Well, That Seemed to Go Okay…

Somebody keeps trying to break into the Lair. Maybe they’ve got an endless supply of monkeys banging away at keyboards hoping that Keyser used some PW along the lines of “qwertyuiop[]\”. No such luck. Anyway, I decided to delete two of the user accounts to try and deal with the problem. I think I may have lost 403 posts in the process. Oh, well, if so, they’re from back in the past, so what the fuck. Anyway, seemingly, we’re good to go with the new accounts. Let’s hope so!

No.Bad.Days

At It Again

Yes, cialis I know, ed I’ve been a bad “blogger” (and, advice let’s face it, don’t even really qualify for the term).

For a while, the potential site stealers laid off the Lair, but now they’re at it again. Can’t they find honest work?

Anyway, let’s hope we don’t have too much repair to do on the Lair like what’s in the image here…

Pleased.Craftsman

Rot in Hell, You Malevolent Cocksuckers: AIG Edition

AIG.Ahole

Okay, look back in the day, troche Keyser used to comment a whole lot about the fall out from the great meltdown of 2008. After a while, it got sort of tired, and eventually I gave it up. But don’t think that the hard feelings have gotten any less hard.

Those who’ve hung out at the Lair for a long time may recall that Keyser got cleaned out to the tune of $5000 when AIG imploded. And then those swine at Goldman Sachs who had co-opted the US treasury for the purpose of bailing out their incompetent, self-serving, greedy asses got the government to steal the company from its shareholders (yours truly) and make it pay out big-time to the owners of mortgage-based securities to whom the company had imbecilically sold credit default swaps. Basically, if the company had gone belly up, as its ineptitude so richly deserved, then all the other pricks who had propped up their own incompetence via credit default swaps, which supposedly made their rash dealings look good to regulators, would have gone belly-up in turn.

So, after all this time, I’ve sort of forgotten about it. But rest assured that I have not forgiven, and harbor boundless hatred towards all involved.

And then the fuckers have the audacity to come up with some gloating ad about how they’re back and as malevolent as ever.

Get this: “We repaid every dollar America lent us.” Oh, well, good for you. Glad the Treasury could lend you the money to bail out Goldman Sachs and then to go on as if your vast incompetence had never happened.

But one question for you. Where’s my fucking five thousand dollars, you mother fuckers?

Horace, Odes 1.1 (after a fashion)

Maecenas, nurse born of ancestor kings,
both my protection and sweet adornment,
there are those that are pleased on the course
to have gathered Olympic dust and by the turning point
narrowly missed with blazing wheels and by the noble
palm that raises them as lord of the earth to the gods;
this one’s pleased if the crowd with fickle votes
strives to honor him with triple office,
and that one if he’s stored in a granary his own
whatever is swept from threshing floors in Libya;
and the one who rejoices in splitting with a hoe
his paternal lands on the terms of Attalus
you could never deter so that in a Cypriot ship
as a fearful sailor he’d cut the sea Myrtoan;
and fearing the west wind in its struggles with the Icarian waves
the merchant praises his hometown’s leisure and
countryside, but soon he repairs his buffeted ships,
not to be taught to endure limited means;
and there’s one who spurns neither cups of vintage Massic wine
or to take a chunk from the solid day,
with limbs reclining now beneath a leafy arbute,
now by a gentle head of sacred water;
many are pleased by barracks and the sound of the horn
mixed with the trumpet and the wars that mothers
loathe; while under the open sky there strays
a hunter heedless of his tender wife,
whether a deer’s been sighted by his loyal dogs
or a Marsian boar has rent the rounded nets.
But as for me, the fleeting glance of the elusive
goddess, standing naked with her chorus
of nymphs attendant, combing her hair and
smoothing lotion round her firm young breasts
is what holds me in rapture, such rapture that
I hardly notice when she turns and says,
“Actaeon, are you so sure your hounds are loyal?”

Pompous Ass of the Day

Jesus Christ, there get a load of this:

I was born in Seattle, and I grew up there and in Manhattan; Columbia, Missouri; Long Beach, New York; and Portland, Oregon. I have also lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Austin, Texas, but I prefer the Pacific Ocean. I have some Norwegian ancestors.

My wife has taught courses on Pindar, Herodotus, detective fiction, and Elvis. Our cat Sophie also admires Elvis, and our cat Sam studies fluid dynamics; both are avid birdwatchers.

My sister is a Tibetanist, and so is my brother. He’s a linguist working with language archives, and so am I. Our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather did some Algic language documentation, so does our eighth cousin once removed, and so do I.

My father is a philosopher, and so is my uncle. That uncle was a provost, and another is a college president. My mother is a banker, my grandparents were teachers, a nurse, and a fireman, and their fathers were in farming, fishing, pharmacy, and the army.

My family’s cats were each called “Kitty” when I was young, and so were my grandparents’ cats. My sister’s cat is also “Kitty”, and my cousin’s cat was “Black Kitty”. For a while I was called “Boy”. People in our family eat a lot of pie.

I teach at Berkeley, and so do my wife and my fifth cousin once removed. My eighth cousin five times removed wrote a famous book, and my tenth cousin died in a car accident in 1997.

My college friends teach at Clark, Harvard, Ohio State, Sheffield, and Suffolk, or they are Canadian actors and comedians.

Either this guy’s got the biggest inferiority complex this side of the Pecos, or he’s desperate to be included in the next edition of the Almanach de Gotha. (The original’s chock-a-block full of links, if you give a shit about validating all those cousins and friends and things.)

Oh, and did he tell you that he’s great-great-great-gerat-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle twice removed on the Isildur side was once punched in the nose by Gandalf the Grey for naming dropping? True story.