Guest lecturer

BEFORE WE introduce today’s guest lecturer, the Unseen Moon’s first, let me preface with a few words.

I oppose the phenomenon of political correctness — a somewhat cute term for a cultural cancer — and everything connected to it. Its source is the political left, and its party in the United States is the Democratic. Barry’s people.

And Hillary’s and Bernie’s people too.

I don’t write about it much anymore because I view its opposition as an exercise in futility. Its damage is done. America and Europe are spiraling down. The crash into the mountainside is imminent. Brace yourself.

But I happened upon the following column that focuses on one element of the cancer, that of renaming things, which smells of Stalin’s having opponents airbrushed from photographs.

After he’s murdered them.

And I liked the column. I want to share.

Changing history is a longtime tool of tyrants. What’s going on now is not changing history so much as it’s altering how we should view it, nearly as bad. It is elevating ignorance.

With no further ado, let’s give a big Moon welcome to Bill O’Reilly who needs no introduction.

Know that armed guards wait in the lobby to show the exit door to any of you who try to shout him down.

This is not Yale or Mizzou.

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bill“As you may know, some students at Princeton University are requesting – demanding! – that Woodrow Wilson’s name be obliterated from campus buildings.

Not only did Wilson graduate from Princeton, he was president of the school, governor of New Jersey and an impeccably ‘progressive’ president of the United States. So what’s the beef?

Well, our 28th president was a dyed-in-the-wool racist who re-segregated the federal bureaucracy.

His retrograde racial views have long been known to anyone who has taken the time to read about Wilson, and this latest campus dustup raises a question:

Why stop with Woodrow Wilson?

The town of Princeton and the university itself are named after William III, Prince of Orange, whose family was deeply involved in the slave trade. Princeton has streets and buildings honoring native son Paul Robeson, the singer, athlete, actor, and unapologetic Stalinist.

Robeson, undeniably a remarkable and talented man, clung to his affection for communism and the USSR even after being told that the Soviets were persecuting Jews. Perhaps his name should be vanished, Soviet-style, from the town square.

To the north in Connecticut, Wesleyan University got its name from John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Church.

A couple of centuries before San Bernardino, Paris, ISIS, and all the other Islamic-related mayhem, Wesley described Muslims as ‘destroyers of human kind.’ So shouldn’t the trustees consider re-naming their ultra-liberal university?

Not to be outdone, Winston Churchill, whose name adorns numerous American schools, wrote that ‘no stronger retrograde force exists in the world’ than Islam.

And let’s not overlook President John Quincy Adams, who warned that the Koran advises ‘perpetual war’ against infidels. Yes, JQA was an Islamophobe, but don’t mention it to the good folks of Quincy, Massachusetts.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a saint in the church of liberalism, had some serious issues with homosexuality. As secretary of the navy, FDR went on a crusade to find and weed out ‘sexual perversion’ in the Navy.

The Great Emancipator Abraham Lincoln opined that the white race must always retain ‘the superior position.’

Think of all those ‘Lincoln Elementary Schools’ and “Roosevelt High Schools’ across the USA and the big payday in store for stone masons.

In West Virginia, pretty much everything not nailed down is named after long-serving Democratic Senator Robert Byrd, whose career included a stint as Exalted Cyclops in the local Ku Klux Klan chapter. If there are calls to have his name sandblasted from all those edifices, we have not heard them.

Most towns, probably yours included, have streets named after slaveholders Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. Yes, a stroll on Madison Avenue in New York City may require a ‘trigger warning’ for some of today’s more delicate college students.

The point of all this is not to say that everything should be renamed, but rather that nothing should be renamed. Unless, that is, some horrible new disclosure comes to light.

Anyone with a pulse and curiosity could have known that Woodrow Wilson was a stone-cold racist, that Honest Abe honestly felt blacks were lesser beings, and that Churchill loathed Islam.

These were men of their times expressing views that were common then, but which we now consider repugnant. They should be judged by the standards of the eras in which they lived, not by our notions of what is acceptable.

Demonizing FDR for his views of homosexuality makes as much sense as criticizing his fondness for cigarettes.

However, if we suddenly discover that Wilson was, say, a pedophile, or that Lincoln was a serial killer in his spare time, a re-examination will be in order.

Short of that, how about we just leave things the way they are? Sorry to all you bricklayers out there.

As an aside, back in 1964 Shirley Ellis had a runaway hit with ‘The Name Game.’ If you’re of a certain age, you can still recite her unique lyrics — ‘Lincoln, Lincoln, bo Bincoln, Bonanana fanna fo Fincoln.’ It was a light song infused with fun and joy.

But today’s Name Game is one of bitterness, usually played by left-wingers who revel in feeling ‘oppressed.’ And if they really want to start down the slippery slope of erasing past leaders from public streets and buildings, why not go all the way?

Out with Washington and Lincoln and Roosevelt, down with Churchill and Wilson and Madison. Let the re-naming begin!”

Newspaper days: San Juan

san juan

A PACK OF mangy dogs always loitered about the front door because a kind-hearted employee threw them scraps of food every day.

That front door took you into the lobby of The San Juan Star where I worked in the early 1970s. The newspaper in that time was like the French Foreign Legion of the newspaper trade, and it was really fun, the only journalism job I ever actually enjoyed.

The small newsroom was up a flight of stairs. It was nothing like the monster newsrooms of Houston and New Orleans, places where I also toiled both before and after San Juan. The Star newsroom was kind of cozy, and the people were very nice.

I worked, as always everywhere, on the copydesk, and my boss at the Star was a handsome coal-black news editor named Teddy who was from the island of St. Kitts. Teddy spoke with a lilting Caribbean accent, and he started out being very suspicious of me since I had arrived from Louisiana, and Teddy knew all Southerners were Klansmen who hang black men from trees.

He’d never been in the United States, and much of the news staff were New Yorkers.

But after a couple of weeks, Teddy realized I did not fit his stereotype, and we got along just great.

Handsome Teddy was a bachelor and a womanizer. He was particularly smitten with the Lifestyle editor, a tall, good-looking black woman with big boobs and behind who sashayed regularly through the newsroom on high heels, leaving Teddy with his eyes open wide and a silly grin on his face.

She was married, but I doubt Teddy cared much about that.

The composing room was just off the newsroom, and they played music there which often seeped out into our space. My favorite was Eres Tu by Mocedades. I still love it.

A pack of proofreaders sat in another adjoining room. Though they spoke little or no English, they were employed to correct errors in the English copy proofs. Made no sense whatsoever.

They were unionized.

The cafeteria downstairs that served lunches and dinners also sold beer, which we could buy to sip at the copydesk while working. Even in New Orleans, the booze capital of the world, the newspaper did not offer that perk, something I only did once in San Juan because it wasn’t smart.

Stepping out the front door, down to the right and just around the corner, you’d find a small establishment where you could sit at an eatery bar in dim light to sip black Cuban coffee almost the consistency of good, watery mud. It was tasty.

The San Juan Star was located in an industrial area off the John F. Kennedy Highway nowhere near downtown where I lived, so I traveled, standing, in a sweltering, jam-packed city bus to work every afternoon and bummed a ride back to Old San Juan at midnight with a coworker, or I took a taxi.

That was the routine on my second stint in Puerto Rico. During my first, briefer, stay, I rode a black BSA motorcycle shipped down from New Orleans in the hold of a Sealand freighter.

There were two midnight options. I could drink in a bar, or I could drink at home. At home, a black-haired, freckle-faced Argentine was waiting for me, so that was the more common destination. I had skin in that game. Home was a small penthouse apartment overlooking the sea.

mdI never got a haircut in Puerto Rico. I only cut my hair once, and I did it in St. Thomas in the nearby U.S. Virgin Islands where I flew on a couple of occasions as a passenger in a Goose seaplane. Mostly, however, I stayed pretty hairy. It was the 1970s.

I doubt The San Juan Star was ever much of a money-maker. It was owned by Scripps Howard, and it had won a Pulitzer. It was the sole English newspaper in Puerto Rico, catering to the American community and, of course, tourists. Union activity was a constant problem that finally ran the publication into the ground in 2008, long after I had departed. Such a shame.

It was reinvented the following year by different owners as the San Juan Daily Star. I don’t know where it’s located now, and I doubt that a pack of homeless dogs sprawls at the front door or that beer is served in the cafeteria. And God knows where Teddy is.

A tip on race

AMERICA IS FIXATED on race, a “problem” that will never, ever be solved due to people being what they are. The race fixation has ballooned since Barry, Michelle, Eric and Valerie came to town.

Coincidence? Course not. tipping2

A story this week caught my attention because it touches on something I know about personally: black people and tipping. I know about this because I used to be a taxi driver in New Orleans, a city populated primarily by black people. At least it was before Katrina. It’s less so now, I have read.

It seems that lots were blown all the way to Baton Rouge and even Houston where they put down roots and never headed back to Basin Street. But let’s not digress.

The news story is that the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Charlotte, N.C., added a 15% “surcharge” to customers at the lobby bar during a conference of the Central Intercollegiate Athletic Association, an organization of almost entirely black educational institutions.

In plain English, the hotel added a 15 percent tip to the bar tabs during a convention of black people.

Oh, dear! Just one step short of burning crosses and pointy, white hoods.

But here, as Paul Harvey famously phrased it, is the rest of the story. And there are two elements.

No. 1 is that many restaurants and bars add an automatic tip for large groups, no matter their skin tone. This is done because waiters tend to get stiffed by large groups. It’s a fact.

No. 2 is that blacks are lousy tippers. Cabbies know this from experience, and it is why a black person hailing a taxi, no matter how elegantly attired, will almost always be passed by if a white person down the block is hailing one too. It is not because cabbies dislike blacks per se. It is because tips make up a huge part of their income, and they ain’t stupid. You head for the cash.

When I was a cabbie, I quickly learned to dodge black customers. I was in it for the money, not racial justice.

As for the Ritz-Carlton, I’m betting they routinely do this during conventions which are, by definition, large groups of people. White customers see no racial element, raise no stink, and there are no news stories. Black people almost always see a racial element, and they have grown quite fond of raising stinks.

And there you have it — the rest of the story.

The gay mafia

LEFT-WING television pundit Bill Maher has criticized what he dubs the “gay mafia.”

He was, of course, referring to those who “take offense” at most anything while crouching behind the protective walls of their constant-victim status. Staying with the mafia theme a moment, there is also, of course, a black mafia, a Latino mafia, a feminist mafia and some lesser-known mafias too. All suffer mightily.

Fear them because you could lose your livelihood with an unwise word.

There is also a white mafia. It’s called the Ku Klux Klan, but nobody pays them much attention anymore because of white privilege. You can say whatever you want about them.

543446fed35b7fd43d433af0c2faa1adAnd there’s always the real Mafia, the greasy-coifed guys called Big Palooka and Little Jimmy. That was the mafia you wanted to steer clear of — back in the old days — before collectivists and their shrill political-correctness malarky greatly expanded the pool of mafias and their tactics.

So what floats this topic to the top of the pool today? An incident at a military, full-dress, formal ball in New York in which a couple of lesbian Army officers decided it would be great to French-kiss and play grab-ass and then get “offended” when someone asked them to knock it off. Details are here.

The officer who intervened, due to people taking photos and videos he rightly worried might end up on Facebook and Twitter, is now on the verge of being booted out of the military for insensitivity. Yes, him, not the lesbian smootchers and grab-assers at a formal military ball. They remain off limits, touched by God and holy.

He is a lieutenant colonel and decorated combat pilot. But those qualifications count for naught up against “offended” lesbians. This is the American world in which you live. Weep.

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(Note: This viciously run, unjust, new world is brought to you exclusively by those who favor the NDP — the New Democratic Party. Ironically, Maher, who seems to be growing a bit brighter with age, this week blamed the recent NDP drubbing in the midterms in part on the NDP’s getting “lost in the weeds of political correctness.”)