James Damore encore

You have all heard of the firing of James Damore, who had the bravery to object to the prevailing ideology at Google, namely that the absence or scarcity of women in some engineering roles at Google was the result of bias and  unlawful discrimination, rather than self selection and natural differences between men and women.

The process inside of Google of having him isolated and punished, and further wrecking his chances after his firing, is described in this article in Gizmodo.

Our response after we fired him was equally disgraceful. We were supposed to have a Town Hall TGIF to answer employees’ questions about the controversy. However, after questions started coming in that we couldn’t reasonably answer, we had to cancel it. We shifted the blame onto “alt-right trolls” and have avoided talking about it openly since then.

To control the narrative, we planted stories with journalists and flexed Google’s muscles where necessary. In exchange for insider access and preferential treatment, all we ask for is their loyalty. For online media, Google’s ads pay their paycheck and our search brings their customers, so our influence shouldn’t be underestimated.

We dealt with his NLRB  -National Labor Relations Board – case in a similar way. People are ultimately lazy, so we found a sympathetic lawyer in the NLRB and wrote the internal NLRB memo for her. No one wanted to spend the effort to oppose it, despite it being laughably weak. Then, after Damore dropped his NLRB case and filed a class action lawsuit, we had the NLRB publicly release their memo. Our PR firms sent press releases saying “the NLRB ruled the firing legal”, which was, of course, manufactured bullshit.

All of our scheming was over the phone, in deleted emails, or through an external PR firm, so we can deny all of it. Now that we’ve forced him into arbitration, we’re close to screwing him over completely.

The posting’s authenticity is discussed in the conversations below the main posting in Gizmodo.

 

The Battle of the Books

 

As journalists these days are staking out their position on the Tree of Life, somewhere between amphibians and reptiles, I was reminded of one of the great works of Jonathan Swift, probably the most imaginative English writer in the last few hundred years.

In “The Battle of the Books” he recounts a war between the writers of the Ancient World and their modern critics, carried out as a phantasmagorical war of books that takes place in St James’s Library. The modern “critics”, of course, are full of contempt for traditional wisdom built up through the Ages, and so full of themselves, puffed up with their progressive modernisms.

[Immediately, that brings to mind the whole slew of modern journalists, pretending to report and analyze, but really venting their collective leftist spleen against President Trump, his family, their country and all normal, sane people.]

Momus, the patron of the Moderns, in conducting the battle,

… fearing the worst, and calling to mind an ancient prophecy which bore no very good face to his children the Moderns, bent his flight to the region of a malignant deity called Criticism. She dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain in Nova Zembla; there Momus found her extended in her den, upon the spoils of numberless volumes, half devoured. At her right hand sat Ignorance, her father and husband, blind with age; at her left, Pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps of paper herself had torn. There was Opinion, her sister, light of foot, hood-winked, and head-strong, yet giddy and perpetually turning. About her played her children, Noise and Impudence, Dulness and Vanity, Positiveness, Pedantry, and Ill-manners. The goddess herself had claws like a cat; her head, and ears, and voice resembled those of an ass; her teeth fallen out before, her eyes turned inward, as if she looked only upon herself; her diet was the overflowing of her own gall; her spleen was so large as to stand prominent, like a dug of the first rate; nor wanted excrescences in form of teats, at which a crew of ugly monsters were greedily sucking; and, what is wonderful to conceive, the bulk of spleen increased faster than the sucking could diminish it.

Momus then entreats the goddess Criticism to hasten to the British Isle, thereby

…having thus delivered himself, stayed not for an answer, but left the goddess to her own resentment. Up she rose in a rage, and, as it is the form on such occasions, began a soliloquy: “It is I” (said she) “who give wisdom to infants and idiots; by me children grow wiser than their parents, by me beaux become politicians, and schoolboys judges of philosophy; by me sophisters debate and conclude upon the depths of knowledge; and coffee-house wits, instinct by me, can correct an author’s style, and display his minutest errors, without understanding a syllable of his matter or his language; by me striplings spend their judgment, as they do their estate, before it comes into their hands. It is I who have deposed wit and knowledge from their empire over poetry, and advanced myself in their stead. And shall a few upstart Ancients dare to oppose me? But come, my aged parent, and you, my children dear, and thou, my beauteous sister; let us ascend my chariot, and haste to assist our devout Moderns, who are now sacrificing to us a hecatomb, as I perceive by that grateful smell which from thence reaches my nostrils.”

Ah!, to be blessed with Swift’s powers of invective…one can but dream.

Rebel Yell

You Are Being Policed

As Mark Steyn has said, “Everything in England is policed, except crime.”
For all you folks concerned about the expanding police presence in our society, watch this video [How the Police have become the Paramilitary Arm of Political Correctness]. Its origin is in the UK, but the same applies to all of us in the US, Canada, England, France, wherever. The police forces are increasingly becoming a political police force, enforcing thought control throughout the populace, and certainly not protecting the rights of free citizens. Most of the commentary in this video is from an ex-police officer in England, which should tell you how far the rot has gone.

It is also good advice to any citizen these days—Don’t Talk To The Police, under any circumstances. As Professor James Duane says [here], “It. Can. Not. Help. You.—There. Is. No. Way. It. Can. Help. You.”

Be Warned.

Rebel Yell

Bolsonaro—The Right Way to Go!

President-elect Bolsonaro hasn’t even been sworn in yet, and he’s pledged to allow all Brazilians without criminal records to own firearms; to move the Brazilian Embassy to Jerusalem, and, to not sign the insane UN Migration Pact.

Wow, three home runs before the game starts. Will he out-Trump Trump?

No doubt come January 1st, many feminist knickers will be twisted into Gordian knots, screams of outrage will emanate from the hordes of thingies with dubious and unclassifiable libidos, and the MSM will beclown themselves with MAD magazine-type lies about the new Brazil.

We could use a guy like that in Canada.

Rebel Yell

A non-hysterical view of global warming

I sift through lots of global warming stuff pro and con. I think this guy comes closest to my current position. Geologists, in my opinion, are much more cognizant of the long record of the planet, and way less hysterical than the “climate” scientists. Still, his view of rising oceans within the next century is alarming enough. Britt’s view is that we have stopped the Milankovich cycle in its tracks and that we are not heading into an ice age, as we ought to be by this time, but are heading to significantly greater warmth.

As he points out, the biggest friend of a colder earth was Mao Tse-tung, who kept China in poverty. And that, my friends, is the only way I know to prevent further global warming.

Whatever your reaction to Dan Britt’s science, I find his presentation to be cheerful and gloomy at the same time. Geologists are like that, because the planet has gone through so much more change than most people are aware of.

 

 

Can Socialists Be Happy?

Can Socialists be Happy? is the title of an amusing little essay by George Orwell, which touches on the subjects of Christmas and socialist Utopias. The short answer is, —No. The sterile socialist utopias of Wells’s Men Like Gods and William Morris’s News from Nowhere elicit no joy in Orwell’s heart.

Christmas, of course, from A Christmas Carol, Dickens’ timeless Victorian parable of the redemption of an old miser, Ebenezer Scrooge. [Every Christmas Eve, I watch the 1951 movie with Alistair Sim playing Scrooge—the definitive version]. And despite Orwell’s critiques of Dickens, elaborated extensively in his essay on Dickens, he cannot help but express a liking for him.

I must confess a grudging admiration for Dickens, ever since as a very young boy, reading Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol from my grandfather’s beautiful leather-bound Dickens collection, complete in that old thin paper and sinister illustrations. Although he can be overly verbose, and sentimentality oozes from his every pore, he has a knack for creating characters with real feelings and emotions, real joys and sorrows, rather than fabricated professions of goodwill. I can still feel the cold of English houses and almost feel Bob Cratchit shivering on Christmas Eve as he toils for Scrooge. But,

…however thick Dickens may lay on the paint, however disgusting the ‘pathos’ of Tiny Tim may be, the Cratchit family give the impression of enjoying themselves. They sound happy as, for instance, the citizens of William Morris’s News From Nowhere don’t sound happy. Moreover and Dickens’s understanding of this is one of the secrets of his power their happiness derives mainly from contrast. They are in high spirits because for once in a way they have enough to eat. The wolf is at the door, but he is wagging his tail. The steam of the Christmas pudding drifts across a background of pawnshops and sweated labour, and in a double sense the ghost of Scrooge stands beside the dinner table. Bob Cratchit even wants to drink to Scrooge’s health, which Mrs Cratchit rightly refuses. The Cratchits are able to enjoy Christmas precisely because it only comes once a year. Their happiness is convincing just because Christmas only comes once a year. Their happiness is convincing just because it is described as incomplete.

…As all happiness is; incomplete and never a thing in itself.

All the imagined socialist utopias never get beyond seeing happiness as a kind of maudlin cleanliness, populated by nice, but drab and boring, people, much like the decaffeinated personalities of the progressives of today. Imagine waking up in that kind of world…

It is a world whose keynotes are enlightened hedonism and scientific curiosity. All the evils and miseries we now suffer from have vanished. Ignorance, war, poverty, dirt, disease, frustration, hunger, fear, overwork, superstition all vanished. So expressed, it is impossible to deny that that is the kind of world we all hope for. We all want to abolish the things Wells wants to abolish. But is there anyone who actually wants to live in a Wellsian Utopia? On the contrary, not to live in a world like that, not to wake up in a hygenic garden suburb infested by naked schoolmarms, has actually become a conscious political motive.

Orwell had a horror of the joyless, antiseptic, hectoring feminism that contaminates so much of our civil discourse today. Nowadays, the infestation of “naked schoolmarms” would be replaced by a tyrannical collective of ham planets with blue armpit hair beating young boys until they do have periods.

On the question of utopias…

All ‘favourable’ Utopias seem to be alike in postulating perfection while being unable to suggest happiness. News From Nowhere is a sort of goody-goody version of the Wellsian Utopia. Everyone is kindly and reasonable, all the upholstery comes from Liberty’s, but the impression left behind is of a sort of watery melancholy. But it is more impressive that Jonathan Swift, one of the greatest imaginative writers who have ever lived, is no more successful in constructing a ‘favourable’ Utopia than the others.

Because utopia is planned, and boring, only dull and boring people can inhabit it.

Dickens can describe a poverty-stricken family tucking into a roast goose, and can make them appear happy; on the other hand, the inhabitants of perfect universes seem to have no spontaneous gaiety and are usually somewhat repulsive into the bargain.

…which, in a nutshell, describes the drab personalities that inhabit the tedium of progressive politics today.

Dickens could portray happiness because he was a free man, and a decent man, much in the way Orwell was himself. And this is one of the many reasons Orwell (and, no doubt, Dickens) is hated by the Left and doctrinaire socialists in general. That the Cratchits may be poor is one thing, but that they should be happy, if only occasionally, is something that infuriates the legions of the perpetually morose. Orwell imagined Dickens thus

Well, in the case of Dickens I see a face that is not quite the face of Dickens’s photographs, though it resembles it. It is the face of a man of about forty, with a small beard and a high colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is generously angry — in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for our souls.

The smelly little orthodoxies are now almost suffocating us.

Rebel Yell

Fred Reed: Distributed Cognitive Stratfication

One of my favourite writer-bloggers is Fred Reed. A deplorable before the term was invented, Reed was in the US army as a journalist. He is descended of literate professional Presbyterian stock from the upper South.  He lives with a Mexican wife in Guadalajara, raises his children, and sends reports from strange parts of the globe. This one was from Washington DC:

A wag once described DC as “a federal enclave surrounded on all four sides by reality.” Just so. It is one thing to think Trump a terrible President–I do–but quite another for the national media to have no idea why he was elected. So far as I can tell, none of PC Washington has the slightest idea. This certainly includes the media. Their thinking, if it quite is, comes down to, “They’re stupid. They’re ignorant. They’re racist. They’re sexist. They’re fascist.They’re…evil.

 

The issue that Reed gets to is the complete cluelessness of our social betters in their professed ignorance of why Trump beat Clinton. As an example, Reed writes about the media reaction to Trump’s lewd talk about women in a locker room decades ago, at which the media frothed at the mouth. Not so the electorate.

 

Here we have another example of the gap between the  Bubble and the country. The talking heads exultantly said that because of the groping comments the Donald had just lost any hope of election by insulting women. Which he only barely did, if at all. Yet fifty-three percent of white women voted for Trump. How could this be, wonder the Bubblists?

Easy. White women (outside the Bubble) are intelligent and independent agents who vote according to their politics, circumstances, needs, and beliefs. They did. Apparently they thought  immigration, the economy, jobs, education and so on more important than a couple of lines of dirty talk. Washington, huge on identity politics and political correctness, expected them to be herdable ninnies. Which it expects of most of the country. Well, they weren’t.

And a word from our sponsor, the Internet”

Finally, methinks the Byzantine Kindergarten has badly underestimated  the influence of internet. Among the many intelligent people I know (a fair few, eeeeeek! supporters of trump) the Net has become primary, the media secondary. When the New York Times says something nauseatingly PC, well-informed rebuttals surge across the Web. People on the Net, not constrained by political correctness, can speak of the many topics forbidden in Washington. Sites like the Unz Review, however idiosyncratic and whatever their leanings, attract writers of high intelligence and great expertise, and appeal to similar readers. (In a bid for a place in the Hall of Fame of Linguistic Vandalism, I call this “distributed cognitive stratification.” Is that embarrassing or what?)

=================================

 

Post script

A propos thinking Trump a bad president:

“It is one thing to think Trump a terrible President–I do–but quite another for the national media to have no idea why he was elected.”

I have not yet reached the conclusion that Trump is a terrible President, though I fear that this may be my final judgment. I reserve any condemnation for the time being, because the results, in terms of international peace or economic recovery, have been superb. But the Mexican wrestling costumed-avenger aspect of Trump is grating. I hope you Trumpians will feel safe enough to admit to yourself your own ambivalence.

Then you turn your attention back to the media and the establishment opinions, and you go: “Yay Trump!! Go get ’em, Donald”.

Christmas

 

The great thing about Christmas, Garrison Keillor once said, is that it is not about you.

See Ann Althouse if you want to be annoyed at some prat who feels rejected and lonely when people wish her a merry Christmas.

I have retired to the country for a week of quiet, book reading, listening to the fire in the stove hiss and pop, listening to big music, and messing with tractors.

A Merry Christmas to you all, heathens and Christians alike. Be well. Blogging will continue as the spirit moves me.

Dalwhinnie