Wasn’t there some memo circulated around the DNC about toning down the violent rhetoric after the Gabrielle Giffords shooting?
I’m betting that Capuano is now wishing his life had a Rewind/Delete switch:
At the very least, he needs a Mute button.
That’s the moral of the Lara Logan story. Naturally, it pisses a lot of people off that reality refuses to conform to the wants and desires of spoiled children masquerading as adults in the West. But, like the rest of the Gods of the Copybook Headings, it doesn’t give a shit how empowered you are, how educated you are, how enlightened you are, or how multicultural you are. The world does not respect you. Lara Logan got off easy–look what happened to Veronica Guerin.
Learn the lesson, or get your ass handed to you on a platter.
Edit: Just thought of a better example than Veronica Guerin—Madalyn Murray O’Hair. O’Hair thought there was no situation that she couldn’t handle–and within the artificial environment of civilized society, she would have been right (she certainly handled school prayer easily enough). But then she ran into the real world in the form of David Roland Waters–a man she hired despite knowing his violent past. She paid for that with her life, and those of her son and granddaughter. Live and learn, or get your ass kicked–or canceled.
Well, I’m definitely going to die; how old I’ll be when it finally happens is a bit of a question.
But the fact remains–we all get old (to some degree), and we all die. You may die clean, or you may die ugly. You might die quietly, or you might die screaming. You might die bravely, fighting “the good fight” (whatever the Hell that might be, these days), or you might die a coward, your pants full of shit & piss, begging on your knees (like Che Guevara) for your life. You might die alone and unknown, or you might die famous and surrounded by others.
Whatever the modifiers, the constant remains inescapably real: You are going to die.
You will not escape. You will not upload your mind to some computer network; there will not be an immanentizing of the eschaton through the creation of a hive mind; you will not race forward to the Zero point and dance on the edge of a Singularity.
There is no escape. One day, you will die. Until you accept that, you are useless.
The Journalist swung by the desk last week for some idle chit chat, and she started griping about the person she was waiting for:
“I can’t believe this guy is taking so long. I would never let my boyfriend or husband make me wait like this.”
I give her a sidelong glance; “Really?”
She didn’t notice my look–far too busy checking her Iphone for messages. “Yeah.”
I saw the guy she was waiting for get off the elevator. “I guess that’s one reason we don’t hook up.”
Her eyes went round as saucers. Whatever response she might have made was cut off by the arrival of her associate. I have no idea if she looked back at me– I got busy with my own work. Whether she knew it or not, she just eliminated herself from “the pool of potentials”. If I have learned one thing from the Roissysphere/Manosphere, it is this: Never, never, ever, let a woman dictate your level of importance to you.
I remember being worried over feeling jealous at the sight of the Journalist getting a hug from a guy– worried because it meant I was slightly pedestalizing her, and suffering from attachment. That conversation killed that once and for all. Thank God. My time is running out, and the last thing I need to do is pine over a woman who would treat me like my time is less important than hers.
Never sell yourself short. Ever.