CSotD: Changing times
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I'm gonna start today with a Non Sequitur that made me say, "Do they still do that?"
My granddaughter called with a tax question the other day and, since it was a minor change that didn't affect the final total and she'd already filed, I told her to forget it, because we've stripped the IRS budget down to the point where they can't audit anyone anymore anyway, least of all small fish like her.
It's too bad, not for young couples of modest means, but because if they'd apply some of those above-pictured tools to more of the bigger fish, we might be able to maintain the new tax breaks and still address the deficit.
Back in the 19th century, tax collectors in Ireland and I suppose all of Britain were independent contractors on a commission, which led to significant abuses among the tenantry, but might work today if you set the commission at, say, .05%, which would incentivize them to pursue larger prey.
However, it couldn't work in a system where simply rooting out tax cheaters by searching for the terms they commonly use is politically incorrect.
Speaking of things you don't see much of anymore, Rip Kirby is starting a new adventure, from November, 1958, and, aside from anyone getting into Special Collections after hours — we assume world-famous detectives have some pull — you certainly wouldn't be allowed to fire up your pipe in there, and note that he's also not wearing white gloves.
Don't show this to any librarians or curators, unless you know CPR.
And, back in 1958, I don't think many people would put themselves in thrall to a Home Owners Association, as seen with appropriate mockery in today's Mother Goose and Grimm.
I've always thought the point of owning a house was to get away from having a landlord constantly peering over your shoulder. I guess it's better than having rent that can go up, but, then again, if the HOA votes to put in all new storm windows at owners' expense, that advantage will go right out them.
There's an HOA in this area that has a rule forbidding "For Sale" signs. Not sure that would hold up if challenged in court, but the effect of the ban is that people driving through won't realize that about a third of residents are trying desperately to get out.
Which, as in the linked case, is the purpose.
Anyway, I think there are better ways to avoid having to cut the lawn.
There are also more interesting ways to waste money, and Big Nate is exploring one of them: Testing your dog's DNA.
The problem is that these places generally have only the DNA patterns of the more common breeds, so if your dog is part affenpinscher or Ibizan hound, that part will come back in the "other" category, and you'll likely have already figured out the German shepherd/beagle part they do manage to detect.
Which is to say that, had this situation been reversed, while the company would have poodle and schnauzer data, they might not have had wheaten terrier.
Machs nix. Most people with designer mutts are well-aware of, and quite proud of, what went into the mix, though you can't guarantee what comes out.
F'rinstance, Labradors and goldens are extremely sociable, but poodles are not, and you can't predict which personality will dominate in a particular animal.
Poodles are nice dogs, mind you, very bright and pleasant, but most of them would rather play with you than with a pack of rowdy dogs, and just don't understand the appeal of a riotous free-for-all.
While most poodles simply watch from the sidelines, doodles who inherit this trait can jump in but then become over-stimulated and out of control, much like socially inept humans who can't figure out the limits.
Which brings to mind the certainly-apocryphal story of George Bernard Shaw being told by a Hollywood starlet how wonderful it would be if they had a baby with his brain and her looks, to which he responded yes, but what if it had her brains and his looks?
Anyway, I'm similarly skeptical of human genetic services that claim to be able to track your origins to specific subregions, though I suppose they're constantly refining their data base.
Meanwhile, Ancestry.com keeps wanting me to sign up and find out what my last name means.
I'm pretty sure I know what my last name means, though my grandfather (b. 1894) told me that if the Danish ban on patronymics (1856) had come a generation later, we'd be Hansens.
I wouldn't need Ancestry.com to tell me what that meant, either.
And a follow to yesterday's Pajama Diaries shout-out: That was Stage One of a story arc, and I'm betting it will be a damn good one. Latch on now.
Meanwhile, in the real world
The firehose of potential cartoon inspiration continues, with Nick Anderson offering this view of our constitutional balance of powers and supporting and defending and all that.
Pat Bagley offers a grimmer view, invoking the death of Kitty Genovese, whose murder became a symbol of people refusing to care and was memorialized by Phil Ochs.
However, upon further review, it was determined that, contrary to popular myth, people did indeed care and did get involved and everything was just fine.
Except for Kitty, of course.
We'll similarly sort this one out in a few years, the final verdict largely depending on who wins the upcoming civil war.
Because, as Jack Ohman notes, there's very little that can be revealed sufficiently horrifying that it will cause defections from the Deplorable Army.
On a more comforting, if not comfortable, note, Ann Telnaes suggests that this can't go on forever.
Better drop the phone and start chewing that leg, buddy.
Ann is talented and her Trump/Russia slideshow is well worth clicking on, but, of course, she's no Jim Carrey.
Then again, William Butler Yeats was no Jimmy Stewart.
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