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‘Merkin ‘Ceptionalism – An Experiment In Democrazy ► Another Manifesto

If we learned anything from The Roman Empire it’s that great civilizations can destroy themselves. Welcome to Emperor Romulus’ Trump’s 2017, aka An Experiment in Democrazy.

Unless Bob Newhart or Pam Ewing dreamed the whole thing, tomorrow at noon an unprepared, inconceivable, unpresidented [sic] tweeting, lying, braying reality show host, and bankrupt businessman will take the oath of office for — I still can’t believe I have to type this — The President of the United States. That says everything about the current direction of ‘Merka in the 21st century.

She’s swirling the bowl, folks, and only a industrial Roto-Rooter is going to get this orange piece of shit to go down the pipes of Democracy. This is why treatment plants were invented.

My treatment? I’m only slightly less contemptuous of Emperor Trump voters than those who are still defending him and the media outlets trying to normalize his behaviour. [I’m not even including anyone on his payroll or nominations list, because they’re clearly not objective. They’re whores.] Next up for my righteous condemnation is everyone who stayed home on November 8th. Then my disdain encompasses every Stein and Bernie Bro’ voter, who refused to see the threat of Demagogue Donald. You are all culpable as we watch the country go down the drain. I’ve no sympathy for any of you.

I do, however, empathize with those who voted for Hillary Clinton or actively agitated against this monster.  They saw this coming and tried to save the world.

“Every nation gets the government it deserves” is most often attributed to Alexis de Tocqueville (1805-1859), but was first said by Joseph de Maistre (1753-1821), who had the good breeding to say it in French: Toute nation a le gouvernement qu’elle mérite. Yet, despite the fact that de Tocqueville plagiarized his countryman, he did originate the idea of American Exceptionalism, and he didn’t exactly mean it as a compliment.

Who else doesn’t believe in American Exceptionalism? Other than Stalin, I mean. Emperor Trump, that’s who! As MoJo‘s David Corn tells us:

In late April 2015, a month before Trump officially announced his candidacy, he spoke at an event called “Celebrating the American Dream” that was hosted in Houston by the Texas Patriots PAC, a local tea party outfit. The mogul sat in an oversized leather chair and fielded questions from Jim “Mattress Mack” McIngvale, a prominent local businessman. About an hour into the program, McIngvale posed Trump this query: “Define American exceptionalism. Does American exceptionalism still exist? And what do we do to grow American exceptionalism?”

Trump didn’t hesitate to shoot down the premise of the question, saying he didn’t “like the term.” He questioned whether the United States was “more exceptional” and “more outstanding” than other nations. He also said that those who refer to American exceptionalism were “insulting the world” and offending people in other countries, such as Russia, China, Germany, and Japan. It is “not a nice term,” he said, maintaining it was wrong to equate patriotism with a belief in American exceptionalism. He derided politicians who use the phrase.

Explaining his negative reaction to this idea long cherished and promoted by Republicans and Democrats, Trump said, “perhaps that’s because I don’t have a very big ego, and I don’t need terms like that.” Audience members laughed in response. Trump added, “I want to take everything back from the world that we’ve given them. We’ve given them so much.” He suggested that were he to become president, he would make the United States exceptional.

People wouldn’t even take him seriously back then. Yet, he was still elected.

Buckle up, Chicolinis. Here comes the “E” Ticket you paid for.

Lookit! I’ll admit that somewhere, in the dark recesses of my heart, I still choke up when I hear The Star Spangled Banner. Some patriotic displays will still make that muscle ache.  That’s where the Pledge of Allegiance can still be recited by heart. No matter what nationality I may have subsequently embraced, I am, after all, a born ‘Merkin. Naturally I received the usual indoctrination before I moved to Canada.

I suspect my feelings are not all that different from those of Leah Remini, who escaped Scientology to make a 10-part documentary exposing its secrets.

I had been brainwashed, just like in any cult. The childhood programming was powerful stuff, but 35 years in Canada (almost) completely obliterated it.  There I learned how blind ‘Merkins can be to their own foibles and colonialist misdeeds around the world and at home.

‘Merkin ‘Ceptionalism. Manifest Destiny.

One of the things I came to learn during my 3 and a half decades living outside ‘Merka is that elsewhere around the world all that jingoistic sloganeering and flag-waving was dismissed as manifestations of The Ugly ‘Merkin.

My country, right or wrong! Love it or leave it!

I returned to the States 11 years ago with a jaundiced eye toward the country that birthed me. My time here has not made me feel any better about this place. I’ve had people say the most incredibly racist things to me unsolicited. They — somehow — automatically believed I belonged to the same White Skin Club™ because we had a similar pigment.

Then President Obama was elected and it only got worse. Only in a racist country would the first Black president be blamed for all the racism that reared its ugly head after he was elected.

After 2008 the number of people who felt they could get away with using the word “nigger” in my presence increased, as did my arguments with these people because I’ve never allowed racism to pass unremarked. But, of course, it’s all Obama’s fault.

Who can dispute this truth? At her core, this country is racist. It’s baked into the Constitution, despite the all men are created equal bullshit they shoehorned in there. The Founding Fathers declared Black people only 3/5th of a person; created the 2nd Amendment’s “well regulated militias” to guard against slave revolts; and birthed the Electoral College, designed to keep the hands of The Great Unwashed — Black and White — off the levers of Democracy.

While slavery is Lady Liberty’s original sin, now Emperor Trump has made a lie of her venerated words carved right into her base:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

In TrumpWorld — ‘Merka’s new Bemusement Park — this translates to:

“When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you. They’re not sending you. They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”

And, assholes voted for him. Some, I assume, are good people. But, yannow what? Who cares? He admitted to grabbing women by the pussy and people still voted for him!! He lied over and over and people still voted for him!!!

Over the MLK memorial weekend he was Twitter-hating on Civil Rights icon John Lewis. He’s losing supprt by the day. At last count almost 70 Democratic lawmakers have said they plan to sit out the urineation [sic] because of the illegitimacy of his election, with Russian fingerprints all over it.

Speaking of Stalin and ‘Merkin ‘Ceptionalism, in the longer article “A Lesson For Trump From Stalin: Lies Work, Right Up Until The Point When They Don’t” (it’s well worth your time to read the whole thing) Slate‘s M. T. Anderson doesn’t mince words:

It’s important to remember this: A regime can work a population so that they don’t object to even the most bald-faced lie. There is no safety in numbers, even vast numbers, if no one speaks up. Before we fall into the fantasies of liberal dystopia, however, it’s worth pointing out that Stalin had at his disposal an absolutely captive nationalized press. All information in print had to be sanctioned by the Party, which accommodated the complete pulverization of the real. There was a hoary Soviet joke about the nation’s two big papers, Pravda (“Truth”) and Izvestiya (“News”): “There is no truth in News, and there’s no news in Truth.”

It’s vitally important that this is still not the case in our American situation—though at the same time, we should recall that Trump has threatened the suppression of the press. Insofar as he has a plan for accomplishing this, it’s apparently through restricting official access, even within press conferences themselves, and perhaps more potently, plunging the press into financially exhausting litigation. Of course, any attempt to curb the free press would meet with stiff constitutional opposition. On the other hand, a captive press was not necessary to convince thousands of American leftists in the 1930s to take Stalin at his word and resolutely ignore evidence of the purges taking place within the USSR; nor has a restricted press been necessary to convince Trump’s followers to ignore fact in favor of slapdash fiction. (Recently, for example, more than half of Republican voters told pollsters they believed he’d won the popular vote in a “massive landslide,” though he lost by nearly 3 million votes.)

Putin’s Russia, meanwhile, still has one of the most stifled and policed press cohorts in the world. Putin’s regime doesn’t merely use the noose of crony capitalism to purchase and strangulate opposition; there is a terrifyingly high fatality rate among Russian journalists, and it seems likely that many of the contract killings, mysterious blows to the head, and spontaneous tumbles out of closed windows that they die from can be traced back to the regime. Trump has defended his pal Putin on this count, as on so many others. When asked to condemn Putin’s likely involvement in the killing of journalists, Trump essentially shrugged it off. He replied glibly, “Our country does plenty of killing also.”

And now Emperor Trump — not to mention the GOP — is siding with Vladimir Putin over their own country, which is a total reversal of how the Reich Wing behaved over the last 75 years.

Toute nation a le gouvernement qu’elle
mérite is the new Experiment in Democrazy.

Read my previous Manifesto: Not My President — Not Even My Country.

Thank You, President Obama ► Throwback Thursday

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The Not Now Silly Newsroom wishes President Obama –and his lovely family — all the best as he prepares to take on the role of Citizen Obama tomorrow.

It’s our belief that Barack Obama will go down in history as one of the greatest presidents this country has ever produced. TO BE FAIR: That’s not how the Reich Wing portrays him. In fact, they consider him to be the worst POTUS ever, despite a list that includes William Henry Harrison, Andrew Jackson, George W. Bush, George H.W. Bush, Herbert Hoover, Calvin Coolidge, Millard Fillmore, and Richard Nixon, among other reprobates.

When you consider all the lies, insults, and obstreperousness President Obama has been subject to over the last 8 years, he has shown himself to be a man of calm and wisdom, with a great sense of humour. He needed it.

Compare and contrast his behaviour to that of Emperor Trump, whose skin is so thin, that you can see right through him to his soul, or lack thereof. Trump hate tweets whenever somebody hurts his feelings, proving himself to be a man smaller than his own hands.

President Obama was a breath of fresh air after the corrosive administration of George W. Bush, who led the country into a war against a country that did not attack it, while ignoring one that did.

Tomorrow we will hear a horse’s ass take the oath of office for the most powerful job in the world. The betting is on who he will attack during his speech, or whether he will pretend to be presidential — finally!!!

However, if you want to hear soaring oratory, here are the 2 inaugural speeches of Barack Obama.


Buckle up, Chicolinis.
We’re in for a bumpy ride.

Jazz At Carnegie Hall ► Monday Musical Appreciation

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Benny Goodman Carnagie Hall Jazz ConcertOn this day in 1938: Jazz officially entered the mainstream. That’s when The Benny Goodman Orchestra played for the swells at Carnegie Hall, one of the most prestigious venues in the entire country.

Goodman was a relatively young man at 29 when the famed Carnegie Hall concert took place. However, he was already a music veteran. At 11 he was playing clarinet in Chacago pit bands and when he was 14 Goodman quit school and joined the American Federation of Musicians for a lifetime in music. Just a few years later he was hired to play his licorice stick for Ben Pollack, moving to Los Angeles for the next four years. He left Pollack’s band to move across the country to New York, then considered the hub of entertainment with radio shows and recording studios.

Benny GoodmanHis official biography picks up the story:

Then, in 1933, Benny began to work with John Hammond, a jazz promoter who would later help to launch the recording careers of Billie Holiday and Count Basie, among many others. Hammond wanted Benny to record with drummer Gene Krupa and trombonist Jack Teagarden, and the result of this recording session was the onset of Benny’s national popularity. Later, in 1942, Benny would marry Alice Hammond Duckworth, John Hammond’s sister, and have two daughters: Rachel, who became a concert pianist, and Benji, who became a cellist.

Benny led his first band in 1934 and began a few-month stint at Billy Rose’s Music Hall, playing Fletcher Henderson’s arrangements along with band members Bunny Berigan, Gene Krupa and Jess Stacy. The music they played had its roots in the Southern jazz forms of ragtime and Dixieland, while its structure adhered more to arranged music than its more improvisational jazz counterparts. This gave it an accessibility that appealed to American audiences on a wide scale. America began to hear Benny ‘s band when he secured a weekly engagement for his band on NBC’s radio show “Let’s Dance,” which was taped with a live studio audience.


One of the most famous Benny Goodman numbers,
with a great arrangement by Fletcher Henderson

The Jazz Age, the name given to the era in which Swing became popular, was another of the generation gaps that seems to always pit the young versus the old over the issue of music. Adults were still shaking off the Victorian Era, while Jazz was shaking society from the foundation to the rafters.

Benny Goodman - Palomar BallroomJazz was considered a just a teenage fad until one fateful day…

The new swing music had the kids dancing when, on August 21, 1935, Benny’s band played the Palomar Ballroom in Los Angeles. The gig was sensational and marked the beginning of the years that Benny would reign as King: the Swing Era.

Teenagers and college students invented new dance steps to accompany the new music sensation. Benny’s band, along with many others, became hugely successful among listeners from many different backgrounds all over the country.

During this period Benny also became famous for being colorblind when it came to racial segregation and prejudice. Pianist Teddy Wilson, an African-American, first appeared in the Benny Goodman Trio at the Congress Hotel in 1935. Benny added Lionel Hampton, who would later form his own band, to his Benny Goodman Quartet the next year. While these groups were not the first bands to feature both white and black musicians, Benny’s national popularity helped to make racially mixed groups more accepted in the mainstream. Benny once said, “If a guy’s got it, let him give it. I’m selling music, not prejudice.”

By the time Benny Goodman played Carnegie Hall, he’d already been crowned The King of Swing by TIME Magazine.  There’s a lot more to Goodman’s story (and many good online sources). However, let’s just listen to the music from the day Jazz went mainstream at Carnegie Hall:


[APOLOGY: Sound quality varies]

Felix The Cat ► Saturday Morning Cartoons

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Forget Mickey Mouse. The earliest cartoon I can remember is Felix The Cat, which premiered on tee vee when I was just a year old.

However, Felix The Cat is a lot older than that. In fact, he’s one of the very first stars of the silver screen, going all the way back to the Silent Era in 1919. Among his mysterious beginnings is that way back then Felix went by the nom de mouse of Master Tom. Why? What was he trying to hide?:

Master Tom left behind his former life with a name change for his 3rd movie, “The Adventures of Felix.”

Another mystery: From which back alley did he come from. The WikiWackyWoo has that story:

Felix’s origins remain disputed. Australian cartoonist/film entrepreneur Pat Sullivan, owner of the Felix character, claimed during his lifetime to be its creator. American animator Otto Messmer, Sullivan’s lead animator, has also been credited as such.[3] What is certain is that Felix emerged from Sullivan’s studio, and cartoons featuring the character enjoyed success and popularity in the popular culture. Aside from the animated shorts, Felix starred in a comic strip (drawn by Sullivan, Messmer and later Joe Oriolo) beginning in 1923,[4] and his image soon adorned merchandise such as ceramics, toys and postcards. Several manufacturers made stuffed Felix toys. Jazz bands such as Paul Whiteman‘s played songs about him (1923’s “Felix Kept On Walking” and others).

By the late 1920s, with the arrival of sound cartoons, Felix’s success was fading. The new Disney shorts of Mickey Mouse made the silent offerings of Sullivan and Messmer, who were then unwilling to move to sound production, seem outdated. In 1929, Sullivan decided to make the transition and began distributing Felix sound cartoons through Copley Pictures. The sound Felix shorts proved to be a failure and the operation ended in 1932. Felix saw a brief three-cartoon resurrection in 1936 by the Van Beuren Studios.

Felix cartoons began airing on American TV in 1953. Joe Oriolo introduced a redesigned, “long-legged” Felix, added new characters, and gave Felix a “Magic Bag of Tricks” that could assume an infinite variety of shapes at Felix’s behest.

This is the Felix I remember from my childhood and this may have been the first song I knew by heart:

I loved the cartoons that featured Poindexter and The Master Cylinder.

Sadly, most of the Felix The Cat cartoons now found on the innertubes have these horrible wraparound segments. However, if you can last out that first 60 seconds, there’s still a classic Felix The Cat cartoon at the chewy center:

This year the big news from Tinsel Town was that all is forgiven and Felix The Cat — one of the very first balloons — would return to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Just enjoy:

Tim Horton ► Throwback Thursday

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Not celebrating his birthday today is Miles Gilbert “Tim” Horton, who died tragically in 1974.

My followers on the facebookery have seen me exclaim, “This is a sports story I can understand” (or the opposite). The day I realized how little I really cared about sports was while sitting in a Tim Horton’s Donut Shop on Trafalgar Road just north of Lakeshore (no longer there, like so much of my past) in Oakville, Ontario, in the early ’70s. I had only recently moved to Canada from Detroit and was enrolled at Sheridan College. Me and a few of my fellow students were hanging out at our local Timmy’s. There were far fewer of them back then.

I can’t remember exactly how it came up, but everyone at the table was shocked that I didn’t know that Tim Horton had a career outside of mediocre coffee and wonderfully delicious glazed donuts.

“BUT YOU’RE FROM ONE OF THE ORIGINAL 6!!!”

I didn’t know what that mean either. I learned that at one time there were only 6 hockey teams in the entire NFL. The Detroit Red Wings was one of them. My entire knowledge of hockey consisted of: 1). The local team was called The Red Wings for some obscure reason; they played at Olympia Arena, where I went to see rock shows in the ’60s; people threw octopuses onto the ice.

Horton was a hockey hero. He played for the Toronto Maple Leafs from the year of my birth (1952) to 1970. I learned far more about Tim Horton after he died in a spectacular car crash on the QEW, on February 21, 1974, not that far from where I was caught out for my ignorance. At the time of his accident he was into his 2nd season for the Buffalo Sabres, after bouncing from the New York Rangers and Pittsburgh Penguins.

Horton was returning from a game in Toronto when he was clocked at a high rate of speed by a police officer who had been alerted by a citizen. The officer lost him, he was going so fast, but came upon the crash scene soon afterward.

Horton’s tragic death stunned all Canadians. While there were rumours that Horton was drunk when he died, that had not been confirmed — in fact, denied — until 2005, when Glen McGregor (formerly of The Ottawa Citizen) obtained the autopsy report with a simple Freedom of Information request.

It took more than a year before I finally got the file sent to me via the Archives of Ontario. I wrote a story  based on the autopsy in 2005 (Citizen links expire after three months, so this will have to do).

To date, this remains the most interesting document I have ever received through the open-records law.

The detail is clinical and vivid — the description of what Horton was wearing, what was in his car, the grim catalogue of his massive injuries. The pictures show the wrecked Ford Pantera and the responding police officer’s diagram and notes explain how Horton was tossed from the car at high speed.

And, the autopsy reveals, not only was Horton quite drunk — twice the legal limit, the post-mortem blood alcohol test showed — but it also appears he had been taking an amphetamine. He was found with Dexamyl pills on his body.

Dexamyl combined dextroamphetamine with amobarbital, a barbiturate, to take the edge off. It was a popular party drug in the 60s (Andy Warhol popped them) that had also been marketed to harried housewives before it was sensibly outlawed.

Horton was likely taking these to stay competitive in the NHL. He was still playing at age 45 44 and probably felt he needed an edge to keep up with players 20 years younger.

Apparently Horton’s car had rolled several times in the crash. That’s why when, in 1976, Tim Hortons introduced Timbits, some people thought it was in very poor taste.

Years later, while living in Hamilton, Ontario, I spent far more time than was practical researching a freelance article for the Hamilton Spectator. For a couple of days I traveled across town to hang out at Tim Hortons #1 all day and all night. I wanted to absorb its atmosphere before I started writing the article I had already sold. In the final essay, as printed, very little of that immersive research made it into print as my editor changed the focus during the editing process.

TANGENTIALLY: I’m glad they did because I have always believed that collaboration with editors makes for better articles. One of the things I miss in the Not Now Silly Newsroom is having an editor I can kick stuff around with in order to give articles a better shape. Working with a perceptive editor had always been one of the joys of my freelance writing career.

At any rate, because I don’t thrown anything away, here is my final draft right before I turned it over to my Spec editor for a final massage, which included the headline. This became LEARNING TO LOVE THE HAMMER:

The Mighty Donut

I moved to Hamilton three years ago and only have the United States Army to blame. More about that later.

Prior to moving to Hamilton, like so many others before me, my only impressions of Hamilton were formed as I was flying over the Burlington Skyway Bridge on my way Elsewhere. The landscape, especially at night, looked like something out of Bladerunner. Flames shooting up to light the sky. All those smokestacks belting out non-stop pollution. All that industrial wasteland stretched below, spoiling what would have been a beautiful vista if not for the factories.

Before becoming a resident, I had only ever set foot in The Hammer on two previous occasions. Back in the ‘70s, the Ontario government invited me to put on my award-winning slide show at a conference on post-secondary education somewhere on King Street. My second Hamilton trip was to hang out backstage at a Pink Floyd concert at Ivor Wynne Stadium, apparently the last time the city allowed an outdoor concert there.

In neither case did I actually see any of the city I was visiting, only the small areas surrounding my final destination. I still couldn’t say I knew Hamilton.

Before my move to Steel Town, it had always been a place of derision. In fact, during my College Days in Oakville we had an off-colour joke we would tell about Hamilton. Maybe you know it. It’s the one that ends,”Quick as I could I drove her to Hamilton.”

From what little I had seen, and everything I had heard, Hamilton was not a place to which I would ever want to move. However, life’s a funny ol’ dog and is apt to play tricks on us. Who could have predicted that the American Military Complex would create the Internet, allowing uninterrupted communication in case a nuclear attack? Who knew that I would be a very early convert to cyberspace, spending much of my free time online?

So, there I am, minding my own business, and living my quiet life in Toronto. It’s a full life, too, consisting of a job, an ex-wife, growing children, and friends, not to mention a whole support system of neighbours and local merchants.

Then one fateful day, while in an Internet chat room, I found myself in conversation with a Hamilton woman, close to my own age. As we typed our short, staccato sentences back and forth, there appeared to be an attraction of ideas and personalities. Much to my surprise, she eventually asked me whether I would be willing to meet her for coffee.

Meet we did, only to discover the attraction was even more powerful in person than over cyberspace. It wasn’t long before I found myself moving lock, stock and record collection to Hamilton, Ontario after many years in a quiet, Polish neighbourhood in Toronto’s west end.

For me it was Culture Shock on a grand scale. For starters, in my initial explorations of my new hometown, all I was able to see were the boarded-up buildings in the core.  Toronto didn’t seem to have that problem. Retail space in Toronto never stayed empty for long.  Seeing all the plywood in Hamilton made me wonder what I had gotten myself into. It saddened me to see a downtown so economically depressed. Sadder still because I grew up in Detroit, where buildings that were shuttered when I left more than 30 years ago, are still empty or, worse, burned out hulks or simply torn down. I had to ask myself, “Had I moved to another Detroit?”

Transit was another one of those things that made me feel out-of-place. I don’t own a car and when I first arrived in Hamilton, I felt lost. Not that I couldn’t find my way around, although all the one-way streets made that difficult enough. I felt lost because the transit system certainly wasn’t anything like what I was used to in The Big Smoke. From my apartment near lower High Park, I could be downtown by streetcar in 20 minutes, 15 if the lights were kind. Uptown? Add another 5 minutes. In Hamilton, I seemed to wait at least that long for the bus to simply arrive.

Another transit anomaly that drove me crazy: In Hamilton no matter where I am, I have to go downtown to get home. I learned quickly that I had moved into a bus near-black hole. Buses come to this neighbourhood from downtown, and go from here to downtown, but, if I wish to go west – or return home from the west – first I have to go downtown. This is almost always in the opposite direction from where I really need to go. For the first time in my life the expression “You can’t get there from here” had real meaning.

Another thing that gave me trouble was finding a good magazine rack. In Toronto they are all good magazine racks. Even the smallest convenience store has shelves groaning with obscure publications. It took me a while to find that kind of selection in Hamilton. However, someone recommended Book Villa on King Street, which I now frequent. I have to use the dreaded bus system to get there, but at least it’s downtown, where the bus actually goes. [In an odd coincidence: I discovered just two days ago that Book Villa had been owned for 25 years by the parents of someone I have known for years – someone who I knew from Toronto who I never associated with Hamilton.]

One of the biggest challenges I had when I moved to Hamilton was finding the type of ethnic cuisine I liked — cheap, spicy hot and tasty. In Toronto, you can’t swing a chopstick without a hitting a restaurant fitting that description. It took a bit longer to find the type of eats I like than it did magazines, but once I discovered The Roti Hut on Main East, I felt as if this dream might be realized. Now that I can have a damn fine roti, I’m still sampling in my search for the best gyro in the city. Suggestions are welcome.

When I first moved here locals told me that I would have to see the sites before I could make an informed decision on Hamilton. The closest two sites to where I live – and those that I visited almost immediately – are Dundurn Castle and The Mountain, since I live off Dundurn almost halfway in-between.

I looked around Dundurn Castle and decided it was a beautiful mansion, but I simply didn’t get “castle.” Now Casa Loma is a castle!

Then I looked at The Mountain and pronounced it boring. It was pretty much the same suburbia one can see on the outskirts of any North American city. I always studiously avoided places like this when in Toronto, referring to its environs as Scarberia no matter where it actually might actually be located.

After my first few weeks of exploration, I decided that Hamilton had an inferiority complex masquerading as Delusions of Grandeur. Hamilton is a city that would make a castle out of a very big house and a mountain out of a molehill.

I’ll bet you dollars to donuts I’m not the first to have said that.

I have seen a few more of the local sights since I arrived: The Farmer’s Market, Cootes Paradise, Bayfront Park, Gage Park, Esterbrook’s, Dundas, and the RBG among them. However, none of that made me feel any more comfortable with my decision to move to Hamilton. It still felt wrong somehow and after 2 years here, I still felt like a stranger in a strange land.

During this time I had decided to kick-start my writing career. I had freelanced as a writer in Toronto for what seemed like a lifetime and spent 10 years in the CityPulse newsroom as a ventriloquist, putting the words in the mouths of the dummies. One day I made what seemed like a momentous decision: I would find something to write about and submit the article to the very newspaper you are now reading.

While looking for a suitable subject I discovered that the very first Tim Hortons donut shop was here and a light bulb went on. I had never been to that Temple of KREWLER Culture – a place where “dollars to donuts” is a meaningful phrase: Tim Hortons Store #1. I developed this conceit that I would make that pilgrimage, write an article, resume my freelance writing career and my fame would be ensured. Besides, donut shops are a great place for people-watching, which is one of my favourite pastimes.

It’s a funny thing about Tim Horton. I never knew who he was. People were amazed when I professed to not knowing about the hockey-playing Tim Horton. I’m certainly old enough and I did grow up in Detroit – one of the Original Six. However, I have never followed hockey (is this sacrilegious?), so the NHL right-shooting defenseman simply didn’t register on my radar. I thought he was merely some guy who started a successful chain of donut shops.

Ironically, I only first became aware of hockey’s Tim Horton at his end. His passing was big news when I lived in Oakville. When he died his name was on everyone’s lips and I didn’t know why. Soon, as is my want, I made a sardonic joke about Tim Bits. The looks that I received from my closest friends makes me realize I don’t dare repeat it in a town where he is revered.

To research my article, I spent 2 evenings at Tim Hortons Store Number One, which sits on a nondescript section of Ottawa Street, just north of Main, kitty-corner from the Canadian Cremation Services.

My first reaction was, to put it mildly, a disappointment. I had expected a time capsule, a Timmy’s that hadn’t changed since the ‘60s. What I received, however, was a Tim Hortons that looked like every other Tim Hortons. Had it not been for the huge plaque on the front and the special inlayed tile on the floor inside, I would have never known that this was original store. I later learned that in October 1999, after extensive renovations, it was reopened with grand ceremonies, which included MP Sheila Copps. One thing that I don’t understand is why they didn’t keep the name  “Tim Hortons Way,” which is what they renamed Ottawa Street temporarily.

Those two evenings at Timmys were a revelation to me.

I watched the customers. Mothers with their children. Old coots that smelled bad. Neighbourhood locals, who obviously came in daily to sit around and chat. A garage mechanic taking several coffees back to his coworkers.

I watch as the cashiers in a complicated dance, serving the customers and weaving in and out of each other’s way as they get donuts, pour coffees, take money in what looks like a complicated ballet. However, they never bumped into each other.

The Spectator never bought the article I sent, incidentally, telling me that had just printed a large feature story on the donut empire called Timmys and I was bringing nothing new to the table. However, the table brought something new to me. I sat at the same table those two nights at Tim Hortons Store #1 and as I watched, and took notes, I came to a better understanding of Hamilton.

People are pretty much the same everywhere, but the people in Hamilton are decidedly more working class than Toronto. The fashions aren’t quite as “houte.” Fingernails aren’t as clean. Hairdos aren’t “just so.” The buildings aren’t quite as tall. The streets aren’t as clean. The graffiti isn’t nearly as interesting. The nightlife isn’t as exciting. The selection of movies isn’t as great. The storefronts are not as glitzy.

That’s when I realized my mistake. I was comparing Hamilton to Toronto, only to find it wanting. However, once I stopped using Toronto as a yardstick I began to enjoy Hamilton in ways I had not previously.

I discovered that I liked the working-class mentality of the city and that people were down-to-earth, more honest, more open, and far more accepting. I found that I could look up into the night sky and see far more stars. I learned that a drive of less than 5 minutes would take me to the country. I marveled at the architecture of some of the older buildings that remain. I found that I loved being able to walk downtown in about 15 minutes and I even grew to tolerate the dreaded bus system.

In another ironic twist, I was recently hired by Hamilton Magazine to write the feature article for its Silver Anniversary issue. The thrust of the piece was to write about 25 things worth remembering and 25 things worth forgetting about Hamilton over the last 25 years. Although it seems an odd assignment to give a new Hamiltonian, I jumped into the research with alacrity, spending many hours at the Main Branch of the library, reading microfiche and rummaging through the scrapbooks in the Special Collections department.

I have to admit I was simply unaware of Hamilton’s rich history. I had no idea the Niagara Escarpment was created by the advance and recession of the Ice Age. I didn’t realize that skirmishes in the War of 1812 were fought along the shoreline. I had no idea there were vast and thriving native communities throughout the region long before Étienne Brûlé, thought to be the first European to see Hamilton, passed through. I was even unaware the Church of the Universe called Hamilton home.

Once I started taking Hamilton on its own terms, and certainly after all that research for my article, I knew I could never look at this city the same way again. And, I am glad because I wasn’t all that happy previously.

Now, after what seemed like a very long winter – with cabin fever rising by the day – I can’t wait for the warm weather so I can take long walks and continue to discover a Hamilton that is uniquely mine.

Headly Westerfield is a (Hamilton) free-lance writer who looks forward to exploring more of the interesting places in his new hometown. If he has said anything of offense about Hamilton, he asks that you remember where he’s originally from (Detroit) and pity him instead.

Roy Head ► Monday Musical Appreciation

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Monday Musical Appreciation - Roy HeadRoy Head — yes, that’s his real name — will always and forever be known as an entry on the list of One Hit Wonders, but what a musical hit!!!

“Treat Her Right” raced up the charts in the fall of 1965 due to its pulsating beat, driving horn riff, and a tune matched perfectly to a singing voice. However, Roy Head appears to be one of the worst lip-syncers in all of musical history and a terrible gymnast besides:

Despite the lack of subsequent hits, the Roy Head Wiki page is longer than some musicians’ pages that have far more chart toppers. It clocks on at 2195 words, not including Discography and reference links. However, it’s well worth reading to see how Head continued to reinvent himself and to adapt and change in order to continue his 60-year career in Show Biz. Here’s a highlight:

Monday Musical Appreciation - Roy Head

Head achieved fame as a member of a musical group out from San Marcos, Texas known as The Traits. The group’s sponsor landed their first recording contract in 1958 with TNT Music in San Antonio while they were still in high school. The Traits performed and recorded in the rockabilly, rock and roll and rhythm and blues musical styles from the late 1950s to the mid-1960s. Though landing several regional hits between 1959 and 1963 on both the TNT and Renner Record labels, Head is best known for the 1965 blue-eyed soul international hit, “Treat Her Right” released by Roy Head and the Traits. After going solo, Head landed several hits on the Country and Western charts between 1975 and 1985. During his career of some 50 years, he has performed in several different musical genres and used a somewhat confusing array of record labels, some too small to provide for national marketing and distribution. Roy Head and the Traits held reunions in 2001 and 2007 and were inducted into the Rockabilly Hall of Fame in 2007. One of the most gifted performers of his era, Head’s extraordinary dancing and acrobatic showmanship are legendary, often compared to the likes of Elvis Presley or James Brown.

CanCon Corner: Here’s Roy Head singing on the stage, and writhing on the floor, backed up by The Danny Marks Band at the Cadillac Lounge in Toronto 6 years ago.

 ROCK and ROLL is here to stay!!!

Rocky & Bullwinkle ► Saturday Morning Cartoons

The dirty little secret of The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show is that the animation was outsourced to Mexico.

Originally conceived as a cute little group of woodland animals that run a tee vee station [shades of SCTV?], by the time The Frostbite Falls Revue went on the air in 1959, it was called Rocky and His Friends. After the first 2 seasons it got the name The Bullwinkle Show. Then it became known as The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show and Friends.

Before it went on the air it needed a sponsor and cereal killer General Mills stepped up. It wanted the show to air in the afternoon to better target kids. Also, according to The Encyclopedia of Cartoon Superstars:

“In an effort to reduce costs, the advertising agency that had the General Mills account invested in an animation studio in Mexico,” recalled director Bill Hurtz. “Then they made a contract with Jay which agreed that we’d write the stories, direct them, design them, and assemble them, but that the animation was the backgrounds and inks would be done in Mexico… This was nothing that Jay was particularly fond of.”

Even though some of the Ward staff, including Hurtz, were periodically sent down to Mexico for quality control, problems arose. “We found out very quickly that we could not depend on Mexican studios to produce anything of quality,” remembered Bill Scott. “They were turning out the work very quickly and there were all kinds of mistakes and flaws and boo-boos… They would never check… Moustaches popped on and off Boris, Bullwinkle’s antlers would change, colors would change, costumes would disappear… By the time we finally saw it, it was on the air. It went directly from Mexico to airing… As a result, we tried to pull as much of the work as possible up North.” Reportedly, at one point to avoid customs problems, people would bring some of the completed episodes back across the border in their suitcases as home movies.

Whether that was why the writers bit the hand that fed them, but:

The second story that first season was “Box Top Robbery” which only lasted a dozen installments. The global economy is threatened by counterfeit cereal box tops. It was a satirical jab at General Mills and its cereals who were sponsoring the show.

One of the things kids loved about Rocky and Bullwinkle were the reoccurring gags that changed over time, so you were never sure what to expect. Such as:

The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show was about a lot more than a flying squirrel and dim-witted moose. There was also Fractured Fairy Tales:

Peabody’s Improbable History:

 Aesop and Son, which was so similar to Peabody’s Improbable History that it used the same opening theme music.

And, Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties:

But, it was Moose and Squirrel that held our interest.




Not My President – Not Even My Country ► A Manifesto

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There’s no way to sugarcoat this — not that I would want to — but ‘Merka has made itself the laughing stock of the entire world by electing former-reality tee vee personality and crooked businessman Donald J. Trump.

Mea culpa. I’m partially to blame. Aside from calling him a demagogue twice last year [Read: Donald Trump, Demagoguery, and The National Shrine of the Little Flower and Donald’s Demagoguery Dilemma], I treated the entire Trump candidacy as a joke, for the most part. So did far too many of us. No one took him seriously because he wasn’t a serious candidate.

No longer. He’s as serious as a heart attack. As serious as a KKK rally. As serious as an atom bomb.

Everything old is new again!!!

I’m serious. I am going to fight the Emperor Trump Regime with everything I have: WORDS! Let’s see what this First Amendment is really made of.

I’ve seen a lot of crazy political shit in my lifetime, from placid Ike, to the Cuban Missile Crisis, to Kennedy’s assassination. From a live televised murder to Four Dead in Ohio. From Nixon’s Paris Peace Talk Treason to his Watergate; from Trickle Down Reaganomics to all the revenue rising to the Top 1%. From a former-peanut farmer battling wild rabbits to the Iran-Contra Dealie, which flooded the inner cities with cocaine. From a semen stained dress to invading countries that never attacked ‘Merka. And, that’s just scratching the surface.

However, nothing you could name holds a candle to the unmitigated CRAZY that is Donald J. Trump…and every last one of those racists who voted for him.

I’m not prepared to make nice, nor will I. This is my angry manifesto against The Trump Era, which actually began when those Foxy Friends on the Curvy Couch at Fox “News” started taking Agent Orange’s phone calls. That was the beginning of the normalization of this fascist by treating him as a serious pundit at a time when he was pushing his Birther Bullshit™. There’s a lot of Trump blame to go around, but at the top of any list you’d like to make would be the Fox “News” Channel.

To recap:

Emperor Trump opened his campaign attacking Mexicans: “They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.” In anywhere other than Bizarro World, this would have ended a political campaign. But Cheetos Jesus was just getting started and ‘Merkins were just getting more stupid.

This draft dodger attacked war hero John McCain for getting captured. He mocked a reporter’s disability. He said Hillary Clinton got schlonged. Then he [Freud, where are you now that we need you?] laughingly couldn’t say she used the washroom because he found that natural body function disgusting. Still he hinted the only reason Megyn Kelly had asked him tough questions at a debate was because she was menstruating.

He was going to build a wall and Mexico would pay for it. Those living in the newly declared state of Xenophobia chanted BUILD THE WALL! BUILD THE WALL!! BUILD THE WALL!!!

He said he would ignore the Constitution by banning all Muslims from entering the country.

He called his opponent Crooked Hillary and all of Xenophobia chanted LOCK HER UP! LOCK HER UP!! LOCK HER UP!!!

He also had choice names for his spineless GOP opponents, who have all now sucked up to him to get a seat at the table: Little Marco; claimed Dr. Ben Carson, now his pick for HUD, had a pathological temper that could not be cured; said Carly Fiorina didn’t have a presidential face; and even attacked Rand Paul’s looks, even tho’ he’s a man.

He was slow to disavow the support of David Duke and the KKK. When he did so it was with a tepid “Stop it.” However, he has used his Twitter Toilet™ to eviscerate Saturday Night Live and Alec Baldwin over their comedic portrayal of him. Furthermore, he tweeted attacks at media outlets that report accurately about him.

He falsely claimed to have seen thousand of people in New Jersey cheering the destruction of the World Trade Center on 9/11; that he warned against the War in Iraq — despite recorded evidence to the contrary — and though the only proof he offered was a private conversation with sycophant Sean Hannity. To cheers he vowed to bring back the illegal tactic of waterboarding. Then he claimed to know more about ISIS than the generals.

He’s had nothing but praise for Russian President Vladimir Putin, even though (or maybe because) he’s suspected of leaking negative info about Clinton during the campaign.

Trump urged supporters to attack protestors — which they did — and offered to pay for their legal defense, which he didn’t. That was his first broken election promise. He also claimed — possibly correctly seeing as how things turned out — that he could shoot someone on 5th Avenue and wouldn’t lose a single vote.

Donald Trump told the vast viewing audience of a debate that he had a big dick. No. Really.

His non-thinking sheep cheered him on at every turn. Then they voted for him.

The system IS rigged, because Hillary Clinton received almost 3 million more votes than Emperor Trump. Just imagine how many more she would have recieved if not for the steady drip of Benghazi! Benghazi! Benghazi! Email! Email! Email! WikiLeaks! WikiLeaks! WikiLeaks!

Let’s face facts: Clinton wasn’t a perfect candidate, but is there anyone reading these words that truly thinks she’s not a better human being than Trump?

Make no mistake: This vote was essentially a giant middle finger to the establishment. People voted for this dumpster fire knowing all of the above. You can’t blame Emperor Trump for that. Whenever you flip someone the bird, it’s always done in a non-thinking, reflexive manner, even if you only did it in your head.

Zakly like what far too many ‘Merkins did in the election, ‘cept they didn’t just do it in their heads. They did it in the ballot box. They were not thinking, just acting reflexively to something they didn’t even understand. People were not even looking for the truth, because the truth was out there for anyone who wanted to look. The real Donald Trump (ironic, eh?) should have been well-known to everyone who entered the voting booth, but far too many chose to ignore it. Which is how we get this:

CAPSULE HEADLY HISTORY: I was born in Detroit, Michigan, in 1952, . That made me a ‘Merkin at birth. In 1971 I moved to Canada where I lived for 35 years, becoming a Canadian, having taken a test and then an oath to Queen Elizabeth. I returned to the States 11 years ago after the death of my mother (R.I.P.) to take care of Pops (R.I.P.). Just before I returned to ‘Merka, I promised family and friends that I would become a nationally known pundit under the nom de troll Aunty Em Ericann. And, I would have succeeded if it wasn’t for those meddling kids.

Here’s something with which I agree with wholeheartedly:

A STATEMENT BY FEMINIST SCHOLARS ON THE ELECTION OF DONALD TRUMP AS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

On Tuesday, November 8, 2016, a sizeable minority of the U.S. electorate chose to send billionaire Donald Trump, an avowed sexist and an unrepentant racist, who has spent nearly forty years antagonizing vulnerable people, to the White House. Spewing hatred at women, people of color, immigrants, Muslims, and those with disabilities is Trump’s most consistent, and well-documented form of public engagement. Trump bragged about sexually assaulting women because, as he quipped, his celebrity made it easy for him to do so. We can only assume that the hostile climate and anxiety about what is to come were contributing factors. The political shift we are witnessing, including the appointment of open bigots to the president-elect’s cabinet, reaffirms the structural disposability and systemic disregard for every person who is not white, male, straight, cisgender, able-bodied, and middle or upper class.

As a community of feminist scholars, activists and artists, we affirm that the time to act is now. We cannot endure four years of a Trump presidency without a plan. We must protect reproductive justice, fight for Black lives, defend the rights of LGBTQIA people, disrupt the displacement of indigenous people and the stealing of their resources, advocate and provide safe havens for the undocumented, stridently reject Islamophobia, and oppose the acceleration of neoliberal policies that divert resources to the top 1% and abandon those at the bottom of the economic hierarchy. We must also denounce militarization at home and abroad, and climate change denial that threatens to destroy the entire planet.

There’s more. Make sure you read the rest. Also read this:

At this point last year all thinking people knew Donald Trump was a 3-Ring Circus, good for nothing but laughs and the entertainment value. So, we continued to make fun of him. We pointed out every stupidly funny thing he said or did. We treated him like the joke he truly is. Who could have predicted that we should have stopped stopped making fun of him and taken The Orange Bowel seriously? Because people actually voted for this dumpster fire. Lots of people. Enough to make him the Emperor-elect. Enough to make ‘Merka the laughing stock of the entire world, ‘cepting Putin’s World, of course.

Trump is no longer a joke. He’s a nightmare. The Emperor elect. And, unless he’s impeached — and we get the even-worse Mike Pence — it’s a nightmare we won’t wake up from for the next 4 years, if ever. SAD!

This proud Canadian won’t be happy until I am thrown out of this crazy country for telling the truth about Trump.

2017 is the year of RESISTANCE!!!

The Not Now Silly Newsroom will
be on the front lines all the way.

Who’s with me?

CLEARLY PRESIDENTIAL MATERIAL:  230 Things Donald Trump Has Said and Done That Make Him Unfit to Be President • The 155 Craziest Things Trump Said This Election • 153 things Donald Trump has said and done that, in a normal election, would disqualify a nominee • Donald Trump quotes: The man behind the mouth • 2005 Video Shows Donald Trump Saying Lewd Things About Women • Donald Trump sexism tracker: Every offensive comment in one place • A running list of all the worst things Donald Trump has said about women. It’s long. • 51 things Donald Trump has said about women • These 49 quotes are all things Trump has actually said • 16 Real Things Trump Has Said About Women While Running For President • 32 worst things Donald Trump has ever said • 17 other things Trump said that didn’t stop Republicans from supporting him • Here Are 13 Examples Of Donald Trump Being Racist • The 11 worst things Donald Trump has said about women • Donald Trump quotes: The 10 scariest things the presumptive Republican nominee has ever said • 9 (More) Offensive Things Donald Trump Has Said About Latinos • The 7 craziest things Trump has said • And, ad infinitum…

 

The Weavers ► Monday Musical Appreciation

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Before and after

On this day in 1962 The Weavers — Ronnie Gilbert, Lee Hays, Fred Hellerman, and Pete Seeger — took a stand that almost ruined their careers.

You may not have heard of them, but there’s no denying their influence in ‘Merkin popular music. The Weavers were one of the most important groups of the ’50s and ’60s, despite being a mere Folk group that only lasted a few years. They subsequently influenced every folk who ever folked a Folk song.

According to This Day In History:

The importance of the Weavers to the folk revival of the late 1950s cannot be overstated. Without the group that Pete Seeger founded with Lee Hays in Greenwich Village in 1948, there would likely be no Bob Dylan, not to mention no Kingston Trio or Peter, Paul and Mary. The Weavers helped spark a tremendous resurgence in interest in American folk traditions and folk songs when they burst onto the popular scene with “Goodnight Irene,” a #1 record for 13 weeks in the summer and fall of 1950. The Weavers sold millions of copies of innocent, beautiful and utterly apolitical records like “Midnight Special” and “On Top of Old Smoky” that year.

The Weavers had grown out of an earlier Folk group, The Almanac Singers, which had been founded by Millard Lampell, Lee Hays, Pete Seeger, and Woody Guthrie in the early ’40s. The Almanac Singers were an overtly political group, as the WikiWackyWoo tells us:

As their name indicated, they specialized in topical songs, mostly songs advocating an anti-war, anti-racism and pro-union philosophy. They were part of the Popular Front, an alliance of liberals and leftists, including the Communist Party USA (whose slogan, under their leader Earl Browder, was “Communism is twentieth century Americanism”), who had vowed to put aside their differences in order to fight fascism and promote racial and religious inclusiveness and workers’ rights. The Almanac Singers felt strongly that songs could help achieve these goals.

However, the Red Scare and Entertainment Blacklists of the era put an end to their dream of influencing ‘Merka through song:

In 1942, Army intelligence and the FBI determined that the Almanacs and their former anti-draft message were still a seditious threat to recruitment and the morale of the war effort among blacks and youth.[17] and they were hounded by hostile reviews, exposure of their Communist ties and negative coverage in the New York press, like the headline “Commie Singers try to Infiltrate Radio”,[18] They disbanded in late 1942 or early 1943.

In 1945, after the end of the war, Millard Lampell went on to become a successful screenwriter, writing under a pseudonym while blacklisted. The other founding Almanac members Pete Seeger and Lee Hays became President and Executive Secretary, respectively, of People’s Songs, an organization with the goal of providing protest music to union activists, repeal of the Taft-Hartley Act, and electing Henry A. Wallace on the third, Progressive Party, ticket. People’s Songs disbanded in 1948, after the defeat of Wallace. Seeger and Hays, joined by two of Hays’ young friends, Ronnie Gilbert and Fred Hellerman, then began singing together again at fund-raising folk dances, with a repertoire geared to international folk music. The new singing group, appearing for a while in 1949 under the rubric, “The Nameless Quartet”, changed their name to The Weavers and went on to achieve great renown.[19]

However, the country would not let The Weavers free to be. Wiki has that, too.

During the Red Scare, however, Pete Seeger and Lee Hays were identified as Communist Party members by FBI informant Harvey Matusow (who later recanted) and ended up being called up to testify to the House Committee on Un-American Activities in 1955. Hays took the Fifth Amendment. Seeger refused to answer, however, claiming First Amendment grounds, the first to do so after the conviction of the Hollywood Ten in 1950. Seeger was found guilty of contempt and placed under restrictions by the court pending appeal, but in 1961 his conviction was overturned on technical grounds.[4] Because Seeger was among those listed in the entertainment industry blacklist publication, Red Channels, all of the Weavers were placed under FBI surveillance and not allowed to perform on television or radio during the McCarthy era. Decca Records terminated their recording contract and deleted their records from its catalog in 1953.[5] Their recordings were denied airplay, which curtailed their income from royalties. Right-wing and anti-Communist groups protested at their performances and harassed promoters. As a result, the group’s economic viability diminished rapidly and in 1952 it disbanded. After this, Pete Seeger continued his solo career, although as with all of them, he continued to suffer from the effects of blacklisting.

In December 1955, the group reunited to play a sold-out concert at Carnegie Hall. The concert was a huge success. A recording of the concert was issued by the independent Vanguard Records, and this led to their signing by that record label. By the late 1950s, folk music was surging in popularity and McCarthyism was fading. Yet the media industry of the time was so timid and conventional that it wasn’t until the height of the revolutionary ’60s that Seeger was able to end his blacklisting by appearing on a nationally distributed U.S. television show, The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, in 1968.[6]

By 1962, The Weavers had already broken up and reformed. On January 2nd, they were booked to play The Jack Parr Show, the precursor to the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. However, their appearance was cancelled by after they refused to sign a loyalty oath.

Here is a wonderful documentary on the life and times of The Weavers followed by a personal favourite:

Before Emperor Trump reestablishes Loyalty Oaths, let’s take a moment to remember The Weavers, who refused to kowtow to government interference, just like the Constitution teaches.

Welcome to the NEW! IMPROVED! Not Now Silly Newsroom

It’s been a long time coming, folks. For months behind the scenes, the entire Not Now Silly Newsroom team has been toiling to build this brand new website from the ground up.

After applying two coats of paint, we’ve removed all the tarps, and polished all the brass. It’s now ready for you. From here on in (or until Donald Trump destroys the world), the new Not Now Silly Newsroom will be open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to serve our faithful readers — and all the haters.

All the old NNS posts you’ve come to love have been ported over from the old site and, although some of the previous formatting has been lost, every precious word has been retained. While our entire IT team has developed a navigation system that makes it easier to find your favourite category of NNS articles, the NEW! IMPROVED! NNS Newsroom includes everything you’ve come to rely upon: Investigative journalism, Pastoral Letters, Insightful articles on Race Relations, Musical Appreciations, Fox “News” snark, and a whole host of other tomfoolery as the needs arise.

FULL DISCLOSURE: We make no bones about it: The main reason to go to our own dot com domain is to better monetize the site. While there have always been adverts at NNS, so far the site has only earned a grand total of $180.38, or almost 20 cents per post. That’s not a very good return on my time investment. Some of those 923 previous posts took hours and hours to write and edit, while some came together fairly quickly. However, I’m hardly making a killing from my words. My profession, that I spent a lifetime perfecting, has been totally devalued now that everyone on the innertubes think they are a writer. It’s time to up my game. However, the one thing I can’t do is ask people to click on the adverts. So, I won’t.

To help in our professed goal of monetization, we’ve also also building a Not Now Silly Store [NNSS] as an annex to the site. There we will be featuring all kinds of items for your perusal and purchase. We’ve been lining up some exciting product and vendors, something we’ll be announcing in the coming weeks. Not to be too blunt, but we sincerely hope that by this time next year you will have done all your holiday shopping at the Not Now Silly Store. Even more exciting is the fact that we are offering a special consignment deal to our faithful readers. If you have something you wish to vend, consider the Not Now Silly Consignment Store with better rates than a brink and mortar store could offer.

Sadly, as we abandon the old site, all of our stats will once again be reset to zero.

With our all time best month highlighted

That’s why it’s worth reviewing some of the statistics we’ve wracked up since our first post on April 19, 2012. At the time of this writing we’ve had 496,813 visitors, closing in on half a million.

Our biggest month was January 2015 with 17,934 readers, but this past month (December 2016) we are coming close to that record with 16,489 people washing up on these shores from all over the world. Naturally the bulk of our visitors have come from the United States (316,857). However, it appears as if Vladimir Putin has also taken an interest in Not Now Silly because #2 on the visitor’s list is Russia, with 23,857 spies peeking in. Rounding out the rest of the visitors list is Canada (17,695), Germany (17,592), France (14,331), United Kingdom (8258), Ukraine (5393), Italy (4017), Ireland (3934) and Malaysia (3295).

Malaysia? Really?

Of those people who arrived having used a search engine, these are the Top Ten search terms:

10). Frank Zappa;
9). Three Stooges;
8). Bonzo Dog Band;
7). James Rosen;
6). Alan Turing;
5). Beatles Let It Be;
4). Detroit;
3). 3 Stooges;
2). Josephine Baker;
and the Number 1 search term: Brian Jones.

Which just goes to show ya how important The Three Stooges and the Not Now Silly Newsroom is for our modern day society.