Time for some writing blogging

Enough of taking pictures, I need my rare and/or non-existent readers to do some reading.

What to write about for them?  I’ll just rattle off some thoughts and observations.

I’m in love with the gerund.  I’m loving the gerund — that’s what I’m saying.  I should also say I love gerunding.  A student did something good recently — I was tempted to tell him that what he was doing was good studenting.

While facebooking, I came across a libtard definition of libtard.  A libtard was someone hated by the rightist (or whatever) because the libtard knew history, world affairs, spelling, and one or two other things while the nazi-racist-fascist-Maga didn’t.  Reminded me of someone saying that Hilary Voters had more degrees than Trump voters.  I posted a retort saying that if the libtard did know these things, along with how to critically think, then the libtard wouldn’t be a libtard.  I should have also posted — I could post now there but can’t be bothered (my rare non-existent readers being more important) — I should also have posted that a libtard probably couldn’t do any work with his hands, and knew nothing about plumbing or electrical things.

By the way, a better moniker than libtard is White Liberal.  I wonder if the libtards would adopt that insult?  That would be giving the game away however.

Does a libtard believe men can have babies?  Oh, the witty responses keep coming to mind…

The prospect of a week long holiday has filled me with dread and loathing.  This mid-autumn festival is going to be filled with a lot of boring patches.  For one thing, my wife Jenny is going to be working during the holiday.  For another, my son Tony is only going to want to not go out and do anything.  All he seems content to do is play computer games and live with his devices.  And if we do do something, we’ll have to deal with the crowds and lack of parking.  And furthermore, if we do meet people, it’ll be boring.  I don’t know anyone that I can feel at ease with socially.  I wish I could converse with the friends of Nicholas Gomez Davila; not people who aren’t angry about the Covid reaction.

I finished reading Chadwick Moore’s biography of Tucker Carlson.  His detractors don’t understand him.  He can’t be labeled as part of any political faction.  He is sui generis.

I also finished reading a book about Covid entitled Hindsight 2020.  It was fine, but dull. The author tried too hard to appear reasonable to the Covidians.  At one point in the book, the author wrote of needing to eye-witness the truckers protesting in Ottawa before she could happily determine that they weren’t nazis and bigots.  She was playing the libtards stupid game.  Never ever accept the premises of a white liberal.  She should have known immediately that  Trudeau’s charges against the truckers were patently absorb.  And the writer was also too admiring of economists.  Economists have a different way of thinking about things, said the author.  Economists can’t seem to get their act together as a profession, I say.  The author went fluff portrayalish at points in the book, turning it into an extended article for Lockdown Sceptic Monthly.

I come back in a bit to edit that….

Edited.  I mean, I went over what I wrote.

I am now reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.  That perhaps explains why I writing the way I am in this blog entry…

Problem is, I don’t do drugs like Hunter S. Thompson, and though I drink, I have low tolerance.  If I drink more than one or two beers, the idea of going on a bender goes away.  I couldn’t hang out with Thompson or Sinatra.  If I did, and I was intimidated by those two, I would surely die, or hate myself.  

There was a time in Aldergrove where I smoked this strong weed — I couldn’t say no  because I was a wimp coward — and I truly experienced the stoner high.  I was driving and I felt I was in the back seat, and I ate two packs of Pringles when I got to my room.

A guy like Thompson did that all his life.  Why would he? Sober Life is annoying, but destroying oneself doesn’t make things better.

My life here in China is a lonely one.  I couldn’t survive here without my Bee Pee N.

It was nice to hug my wife Jenny.  I hadn’t been in her presence in almost a month.  I did this despite her annoying me so much as she criticized my choice of lane as I was driving on Xiu Xiao Ke Road between Wuxi and Jiangyin.  It started when I was behind a black van that turned out to a coffin transport for a funeral company — so its signs said.

Would spending a week, say, in Hong Kong or Vietnam make me feel better?  Would it shake off the malaise life is giving me now.  I doubt it.  I imagine myself going there and feeling bored as I did wandering around downtown Vancouver.

I am not looking forward to going to Canada next year.  I get the impression that it is a folkorama festival with higher prices than concessions at a sporting event.  

One abiding sensation of the last MLB game I attended was the pangs of hunger. because the food was so goddamned expensive.  That could be my three weeks in Canada next year.

I hope that’s enough blogging for now….

Say what you will about China but it’s a serious country.  That is, its leaders are serious about making their country better.

They build a lot of infrastructure, they do in China.  It is soulless — apartment blocks and malls— but the West has lost its mojo when it comes to architecture.  The only nice buildings in the West are its older buildings which the Chinese do sometimes try to imitate.