I just finished reading an article on Zuckerberg in the New Yorker. Since stuff flows into fb so quickly (I really wonder why Old Dog refuses to see The Wonder, he could sign in under a bogus name and never post, but just look around to see what is going on so as to know what is up with half the people in the country. I expect there is some principle behind his refusal, but I wonder what it is) that they have to use elaborate algorithms to tag questionable posts to observers who then have to read complicated regulations that are continually being updated.
Well why not let a thousand flowers bloom? This is a part of the liberal agenda. Let all beliefs be presented to the court of popular opinion, discussion will ensue and opinions that are faulty will fall into the dustbin and the truer opinions will ascend and lead us to a better world.
But that discussion part seems to be the fly in the ointment. In science the proponents of say the steady state, confront the proponents of the expanding universe, and there is a logical argument, facts are presented, and the steady state falls into the dustbin. Not the same when lefties and righties get together. There is no logical discussion, the left ignores the evidence of the right and the right ignores the evidence of the left, there is a lot of namecalling and the two sides go home and get their guns and the election begins.
Seems to me that the liberal agenda mechanism might have worked back in the day of the ink stained wretches, but in the day of the internet when every crackpot is king, not so much. So if our means (logical discussion) aren't going to get us to our ends, maybe we should just go get our guns and adopt might makes right as it certainly appears that our opponents, under the orangeman, have done.
And so it appears to me that we are doing in the Kavenaugh battle, hanging onto the metoo tiger whose ends of eliminating sexual harassment are fine, but whose means are slay all the accused.
Old Dog speaks of the socialist and justice branches of the Democratic party, which to me are kind of idealistic, prissy, offshoots. I say look out for the Avenattis, the fighting Democrats who will toss all means and go after the reps by any means necessary, the rough beast, its hour come about at last slouching towards DC to be born.
In case either of the dawgs has missed Yeats in their liberal educations, the poem follows:
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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