I can); but no one can predict what a cat is going to do. Who knew the cat could operate the water cooler? Use the dog’s leash? Turn on the overhead lights? I’ve heard there’s a cat in Albuquerque who can do long division, but I don’t believe it.

Mr. Nature: The Cat that Wasn’t a Cat

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Hi, Mr. Nature here–with Hoplophoneus, a graceful prehistoric predator that looked like a cat, ate like a cat, probably moved like a cat… but according to paleontologists, wasn’t a cat.

I became fascinated by this creature when I was a boy, back when they were still calling it a cat, possibly an ancestor of the famous sabertooth. Details of the skeleton, we are now told, are different enough from a cat’s skeleton as to make it a cat wannabe.

But never mind. It’s still an animal well worth looking at, and I wonder now if it’s going to turn up in Obann. Cross an ocelot with a sabertoothed tiger, and you’d get something very like a Hoplophoneus.

I dream of seeing these animals someday, alive and real, when God restores His creation in all its former glory. But for now, the closest I can come is to put them in my books and let ’em rip.

My Birthday Surprise

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Here’s a case of  “All’s well that ends well.”

Patty told me she’d ordered something special for my birthday, “something you haven’t had in a long time.” Well, that could be just about anything. It was supposed to be delivered that day, and we kept checking, until finally a big box arrived on our doorstep. What could it be? It was a very big box.

With my liquidator’s sample knife, I carefully opened it to find a sealed styrofoam container. Inside, resting on a bag of dry ice, were three smaller plastic containers–and an “Oh, no!” moment for us, because the contents didn’t look like anything in particular.

“They’re supposed to be crabcakes,” Patty said, “but what could have happened to them? Did they get thawed in transit?” If so, they might not be altogether safe to eat. Nevertheless, there they were, and I left my wife in the kitchen to see what she could do with them. I didn’t dare ask what they cost. I never will.

But they were, in fact, big, beautiful crabcakes, lumps of sweet crab-meat galore, and I had them for supper.

Oh, bliss! They couldn’t have been better! Food of the gods, ambrosia, unbelievably good. I ate them as slowly as I could, to savor every superb mouthful; but alas, I couldn’t make them last all night.

But I won’t forget them–best birthday dinner that I ever had.

Cameron’s genuine Maryland crab cakes… unforgettable!