This is a one of those areas where ideological purists miss the bigger picture
Blue laws reduced the power of government by increasing the power of the church
By closing the marketplace on Sunday we made a clear statement that there was something more powerful and important
Randy Newman, that really talented writer-singer, who wrote hits like SHORT PEOPLE, I LOVE LA and many more, had a mid 1970s album that may remind you of someone. This billboard is on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles.
I love Canada but in all sincerity, they need to get their shit together. The Canadian wild fires is more pollution than all of the emissions of the North American auto industry and we are on year three of ruined summers because of Canada. Canada can no longer feel morally superior to the USA. They are never prepared. Year three of this is ridiculous. My head hurts and I can’t breathe.
This is not simply minor inconvenience. This is essentially a mass poisoning of your air and is literally taking years off people’s lives.
Trump needs to use whatever pressure it takes to force the Canadians to start managing their forests again. Totally unacceptable
6 years as a firefighter taught me that if you wear your seatbelt, it is very difficult to die in a car crash, even a relatively high speed one.
It also taught me that it is very easy to die if you are not wearing a seatbelt.
I can't tell you how many times I was first on scene to a 50+ mph crash, even head on or rollovers, and the cars were smashed to shit, but everyone in the cars was completely fine, not much more than some scratches or bruises.
In many cases, all occpants were out of the vehicles and walking around before we even got there.
But if anyone wasn't wearing their seatbelt, they were seriously fucked up or dead on arrival.
Four musket balls tore through George Washington's coat at the Battle of Monongahela. Two horses were shot dead beneath him. He rode back and forth across the worst of the fighting rallying broken men, and when the smoke cleared he did not have a single scratch on him. An Indian chief later said he ordered his men to fire at Washington again and again, then stopped, certain the Great Spirit was shielding him.
He was 23 years old. He wrote to his brother a few days later, almost puzzled by it, and said he had been protected beyond all human expectation by the miraculous care of Providence.
And here is the part people forget. That was not the one time. That was the pattern.
At Princeton he rode his horse to within thirty yards of the British line and told his men to hold as the muskets opened up. An officer who was there covered his eyes because he was sure he was about to watch the general die. When he looked again Washington was still sitting tall in the saddle, waving his hat, completely unharmed. For eight years of war he stood where the fighting was heaviest and the bullets simply refused to find him. His enemies started to talk about it. His own soldiers started to believe it.
He was not being reckless. He just never seemed to believe it was his time.
This is the thread that runs through nearly every great man in history. They lived like the date had already been written and no enemy on earth could move it up by a single hour.
Caesar stood on the bank of the Rubicon, looked at everything he was about to risk, and said the die is already cast. Then he walked into it.
Cromwell rode into battle after battle convinced the outcome had been settled long before either army woke up that morning, and he fought like a man who had nothing left to fear because the ending was not his to decide.
Andrew Jackson stood on the Capitol steps while a man walked up and pulled a pistol on him at point blank range. It misfired. The man drew a second pistol. That one misfired too. The odds of both failing were so small that people argued about it for years. Jackson just raised his cane and went after the man himself.
Stonewall Jackson would ride calmly through a storm of gunfire while everyone around him flinched, and when someone finally asked how he stayed so steady he said it plainly. My religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has already fixed the time of my death, so I do not trouble myself about it. I am always ready, no matter when it comes.
That was the whole secret. Not that they loved danger. Not that they did not feel fear. They simply believed their steps were already numbered by a hand higher than any king, and a man who truly believes that walks through fire like it is a hallway.
You cannot kill a man before his work is done.
And when you line their lives up side by side, the escapes, the misfires, the bullets that passed through the coat but never the man, it gets very hard to call all of it luck.
I read through 1 Timothy this afternoon. The antidote to almost every ailment plaguing the Church and Western society is found in this short letter. Imagine if we taught it with confidence and God’s authority.
The razor blade slot is one of the most quietly brilliant pieces of home engineering ever built, and the reason it looks insane is the exact reason it worked.
A 1903-style Gillette double-edge blade is carbon steel, weighs about a gram, and is thinner than a sheet of cardstock. It also stays sharp enough to open skin long after it's too dull to shave with. That made it almost impossible to throw out safely. It sliced through trash bags, cut the people sorting cans, and survived the backyard trash fires Americans used in the 1930s, then waited in the garden ash for a bare foot. Every disposal method lost to the blade.
So the wall became the container. Drop it in the slot, it falls into the stud bay, gone.
Here's the part that was actually smart. A cavity between two studs runs about 14 inches wide, 3.5 deep, 8 feet tall: roughly 4,800 cubic inches of dead space. A blade takes up around five-thousandths of that. Account for how blades pile instead of pack neatly and the void still swallows something like 80,000 of them. A man changing a blade every week or two fills it at a rate measured in centuries. He'd calculated, correctly, that he would die long before the wall did.
Then rust finished the job. Carbon steel blades oxidize and fuse into a single corroded mass on the bottom plate. Loose sharps turn into an inert brick. The pile actually gets safer as it ages.
It was the cheapest sharps disposal in America for fifty years. A free, effectively bottomless container whose contents rusted themselves harmless. The only failure mode was a future stranger with a sledgehammer.
Stainless steel ended it. Blades that lasted weeks meant far fewer to throw out, and by the 1970s the fully disposable plastic razor shoved the whole problem back into your trash can, where it sits unsolved today. The cartridge you tossed last month is in a landfill right now, still sharp.
The guy filling his wall with blades in 1955 had a better disposal system than you do.
If you were born in America, you’re an American. You have a right to live here. Unless of course you’re American. In which case you’re living on stolen land.