The Thrill Of Giving

Patrons are reminded that this rickety barge is kept afloat by the kindness of strangers. If you’d like to help it remain buoyant for a while longer, there’s an orange button below with which to monetise any love. Debit and credit cards are accepted. For those wishing to express their love regularly, there’s a monthly subscription option top left. And if one-click haste is called for, my new PalPay.Me page can be found here. Additionally, any Amazon shopping done via this link or the search widget top right, or for Amazon US via this link, results in a small fee for your host at no extra cost to you.

For newcomers wishing to know more about what’s been going on here for the last decade or so, and in over 2,000 posts and 70,000 comments, the reheated series is a pretty good place to start. There you’ll find odysseys in consciousness-raising by fearless taxpayer-funded artists; several displays of the true warmth and compassion of Guardian readers; the bewildering mental contortions of leftwing academics; and quite a few things like this. 

If you can, do take a moment to poke through the discussion threads too. The posts are intended as starting points, not full stops, and the comments are where much of the good stuff is waiting to be found. And do please join in.

Again, thanks for the support, the comments, and the company. 

Comments

[Liz]

Did it ping? :-)

[A]

Thanks for some good reads, David. Tip jar hit.

[David]

Did it ping?

It did indeed, madam. Thanks very much.

[John D]

odysseys in consciousness-raising by fearless taxpayer-funded artists

Still one of my favourites.

[John D]

Also, tipped.

[David]

Still one of my favourites.

Yes, it’s a feast of all that’s glorious and eternal about publicly-funded contemporary art. For me, the high point was Ms Rowledge’s ‘automated’ drawings, which entailed suspending a felt-tip pen from the underside of a chair, such that it dragged aimlessly across the paper underneath. And which was described, by the artist, as “REALLY exciting.”

Above, Ms Rowledge’s feat of staggering creativity.

[Rafi]

Tipped.

[Tim Newman]

Well, we'd not want you to go barefoot and hungry, would we?

[David]

May your earbud cables never tangle, even after being stuffed in a pocket and jiggled about at length.

[Clam]

odysseys in consciousness-raising by fearless taxpayer-funded artists

I was laughing and angry at the same time.

*hits tip jar*

[Jed]

I've hit the tip jar so do I get a pickled egg?

[Triumphant Ape]

Get a Bitcoin wallet as well.

[H]

Enough for a decent red, I hope.

I'll pass on the pickled eggs.

[Jacob]

Thanks, David. Pinged.

[Min]

“25 percent of respondents thought that Elizabeth Warren was the Secretary of Education, part of a larger group of respondents (63 percent) who did not know the Education Secretary was Betsy DeVos.”

https://pjmedia.com/instapundit/277862/

[David]

I was laughing and angry at the same time.

I suspect that happens quite a lot round here.

do I get a pickled egg?

Help yourself. Don’t worry, I’ve advised the local hospital to have a team on stand-by.

[David]

And thanks to all who’ve chipped in so far, or subscribed, or done shopping via the Amazon links. It’s what keeps this place here and is much appreciated.

[Sporkatus]

May your earbud cables never tangle, even after being stuffed in a pocket and jiggled about at length.

I really hope you're compiling your modern poetic blessings somewhere, old man. Even if only a text file. They're the sort of thing that would be useful to draw on in some situations, if helpfully assembled in a list. Wilde-ish.

[Sporkatus]

part of a larger group of respondents (63 percent) who did not know the Education Secretary was Betsy DeVos.

This may go some lengths to justify what we on the right tend to point out - that the department that didn't exist before the '70s is not per force required to exist. Tragic thing to have to use as an example, though. Educational establishment itself neither educated, nor accountable, nor even generally aware...

[pst314]

"For me, the high point was Ms Rowledge’s ‘automated’ drawings..."

Where is Lord Vetinari when we need him?

[bgates]

@Sporkatus it was the work of but a moment for the machine, given site:davidthompson.typepad.com "may your", to return:

* May your sock drawer remain organised even in times of crisis.
* May your smalls retain their shape after many, many washes.
* May your towels never be darkened by unwanted houseguests.
* May your toilet roll remain dry even after your other half has had a suspiciously long and thorough shower.
* May your towels remain orderly even in times of crisis.
* May your sandals remain fragrant on the hottest of days.
* May your socks never be mispaired, however hastily they've been thrown in a drawer.
* May your fridge remain fragrant despite the most potent of cheeses.
* May your towels never lose their fluffiness, even after many washes.
* May your towels remain fragrant after even the lengthiest spell in storage.
* May your bathroom tissue never lose its structural integrity at an inopportune moment.
* May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.

[PiperPaul]

I couldn't find a foul blessings thing but did find the Elizabethan Curse Generator:

https://trevorstone.org/curse/

and a random curse generator:

http://www.yaldex.com/FSGames/Curse.htm

[Connor]

several displays of the true warmth and compassion of Guardian readers

The Guardian thread you link... wow.

[David]

The Guardian thread you link... wow.

It’s one of those subjects that reveals quite a lot about leftist psychology. Apparently, if someone is prepared to spend extra money on her child’s education, while also paying via taxes for the state system she doesn’t use, this is an act of wickedness, “damaging to society,” and is an admission of racism. (Paying twice, for her own child and for others, apparently makes her “selfish” – a word that crops up at least a dozen times.) Instead, we should all want our children to make do with whatever the state offers, even if this diminishes their opportunities and entails hazards like this.

As I said at the time, it’s a strange moral calculus, but very Guardian-esque.

[David]

See also this.

[Hal]

I really hope you're compiling your modern poetic blessings somewhere, old man. Even if only a text file. They're the sort of thing that would be useful to draw on in some situations, if helpfully assembled in a list. Wilde-ish.

Fortune Ish.

[Hal]

Where is Lord Vetinari when we need him?

. . . . . . . Siiiiiiiggggggghhhhhhh.

As well as Vimes, both Sam and Sybil, and von Lipwig . . . And the Librarian.

Where’s my daddy?
Is that my daddy?
He goes “Bugrit! Millennium hand and shrimp!”
He is Foul Ol’ Ron!
No, that’s not my daddy!

[Hal]

it was the work of but a moment for the machine,

Um . . . very vague memory states a much longer list.

Such as . . .
May you never be short of deodorant.
May your towels stay fragrant when houseguests descend.
May you always find your roasting tin spotless and ready for use.

---that, too, was Googlemancy, but noting to search for "May you" . . .

[Clovis Sangrail]

I hit the tip jar.
Thanks for all the goodness.

[Em]

*kerching*

[David]

I’m not entirely sure what’s happening here.

[Sam]

*ping*

[R. Sherman]

Dropped something in the tip jar, despite the lack of decent snacks and the Henchlesbian floor show we keep being promised.

[David]

Dropped something in the tip jar,

May you never be mocked on laundry day by that defiant single sock, somehow overlooked until it was five seconds too late.

despite the lack of decent snacks and the Henchlesbian floor show we keep being promised

It’s Tuesday afternoon, so I’m afraid the ladies - Melody, Harmony, Chastity and Grace – are all down the gun range honing their skills. Then it’s a quick shower and they’re off via stealth jet to a country I can’t name, to do things I can’t talk about, but which may or may not involve undercover insertion, some missing plutonium, and the inexplicable disappearance of a certain head of state.

But I’ve said too much.

[Daniel Ream]

and von Lipwig

I'm not sure why so many people don't notice that the Moist von Lipwig books are barely thinly veiled apologetics for massive state control of the economy.

[R. Sherman]

But I’ve said too much.

Well, sure. That settles everything then. I assume they're seconded to the 2e REP for a a drop into Kolwezi or something.

I'll keep drumming my fingers on the bar in the meantime.

[David]

[ Slides jar of pickled eggs closer. ]

[Andrew]

Love has been monetized.

[PL]

Spent an hour getting lost in the links and comments. Time well spent. :-)

Your tip jar has been hit.

[Hal]

I'm not sure why so many people don't notice that the Moist von Lipwig books are barely thinly veiled apologetics for massive state control of the economy.

Oh, prolly 'cause they've read the books, and can assess for themselves instead of being told to think of barely thinly veiled apologetics . . . .

Let's have a look at Making Money, quite highly recommended, 'cause Discworld.

*********************************************************************

“But I’ll tell you what I’ll do; if you open an account here today for, oh, five dollars, we’ll give you a free dollar on Monday. A free dollar to take away, ladies and gentlemen, and where are you going to get a better deal than—”

“A real dollar, pray, or one of these fakes?”

There was a commotion near the door, and Pucci Lavish swept in. Or, at least, tried to sweep. But a good sweep needs planning, and probably a rehearsal. You shouldn’t just go for it and hope. All you get is a lot of shoving.

The two heavies, there to clear a path through the press of people, got defeated by sheer numbers, which meant that the rather slimmer young men leading her exquisitely bred blond hounds got stuck behind them. Pucci had to shoulder her way through. It could have been so good, Moist felt. It had all the right ingredients, the black-clad bruisers so menacing, the dogs so sleek and blond. But Pucci herself had been blessed with beady, suspicious little eyes and a generous upper lip which combined to the long neck to put the honest observer in mind of a duck who’d just been offended by a passing trout.

Someone should have told her that black was not her color, that the expensive fur could have looked better on its original owners, that if you were going to wear high heels then this week’s fashion tip was “Don’t Wear Sunglasses At The Same Time,” because when you walked out of the bright sunlight into the relative gloom of, say, a bank, you would lose all sense of direction and impale the foot of one of your own bodyguards. Someone should have told her, in fact, that true style comes from innate cunning and mendacity. You can’t buy it.

“Miss Pucci Lavish, ladies and gentlemen!” said Moist, starting to clap as Pucci whipped her sunglasses off and advanced on the counter with murder in her eye. “One of the directors who will join us all in making money.”

There was some clapping from the crowd, most of whom had never seen Pucci before but wanted the free show.

“I say! Listen to me! Everyone listen to me,” she commanded. She waved what seemed to Moist to look very much like his experimental dollar bills. “This is just worthless paper! This is what he will be giving you!”

“No, it’s the same as an open check or a banker’s draft,” said Moist.

“Really? We shall see! I say! Good people of Ankh-Morpork! Do any of you think this piece of paper could be worth a dollar? Would anyone give me a dollar for it?” Pucci waved the paper dismissively.

“Dunno. What is it?” said someone, and there was a buzz from the crowd.

“An experimental bank note,” said Moist, over the growing hubbub. “Just to try out the idea.”

“How many of them are there, then?” said the inquiring man.

“About twelve,” said Moist.

The man turned to Pucci. “I’ll give you five dollars for it, how about that?”

“Five? It says it’s worth one!” said Pucci, aghast.

“Yeah, right. Five dollars, miss.”

“Why? Are you insane?”

“I’m as sane as the next man, thank you, young lady!”

“Seven dollars here!” said the next man, raising a hand.

“This is madness!” wailed Pucci.

“Mad?” said the next man. He pointed a finger at Moist. “If I’d bought a pocketful of the black penny stamps when that feller brought them out last year, I’d be a rich man!”

“Anyone remember the Triangular Blue?” said another bidder. “Fifty pence it cost. I put one on a letter to my aunt; by the time it got there it was worth fifty dollars! And the ol’ baggage wouldn’t give it back!”

“It’s worth a hundred and sixty now,” said someone behind him. “Auctioned at Dave’s Stamp and Pin Emporium last week. Ten dollars is my bid, miss!”

“Fifteen here!”

Moist had a good view from the stairs. A small consortium had formed at the back of the hall, working on the basis that it was better to have small shares than none at all.

Stamp collecting! It had started on day one, and then ballooned like some huge...thing, running on strange, mad rules. Was there any other field where flaws made things worth more? Would you buy a suit just because one arm was shorter than the other? Or because a bit of spare cloth was still attached? Of course, when Moist had spotted this, he’d put in flaws on purpose, as a matter of public entertainment, but he certainly hadn’t planned for Lord Vetinari’s head to appear upside down just once on every sheet of Blues. One of the printers had been about to destroy them when Moist brought him down with a flying tackle.

The whole business was unreal, and unreal was Moist’s world. Back when he’d been a naughty boy he’d sold dreams, and the big seller in that world was the one where you got very rich by a stroke of luck. He’d sold glass as diamonds because greed clouded men’s eyes. Sensible, upright people, who worked hard every day, nevertheless believed, against all experience, in money for nothing. But the stamp collectors...they believed in small perfections. It was possible to get one small part of the world right. And even if you couldn’t get it right, you at least knew what was missing. It might be, f’rinstance, the flawed 50p Triangular Blue, but there were still six of them out there, and who knew what piece of luck might attend the dedicated searcher?

Rather a lot of luck would be needed, Moist had to admit, because four of them were safely tucked away for a rainy day in a little lead box under the floorboards in Moist’s office. Even so, two were out there somewhere, perhaps destroyed, lost, eaten by snails, or—and here hope lay thick as winter snow—were in some unregarded bundle of letters at the back of a drawer somewhere.

—and Miss Pucci simply didn’t know how to work a crowd. She stomped and demanded attention and bullied and insulted and it didn’t help that she’d called them “good people,” because no one likes an outright liar. And now she was losing her temper, because the bidding had reached thirty-four dollars. And now—

—she’d torn it up!

“That’s what I think of this silly money!” she announced, throwing the pieces in the air. Then she stood there, panting and looking triumphant, as if she’d done something clever.

A kick in the teeth to everyone there. It made you want to cry, it really did. Oh, well.

He pulled one of the new notes out of his pocket and held it up.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced, “I have here one of the increasingly rare first-generation One Dollar notes”—he had to pause for the laughter—“signed by myself and the chairman. Bids over forty dollars, please! All proceeds to the little kiddies!”

He ran it up to fifty, bouncing a couple of bids off the wall. Pucci stood ignored and steaming with rage for a while and then flounced out. It was a good flounce, too. She had no idea how to handle people and she tried to make self-esteem do the work of self-respect, but the girl could flounce better than a fat turkey on a trampoline.

The lucky winner was already surrounded by his unlucky fellow bidders by the time he reached the bank’s doors. The rest of the crowd surged toward the counters, not sure what was going on but determined to have a piece of it.

Moist cupped his hand and shouted, “And this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Bent and myself will be available to discuss bank loans!” This caused a further stir.

“Smoke and mirrors, Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent, turning away from the balustrade. “Nothing but smoke and mirrors...”

“But done without smoke and in a total absence of a mirror, Mr. Bent!” said Moist cheerfully.

“And the ‘kiddies’?” said Bent.

“Find some. There’s bound to be an orphanage that needs fifty dollars. It’ll have to be an anonymous donation, of course.”

Bent looked surprised. “Really, Mr. Lipwig? I’ll make no bones about saying that you seem to me to be the sort of man who makes a great Razz Arm Ma Tazz about giving money to charity.” He made razzmatazz sound like some esoteric perversion.

“Well, I’m not. Do good by stealth, that is my watchword.” It’ll get found out soon enough, he added to himself, and then I’m not only a jolly good chap but a decently modest one, too.

*********************************************************************

---Daniel?

Are you related to the Lavishes?

Flounce much?

---For those who've not yet read the book, Pucci getting arrested is about as funny as the auction scene.

[WTP]

"Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the
Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don't tell me that this means war,
if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by
that Antichrist- I really believe he is Antichrist- I will have
nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer
my 'faithful slave,' as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see
I have frightened you- sit down and tell me all the news."

It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna
Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Marya
Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasili Kuragin, a man
of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her
reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as
she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in
St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.

...blimey...I think I have the rest here somewheres...

[David]

As is often the case, I have no idea what’s going on here.

[Spiny Norman]

Baffled are we? Well, try this: the UN has withdrawn from two districts, and the US State Department has withdrawn Peace Corps volunteers in four districts in southern Malawi due to a vampire scare. So there's that.

Pinged

(A small contribution towards a chemical study of the murky grey liquid the "pickled eggs" dwell in.)

[W]

Great blog. Pinged.

[PiperPaul]

Finally, zombie dominance seem to be subsiding. Except at colleges; that appears to be getting worse.

[David]

A small contribution towards a chemical study of the murky grey liquid the “pickled eggs” dwell in.

May your toilet seat hinges never discolour, or suffer untimely structural failure.

[Daniel Ream]

As is often the case, I have no idea what’s going on here.

Hal doesn't like it when people point out his idols have feet of clay, is all. I apologize for rattling the cage bars.

[Spiny Norman]

I saw something "eww-yuck-ohgawd[vomit]" on Twitter just now, and I'm not sure I should post a link here. The images are not in and of themselves offensive, but by implication, they are horrifying... and might explain why an a successful and attractive young English movie actress ran off to an American Ivy League university and became a social justice warrior feminist.

Here we go: https://twitter.com/davealvord164/status/917304869610024960

[Spiny Norman]

an

[edit fail]

[Liam]

the bewildering mental contortions of leftwing academics

Heh. Good stuff. Tipped.

[Hal]

Hal doesn't like it when people point out his idols have feet of clay, is all.

Uh huh . . . . noting, of course, just one more thing . . . Aside from, by the way, my not having any idols, what feet of clay?

[David]

In other twilight-of-academia news:

Texas State University has two new job openings for math education professors, with the caveat that they have to demonstrate a commitment to social justice… The university is seeking —for at least one of the two math professorship positions — not only a commitment to social justice, but “evidence of research” on the subject.

Because you just can’t explain quadratic equations without expertise in “social justice.”

[David]

Heh. Good stuff.

It does, I think, capture the flavour of academia’s Clown Quarter. From supposedly racist gardening programmes and racist flat-pack furniture to the evils of reading to your own children. Oh, and a report on litter inequality that demands something be done but doesn’t address, even once, how the litter actually gets there. And note that the academics concerned seemed unaccustomed to mockery or any kind of challenge.

[PiperPaul]

"can’t explain quadratic equations without expertise in 'social justice'"

Well, there is a Leftist Heap in programming, at least.

(As opposed to a Pile of Progressives)

[Steve]

Then they came for the Artists:

https://www.city-journal.org/html/destroying-neighborhood-15485.html

[Dorfl]

"Aside from, by the way, my not having any idols, what feet of clay?"

There's no need to get personal.

[Spiny Norman]

If “the revolution devours its own,” as the saying has it, then anti-gentrification activists in Boyle Heights, a heavily Latino district just east of downtown Los Angeles, have been feasting. They have greeted liberal artists and hipsters with racial taunts, vandalism, boycotts, and mask-wearing demonstrators.

Boyle Heights was originally a predominately Jewish neighborhood. Once the last of the old Jews died or moved away / were driven out, and their shops closed down, they changed the name of the main street in the area from Brooklyn Avenue to Cesar Chavez Boulevard. I recall recently the LA Times wringing their hands about vandalism in the old Jewish cemetery...

[Spiny Norman]

Which makes this bit especially ironic:

...demanded “the full decolonization of Boyle Heights,” and called local sympathizers “coconuts”—brown on the outside, white on the inside.

[Dorfl]

"I recall recently the LA Times wringing their hands about vandalism in the old Jewish cemetery..."

But rainbows are beautiful! Diversity makes us stronger! /sarcasm

[Dorfl]

"In return, however," said the Patrician, "I must ask you not to upset Commander Vimes." He gave a little cough. "More than necessary."

"I'm sure we can pull together, sir."

Lord Vetinari raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I do hope not, I really do hope not. Pulling together is the aim of despotism and tyranny. Free men pull in all kinds of directions." He smiled. "It's the only way to make progress.."

--The Truth, by Terry Pratchett

[Sporkatus]

the Moist von Lipwig books

My impression of Making Money was less that it was an indictment of the supposed flimflam and chicanery in a free market system of capital, nor an indictment of the irrationality of markets per se, but an acknowledgement that flimflim, chicanery, and irrationality are natural parts of the market and it's better that they limit themselves, or that a savvy person can use them to achieve things without great force.

Of course, there is something of the same dichotomy as the Ankh-Morpork government. An internal conflict between minarchism/hand-off at the highest level and the *ability* to exercise absolute power as a tyrant, the minimal application of universal law vs. enabling excess in guilds as proxies for government power, and local legislation with its many foibles.

which is to say, I think many of the books take the form of an argument Terry's having with himself, and sometimes he doesn't appear to have come to a ready conclusion.

[pst314]

That Leftist Heap also looks like an Unbalanced Tree--and is there anything more unbalanced than a leftist?

[Rafi]

expertise in “social justice.”

Sounds like a job for our host.

[pst314]

You mean that our host can mete out justice while socially tending bar? I noticed that oak club behind the bar.

[David]

Sounds like a job for our host.

What jolly times we’d have.

[David]

I noticed that oak club behind the bar.

Discretionary use of the Mallet Of Shame™ is one of perks of blogging. That, and the blogging thong.

[ Adjusts blogging thong. ]

[Sporkatus]

I take it adjustment of the blow/blow harder/stop dial was also such a perk, before it had to go to the shop?

[pst314]

Is that dial in the shop because it is being upgraded to go to 11?

[Hal]

. . . an acknowledgement that flimflim, chicanery, and irrationality are natural parts of the market and it's better that they limit themselves, or that a savvy person can use them to achieve things without great force.

Absolutely . . . "It's the only way to make progress.."

Pucci gets arrested, prolly joined by the rest of the Lavishes, in time . . . .

****************************************************

. . . . And I’ve taken a look inside them, too! Your father took the gold and sold it and forced him to hide it in the numbers! And that’s not the half of it!”

. . . .

“Oh, this is so silly,” said Pucci, strutting forward with a clatter of heels. “We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. It’s our gold, isn’t it? Who cares what he wrote down in his books?”

The phalanx of Lavish lawyers rose very cautiously to their feet, while the two employed by Pucci began to whisper urgently to her. She ignored them. Everyone was staring at her now, not her brother. Everyone was paying attention to her.

“Could you please be quiet, Miss Lavish?” said Moist. The stillness of the blade worried him. Some part of Cosmo was functioning very well indeed.

“Oh yes, I expect you just would like me to shut up, and I’m not going to!” said Pucci gleefully. Like Moist confronted by an open notebook, she triumphantly plunged on without a care: “We can’t steal what already belongs to us, can we? So what if Father put the wretched gold to better use? It was just sitting there! Honestly, why are you all so dense? Everybody does it. It’s not stealing. I mean, the gold still exists, yes? In rings and things. It’s not as though anyone’s going to throw it away. Who cares where it is?”

Moist resisted the impulse to look at the other bankers in the room. Everyone does it, eh? Pucci was not going to get many Hogswatch cards this year. And her brother was staring at her in horror. The rest of the clan, those who weren’t still engrossed in decustarding themselves, were contriving to give the impression that they had never seen Pucci before. Who is this mad woman? said their faces. Who let her in? What is she talking about?

. . . . .

Moist . . . went to grab a Times before they were all stolen.

It must have been another bittersweet day for the editor. After all, there can only be one front page. In the end he’d stuffed in everything—the “I do believe it is pineapple” line, with a picture showing the dripping Lavishes in the background and, oh yes, here was Pucci’s speech, in detail. It was wonderful. And she’d gone on and on. It was all perfectly clear, from her point of view: she was right and everyone was silly. She was so in love with her own voice that the watchmen had to write down their official caution on a piece of paper and hold it up in front of her before they towed her away, still talking...

[Hal]

Sounds like a job for our host.

What jolly times we’d have.

[pst314]

Hal, how does one post an image? Does one do nothing more than post the URL of the image?

Also: Your two excerpts from "Making Money" were rather long.

[Ed Snack]

I always thought that "Making Money" wasn't a patch on "Going Postal", and neither was up to his best, which for my taste was "Thief of Time" (followed by Hogfather). I wonder if Moist knew about Rule 1, or anything about Deja Fu.

Which should remind me of the purpose of this thread...when I get home it will have to be.

[David]

how does one post an image?

As above, with the .jpg or .gif or .png inserted snugly between the quotation marks. Just make sure the image isn’t too big for the comments space here. Because then I have to start resizing things and it’s an enormous faff.

[Hal]

Hal, how does one post an image? Does one do nothing more than post the URL of the image?

David's covered the basic bits, there. I'd also add that testing in a different browser window can help confirm the address, and, quite definitely, the Preview button is your friend.

Also: Your two excerpts from "Making Money" were rather long.

Yes---Those being why, for once, I didn't go with the blockquote, which would have narrowed the margins . . .

Two main thoughts are that One, some notes cover assorted materiel in very few words, other notes rather need to go into details to cover all of assorted points . . . and then there are the all out direct quotes.

And, utterly and absolutely the bottom line on length and content is actually rather simple, that Two, It's David's personal playground, and he can and should bloody well yank and edit whatever he wishes . . . .

[Mrs B]

Thanks for some great reads (and some great threads). Tip jar has been hit.

[pst314]

"how does one post an image?

David and Hal, thank you.

But I am concerned about that method: Linking to an image on another website means that each page view of David's comment thread will impose a bandwidth cost on the linked website. This might not matter for a large commercial site but could be a problem for an individual who maintains a small website and has to pay a monthly fee which is in part based on the amount of traffic.

[pst314]

"Just make sure the image isn’t too big for the comments space here."

If the image is too large, one can use a simple editor to resize it.

[PiperPaul]

pst314, save the image in question locally on your computer and then upload to somewhere like https://postimg.org

Then use the Direct link provided by postimg and paste it between the double quotes as shown in David's post. That should work and won't put a bandwidth burden on the linked website, but it's more effort on your part.

Typepad doesn't seem to provide much guidance on posting images in comments, probably because Typepad site owners can set certain blog commenting features and options themselves.

[Richard]

A blog site with an adult vocabulary and attitude. I aspire to be worthy. Please post no pictures of the blogging thong.

[pst314]

PipersPaul, thank you very much. I was not aware of that site.

[pst314]

A first attempt:

[pst314]

again:

[David]

Personal growth. It’s a wonderful thing.

[pst314]

"Personal growth. It's a wonderful thing."

[David]

I’m not mocking. Well, not much. I’d been doing this for years before it even occurred to me that adding images to comments was a thing that could be done. In my defence, this thing didn’t come with a manual.

[Alex deWinter]

If the image is too large, one can use a simple editor to resize it.

I use GIMP for image resizing, cropping, etc. It's free, which leaves me more money for hitting up people's tip jars.

Also, thanks PipersPaul for the link to postimg. After the Photobucket fiasco, I'm always on the lookout for image hosting sites.

[pst314]

I didn't think you were mocking, David. I liked your comment, and it inspired me to have a little more fun.
Are there any pickled eggs left in that jar behind the bar? The brine is rather cloudy.

[David]

The brine is rather cloudy.

Cloudy is good. It adds an element of… intrigue.

[pst314]

"It adds an element of… intrigue."

I was concerned that I might confuse it with the jar of eyeballs you keep for that raven that hangs around.

[Hal]

Cloudy is good. It adds an element of… intrigue.

Well, after all, It was one of those things they keep in a jar in a . . .

[R. Sherman]

Played around with PostImage and it seems like a nice place to store stuff. Tentative "Thumbs Up."

Though David, you may come to regret providing the HTML photo tutorial at some point when people start going OT to post photos of "Aunt Myrtle's 89th Birthday Party." Some knowledge is better kept to one's self.

[Captain Nemo]

I have vibrated your trousers with a small token of appreciation. I trust it'll be put to good use.

[el]

*ping*

[Anon]

I came. I lurked. I hit the tip jar.

I didn't touch the pickled eggs though.

[Chip]

This is one of my favourite blogs. Have a drink of something on me.

[David]

Thanks again to all who’ve chipped in, or subscribed, or done shopping via the Amazon links. It’s what keeps this place here and is much appreciated.

[Geezer]

Here in North Carolina, the pickled eggs are pink:

Except the Jalapeno Pickled Eggs.

[dw]

A little something for your trouble.

[Nikw211]

Left an envelope behind the collection of pickled egg jars.

[David]

May the ‘use-by’ date on your perishables forever be distant.