Amerika.org Under DOS Attack By Scared Leftists

You may have found it difficult to access this site since Friday, May 4, 2018 because an angry group of Leftists have been engaging in a denial-of-service attack against this site and its anti-SJW metal brethren. The bad news is that this took us down intermittently for five days, but the good news is that it shows they fear us.

Leftists realize that 2018 is a huge year because we are fifty years past the Great Revolution of 1968. During that time, Leftist policies have been revealed to (1) fail to fix the problems they claimed were inherent in the old order, and (2) produce even worse problems.

This has caused panic on the Left. They know their time is ending.

In response, they have unleashed an orgy of violence, repression, and censorship — much as history predicted they would do, based on the events in France in the 1700s and Russia in the 1900s — and have attacked what they see as the most accurate voices against them. We are proud to be on that list.

Thank you to all who have written, sent help, bought books, donated time, donated money, and most of all, not given up. They did not break you, and they have not broken us.

Now on to the good details. This DOS attack consisted of two prongs: a TCP/IP-based attack against the machine that hosts several of our sites, and an HTTP-based attack against our PHP-based scripts. Our host, Dreamhost, managed to block the former attack, and with some crufty old 1990s know-how, we have lessened the latter.

You can see one Leftist crowing about the attack — which also assaulted Gab.ai and American Renaissance, among others — via the Tweet pictured above.

Unfortunately for this Leftist, we have the IP addresses of his friends who are participating in the second prong of the attack. Links go to ARIN which will tell you which ISP owns this address. For the first prong, we think a rented botnet was used, possibly of Russian origin.

156.197.115.103
201.6.241.88
90.86.177.149
50.33.53.90
41.250.212.244
195.55.255.158
41.248.201.66
89.101.246.18
177.11.148.220
146.255.180.237
89.101.246.18
156.197.115.103
109.237.120.70
95.84.65.36
125.59.41.7
186.89.119.5
190.62.35.248
213.87.101.92
177.35.204.164
202.80.214.99
186.92.211.82
89.211.190.40
50.33.53.20
222.124.79.40
5.36.106.166
64.121.90.128
98.204.103.9
172.69.70.153
172.68.27.82

One of these IPs has been linked in the past to one Tulio Baars, who uses the email addresses [email protected] and [email protected], who you can find on Facebook and LinkedIn.

Baars works at Garage and Catarse, where he uses many of the same technologies employed in this attack. We continue investigating. In the meantime, several of the IP addresses used were linked to other email addresses such as [email protected], [email protected], and [email protected]. They seem to mostly be active at night, suggesting that they run their scripts and then go off to bed.

We will keep you posted with further announcements. In the meantime, thank you for reading and helping us weather this storm.

Read more from Amerika…

Leftism = Egalitarianism

As we enter the age where Leftism, having gained supremacy fifty years ago and failed in all of its promises, prepares to pass on into the dust-bin of history, it makes sense to understand what Leftism is.

On this site, we treat politics as a series of philosophies. Philosophies are explanation for how the world works and what we should do about it. At the core, each philosophy possesses a basic statement which summarizes its approach, and this is why they are distinctive.

It has become common — and that word never means anything good — for people to bloviate on about how they are “neither Left or Right,” which forgets that these two things are distinct philosophies, and like many things at a basic level, indicate a necessary fork in the road of human thinking.

Very few realize that the Right is our continuation of what was there before Leftism, and that while it has been misinterpreted and linguistically slaughtered like everything else in our declining society, its basic philosophy still stands: conserve the best of the past while aiming for inner excellence.

Even fewer understand Leftism. What is Leftism? An encylopedia provides us the roots of Leftist philosophy:

Left: In politics, the portion of the political spectrum associated in general with egalitarianism and popular or state control of the major institutions of political and economic life.

Now we can see the basics of the philosophy: it is egalitarianism plus the idea that the State should enforce it. Continuing our exploration, we ask, “What is Egalitarianism?” Fortunately a specialized encyclopedia of philosophy provides an explanation of egalitarianism:

Egalitarians think, firstly, that unfair life prospects should be equalized. Secondly, that equality is the most or one of the most important irreducible intrinsic or constitutive worth(s) of justice. Thirdly, that welfare should be increased. Fourthly, that justice is comparative. Fifthly, that inequalities are just when otherwise advantages are destroyed in the name of justice. Lastly, that there are certain absolute humanitarian principles like autonomy, freedom or human dignity.

The suffix “ism” tends to mean a philosophy that advocates using its root term as a means of solving problems and leading the best possible life. For that reason, elitism means those who advocate choosing the elite or quality over quantity; socialism denotes using socialized means of production; egalitarianism indicates those who want to use equality as a universal tool for fixing and enhancing society.

In that definition, we have every aspect of modern Leftism. They want to create a Utopia through progress toward equality. They think this should be done by taking from the successful and giving to the unsuccessful. They believe in using the State to do this through Civil Rights programs.

Through that understanding, we can see that Leftists — liberals, communists, marxists, socialists, anarchists, libertarians — are all degrees of the same thing, namely the idea of equality being both a goal and a method of achieving the best possible civilization and lives, although uniquely they see a “perfect” Utopia as possible.

Let us then revisit the historical portion of the definition of Leftism from above:

The term dates from the 1790s, when in the French revolutionary parliament the socialist representatives sat to the presiding officer’s left. Leftists tend to be hostile to the interests of traditional elites, including the wealthy and members of the aristocracy, and to favour the interests of the working class (see proletariat). They tend to regard social welfare as the most important goal of government. Socialism is the standard leftist ideology in most countries of the world; communism is a more radical leftist ideology.

In this we see how egalitarianism translates into reality: since we cannot make the unsuccessful more competent, we must penalize the successful, and have a strong gangster-style government to take their wealth and give it to the less competent. This creates a Darwinian death spiral but transfers power to the Leftist Regime.

Leftism consists of several sub-philosophies, all of which share a common goal of Utopia through progress of equality, which means that all Leftist philosophies are essentially the same, differing only in degree. On the mild side of Leftism, liberalism, libertarianism, and classical liberalism hide their real goal:

Liberalism, political doctrine that takes protecting and enhancing the freedom of the individual to be the central problem of politics. Liberals typically believe that government is necessary to protect individuals from being harmed by others, but they also recognize that government itself can pose a threat to liberty.

…Liberalism is derived from two related features of Western culture. The first is the West’s preoccupation with individuality, as compared to the emphasis in other civilizations on status, caste, and tradition. Throughout much of history, the individual has been submerged in and subordinate to his clan, tribe, ethnic group, or kingdom. Liberalism is the culmination of developments in Western society that produced a sense of the importance of human individuality, a liberation of the individual from complete subservience to the group, and a relaxation of the tight hold of custom, law, and authority. In this respect, liberalism stands for the emancipation of the individual. See also individualism.

Liberalism also derives from the practice of adversariality in European political and economic life, a process in which institutionalized competition—such as the competition between different political parties in electoral contests, between prosecution and defense in adversary procedure, or between different producers in a market economy (see monopoly and competition)—generates a dynamic social order. Adversarial systems have always been precarious, however, and it took a long time for the belief in adversariality to emerge from the more traditional view, traceable at least to Plato, that the state should be an organic structure, like a beehive, in which the different social classes cooperate by performing distinct yet complementary roles.

Individualism creates egalitarianism because no individual wants to be left behind or restricted in what they can do. As a result, they demand a utilitarian solution: everyone does whatever they want — small exceptions are made for crimes and blatant antisocial behavior — and decisions are made by choosing whatever is most popular.

This comes from the notion of the moral worth of the individual in individualism:

Individualism, political and social philosophy that emphasizes the moral worth of the individual.

If the individual has moral worth, then all individuals must be included and their choices supported, which naturally prohibits the type of cooperation necessary to create civilization. Individualism expresses itself through “rights” by which an individual can reject the need to uphold social standards, customs, and principles.

Although it was called by different terms, individualism arose from the Renaissance, in which “man is the measure of all things” became a replacement for classical ideas of social order. Instead of designing civilization as a structure, it was conceived as a container for individuals which sought to facilitate their desires.

The French Revolutionaries stated as much when they placed the individual at the center of their society, and made it the goal of that society to serve all individuals.

This inverts social order. Instead of having standards and rewarding those who meet them, we make people the standard, and assume that they can be motivated with external carrot/stick combinations like money and the threat of not having money. Over time this breaks down, and so societies turn toward socialism in order to keep their ideology intact.

We fight a war of ideas. The West adopted individualism, then egalitarianism, and implemented them in Leftism because as the most successful society on Earth, it had the wealth and power to take on a crazy notion and not have it fail immediately. Over the past centuries and especially past fifty years however, we have seen that it fails anyway.

For us to displace Leftism from the West, and nothing else will save us, we must get to the root of this dysfunction and remove the moldy old Renaissance™ and Enlightenment™ notions of equality from our thinking. This requires that we get over ourselves, but we have surmounted greater challenges in the past.

Read more from Amerika…

How to travel the world with 2 little kids: Teach them that every step counts

Raj Gill

Raj Gill

Quitting your job and selling your house and all of your possessions to travel the world is something many people find themselves daydreaming about when they feel their lives have fallen into a state of predictable motion. A fair number of rather reasonable arguments typically dissuade most people from pursuing the notion.

But the feeling of being an alien in a foreign land is intoxicating. I often thought of leaving California behind and breaking with my routine to embrace the unknown and in so doing becoming an alien to everything, including myself. The fire continued to rage in my mind, and when I spoke to my partner about it, I learned that the same fire burned inside her as well. Within two months, we sold our house, all of our belongings, quit our jobs and bought four one way tickets to Australia; two adults and two children.

I felt embarrassed telling my friends and family about our decision and worried that it would make me seem irresponsible. The idea of leaving a great job and uprooting our family was met with as much judgmental condemnation as one would get for choosing to drink or gamble with abandon. I avoided speaking of our intentions again until we were just about to board a plane that would take us away from California. I updated my status online that described our exodus, and with 40-liter backpacks strapped on our respective backs, our three-year-old boy gripping tightly to my hand and our five-year-old boy gripping tightly to my partner’s, we boarded the plane and never looked back.

We spent the summer in Australia, surfing Bondi Beach, walking Graffiti Alley in Melbourne and sunbathing along the Sunshine Coast. After three months, we had exhausted the amount of time we were permitted on our Australian visas. With summer transitioning to fall, we set our sights on New Zealand.

Much of our time in our previous life was spent losing ourselves in Yosemite and Lassen National Parks or trail running the Marin Headlands and Point Reyes. We often hiked through the pine forests of Tahoe or the redwood forests nestled behind the Mendocino coastline. We made a pact before the trip that this particular quality of our lives would travel along with us, and we did just what most outdoor adventurers would do upon landing in Nelson airport: salivated at the thought of conquering the great tracks of New Zealand’s South Island.

Our first hike with the boys began with exploring a pocket of nestled beauty called the Abel Tasman, located on the northeast coastline of the South Island. We took a water taxi that dropped us off on a small exposed sandbar in an estuary that existed for only a few hours, expanding as quickly as the tide receded into the Tasman Bay and disappearing upon its return. We ferried the boys across one at a time on our backs, moving slowly through the surprisingly crisp, knee-deep water that bridged the exposed and isolated raft of yellow sand to the thin Tasman coastline.

We approached this tramp with our boys with a sink or swim attitude, wholly accepting our punishment of having to carry them on our backs should they not rise to the challenge. Our parenting style had always differed from those in the community we left a few months prior. We allow them to fall and scrape their knees, to make their own mistakes, to concede defeat in the face of a valiant effort. We pushed them to try before they could accept their own presumed limitations. My partner and I controlled the wind that passed across their boughs in a manner meant to strengthen their branches but not break them. They would, more often than not, surprise themselves upon rising up and working through their own challenges.

We assumed the 22-kilometer hike would be a pretty strong gust, but to our surprise, we found that the adults were trying to keep pace with the boys. We were evidently the weak links in the chain. Was it their center of gravity that made tramping come more easily to them or the efficiencies of their metabolic engine that constantly turns over calories for energy like a Ferrari turns petrol into horsepower? Their enthusiasm and seemingly endless supply of energy that remained, even after concluding the day-long tramp with burgers at The Fat Tui, motivated us to tramp progressively longer and more difficult terrain. Soon we felt confident in our plan of tramping across New Zealand with our sights set on accomplishing an expert-level overnight hike up Mt. Robert to the Angelus Hut in Nelson Lakes National Park.
* * *
I peered across the shifter to my partner and said, “There’s only one direction we can go and that’s forward.” We were all alone on the one-way road that hugged Mount Robert. Just ahead of us, the gravel gave way to mud, stretching a quarter mile ahead of us. I scanned ahead and saw that the first half of the road had a forgiving upward slope, but then a handful of orange traffic cones were scattered in front of a section of road that appeared to go vertical. I slammed the shifter into first gear, revved the engine of the rented Honda Fit and held my breath until we reached the other side. My quads were on fire from riding the clutch while lifting my body above my seat to be able to see the road. When we summited past the cones and fell back onto level and graveled road, I turned to my partner and saw her hands wrapped white knuckled around the “Oh Shit Handle” that had been previously dangling freely just above her head.

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said as her dilated pupils relaxed and her eyes rolled in that special way that lets me know I have no idea what I am talking about.

After we parked, we collected our gear and tried to focus on the moment instead of on what lay ahead of us: 24 kilometers over 36 hours. We moved quickly through the small section of beech forest that separated the car park and the start of the aptly named Pinchgut Track. A thick canopy of beech trees retained the water in the air, humidifying the organic plumes of earthy aromatics emanating from the detritus scattered across the forest floor. Microbeads of water sat atop green carpets of moss blanketing the decaying stumps and fallen branches lining the trail.

Exposed tree roots snagged the boys’ boots more times than I could count. My shoulder ached from having to reach my arm out quickly and grip whatever fabric I could to prevent the boys from falling flat on their faces several times, so I called an impromptu family meeting. My partner and I established a rule that we have repeated on every hike since and have now woven into the philosophy we teach the boys: Every step matters, every step is important, every step counts, and how you take that step directly affects the outcome of how you move forward towards the next one. A rock is a rock, whether it’s in the car park, on the trail, in a river crossing or on top of a mountain, but the consequences of tripping over it can vary depending on the circumstance, from insignificant to deadly.

The mid-morning sun began to penetrate the canopy ahead of us, revealing the exposed path leading us to the start of the serial switchbacks that would carry us up 800 meters over 90 minutes. Under our boots, soft earth turned into coarse and dry gravel. The flora transitioned from green ferns to mountain wildflowers and the clear blue sky stretched out towards infinity overhead. Purple and red foxgloves began to fill the empty spaces along the trail.

As we made our ascent, Lake Rotoiti’s blue expanse beckoned us, offering up its cold and crisp waters to rinse the sweat off our skin and resolve the dryness in our throats. My muscles began to burn again. The day hikers that had passed us expanded their distance, while the ones we had previously passed were reducing it. This expansion and contraction between the groups persisted, and in this way, we all accordioned our way up the mountain.

We reached the start of the Robert Ridge Track with another shift in climate and terrain. The wind gusts were strong atop the ridge, and with our guts pinched from the switchbacks, the cold and crisp alpine air cooled us down while also taking some of the weight off our tired legs as it pushed against our backs. We reached the Relax Shelter and exchanged pleasantries with day hikers taking a break before heading back down Paddy’s Track on the opposite side of the ridge. Children on the ridge, we grew to learn, were an unusual sight, given the reactions we received. Responses were split between admiring the boys’ courage (and our patience) and skeptical optimism.

We split from the group and continued along the ridge, not knowing that that would be the last time we would see another hiker while on the ridge. After a few hours, the trail grew narrow and slowly began to recede into the mountain beneath us. The sky continued to reflect the blue from Lake Rotoiti; however, quickly shifting light grey clouds could be seen swirling further up the ridge, waiting for our arrival. We were approaching the Julius Summit, nearly 1,800 meters above sea level, when a drop in pressure and temperature caused the water in the air to suddenly condense all around us. We stopped and became mesmerized at witnessing the birth of a cloud. A wisp of white candy floss suddenly materialized from nothing, swirling in a funnel created by two disparate pressures colliding in a moment. The nascent tuft of white air released and drifted like a leaf trapped in a whirlpool, fixed in constant motion, until its mass grew large enough to be ejected from the turbulent air.

After stopping for lunch to let rain pass ahead, we pressed on. The clouds gathered and dispersed for several kilometers, occasionally releasing their contents upon us but never enough to hinder our momentum. We summited the mountain and found being positioned above everything around us, including the clouds, allowed the trail markers to be easily visible as we scanned ahead. The ridge began to slope downward and our legs felt the relief of not having to work as hard; however, the recent rains made our descent more difficult than previously presumed.

Over the next kilometer, I realized the risk my partner and I took in bringing the boys on the tramp. I accepted my punishment by moving a few meters ahead, releasing my pack from my back, then returning back to the boys in order to ferry them one at a time across the difficult and dangerous terrain, only to collect my pack and start all over again at the next sign of apparent risk. We moved in this way until we reached an expansive scree field that buried several trail markers in its path. I turned to my partner and we discussed the risks of moving forward or turning back. Having already experienced the difficult terrain as I ferried the boys down the wet cliffside, I was worried how much more difficult it would be to repeat it while working against gravity. On the other hand, the terrain ahead of us was unknown, offering a variety of unknown possibilities. “A rock is a rock,” we reminded ourselves.

This fractured landscape wouldn’t let me move ahead and ferry the boys across it as I had before. We had to move slowly, as a unit, across the scree field, lifting the boys to rocks they couldn’t climb onto and holding their hands as they jumped down from ones they could. To the boys, it was fun to rock climb. But we had not come across another human since we started on the ridge. The boys didn’t realize that if something happened, a response would not be immediate, but we did. To compound our worry, the sun seemed to drop faster across the horizon than our descent on the cliff, and should another scree field lie further ahead on our path, we would have to cross it in the dark.

The mantra that we established at the start of our tramp carried us across without incident. We breathed a sigh of relief and silently hoped that we wouldn’t need to cross another scree field on our path to the hut. The boys, on the other hand, were excited at the prospect of scrambling across another. In the end, we ended up going past several more, and fortunately they were only a few meters across. We didn’t hesitate when we scanned ahead to find boulders had collapsed the trail ahead of us; we were still riding off the adrenaline from having successfully traversed what ended up to be the longest and most difficult scree field on the ridge. We discovered that this irregular trail — solid ground with sections of scree intermixed — carried a rhythm in its terrain. We glided swiftly across the wet rock and loose gravel as our steps harmonized to it, moving back up the ridge and arriving at the top of the valley as twilight fell across our shoulders.

When the boys asked how much further until we arrived to the hut, I lied. “It’s just passed the next trail marker,” I replied, buying us a few hundred meters of silence before they asked again. “I meant to say past the next trail marker . . . or the one after that,” I said, all the while, secretly wishing that my non-answer was true. My stalling wouldn’t last, and their motivation could dissipate when they realized I had no idea how much further until we arrived at the hut.

We tramped with the clouds above our heads and below our feet, and fortunately, everything at eye level was clear, albeit damp. We stopped as a gust of wind pushed us off the trail, and after allowing it to pass, we stepped back onto the ridge and saw that the wind pushed the clouds away from the valley to the east, exposing a series of ponds spread across the mountain. It was getting darker. Although it was becoming more difficult to see the worry on my partner’s face, I could feel it radiate off of her body. What was even more troubling was the sudden awareness of the boys’ silence; there were no more questions about when we would arrive, no brotherly banter, just silence and their pace had slowed.

The boys were tired and needed to take a break. The weight on my shoulders grew heavier. The air was transitioning from dark blue to purple, and I knew that taking a break would all but ensure we would be tramping in the dark. I sprinted into the fog to scout ahead, leaving my pack behind.

I returned in a few short minutes with a smile from ear to ear. I threw my pack over one shoulder and instructed the boys to get up and muster as much courage and energy as they could because the hut was in the valley just below us. A hundred or so meters ahead of us was the trail that led down into the valley. As we sprinted towards the branch, the sky opened up, basking us in a light that had previously fallen beneath the top of the alpine ridge. The air quickly transitioned from purple to blue carried by strands of yellow that shimmered off Lake Angelus and poured over the edges of the hills that bordered the valley. We ran to the edge of the ridge and peered down over the valley below; the momentary silence was broken by laughter coming from the boys.

“Every step counts,” I said, as we broke from the ridge and moved down the loose gravel trail that would lead us to shelter.

Tired, hungry and cold, but filled with relief, we slowed our pace, knowing there was nothing more to worry about beyond securing a bunk space. I looked up and saw the yellow lights growing bigger and brighter the closer we got to the hut. The light began to leak from the windows and illuminate the porch, then the wire boot brush on the ground next to the steps to the deck, then the last few meters of the trail. The dark receded to reveal a dozen smiling faces watching our every step as we drew closer to them. I heard the people clapping as the yellow light illuminated the face of my youngest and then his brother. The boys stopped, unsure of what was happening, and looked back at us with both confusion and surprise in their smiles.
* * *
The next morning, we joined a table of fellow hikers for breakfast. The boys spoke of their courage across the wet scree and informed the table of our mantra, “Every step counts.” Over the course of the next half hour, the hut began to empty. Our brief respite needed to come to an end.

We took the track down the mountainside, winding back and forth across several arteries flowing with water; our socks that had dried overnight were drenched within the first kilometer. We followed the water through mud and marshland, ferrying the boys across rushing streams and carrying them over my head across waist deep rivers until the path brought us to the edge of the beech forest that we started from. The forest canopy brought respite from an unrelenting midday sun but blanketed the remainder of the trail in a persistent twilight.

As we passed another kilometer deeper into the forest, the temperature began to drop and the boys began asking how much longer again. Our youngest was becoming more vocal with his narrative of the status of his body and mind. We encouraged them to keep moving by distracting them with topics in mammalian and plant biology, zoology, philosophy and English. This worked for a spell, until the discussion began to grow exponentially more complex with every “but why?”

I could hear whimpers from our youngest. I stopped to lean down and asked him if he was OK, if he needed to be picked up. He said he did, that his legs hurt, but he thought he would be able to continue on if he only had his “Buggies” — two ladybug snuggle toys he has slept with every night of his life. We carried our sleeping bags, food and water on our backs; “Buggies” had been deemed nonessential and remained behind in the car.

Before starting the hike, my partner and I agreed that if the boys could no longer go on of their own free will, we would accommodate their needs, either by picking them up or ending the tramp and turning back around. We wanted them to hit their wall, feel their boughs creak and bend, and let them decide for themselves. My son brought something different to the table: a quid pro quo. I wondered how far he would be willing to take it. We decided that my eldest and I would sprint ahead until we reach the car, drop our gear off and retrieve the Buggies to motivate him to finish the tramp.

I reminded my eldest son of our mantra: “Every step counts.” We took a deep breath and started sprinting up the trail while my partner kept a walking pace with our youngest. We ran two kilometers up through the forest, jumping over rocks and exposed roots that crossed our path, until reaching the car park and finding leaf litter blanketing our rental car. I threw my pack in the trunk and opened the back door, finding Buggies next to a half-eaten leftover carrot cake in the rear cup holder. I grabbed Buggies, stole a bite of cake and handed the rest to my son. “Don’t tell your brother we ate his cake.”

We ran down the path, two plush ladybugs in hand, and I trusted my eldest to keep his own pace as I began to sprint back to meet the others. Only a kilometer away from the car park, my youngest son dropped my partner’s hand and began screaming and crying with joy while running towards his long lost friends. After he settled down, he kept repeating, “I can do this now, I can do this now.” He squeezed one bug in each hand and picked up his pace as he started to move up the path. The three of us continued, collecting our eldest son along the way. The boys fell silent; they were focused on finishing now. My partner and I were silent too, astonished at the resolve our boys displayed. We reached the car park and turned back towards the forest, sharing a collective sigh of relief and pride. With little fanfare, we returned to the car, dropped it in gear and slowly drove past the head of the trail we had conquered, the momentary silence broken by a voice from the backseat: “Hey, where’s my cake?”

Read more from Salon.com…

The Open Era

You see where the line is between a good tennis player and an Immortal in the first round match between former No. 1 Novak Djokovic and Rogerio Dutra-Silva on the Philippe-Chatrier Stade at Paris’s Roland Garros the other day.

The Brazilian, a veteran player ranked in the top 100 won some excellent points and broke the 2016 champion to even the score at 4-4 in the third set, his last chance to make a serious stand in the first round of this year’s Internationaux de France, aka French Open. Djokovic broke right back, then held serve at 15 and that was that, three sets to nought.

It was a fine match, even as seen on TV, but nothing to write home about. Anyway we would not be writing home because due to certain circumstances involving the law firm of Jauvert & Jauvert, TAS can only provide some long-distance analysis this year, but never mind the details. The question here is: is the great Serb ace back?

The question is pertinent because every tennis commentator queried by Tennis, the voice of the American tennis establishment, says defending champion Rafael Nadal will repeat, on the rational theory no one can beat him. A non-scientific survey of the international sporting press offers the same consensus. Djokovic, one of the few able to beat Nadal, has been in a prolonged slump worsened by an elbow injury requiring surgery as the season began.

With the loss in five sets by 2015 champion Stan Wawrinka to a stubborn and solid Guillermo Garcia-Lopez, Nadal has last year’s finalist out of the way. He is leading a tough and able Simone Bolelli by two sets when play is adjourned on Chatrier due to rain. The Italian is up 3-0 in the third, but these rain delays usually favor the champ, who uses them to recharge is fierce competitive drive.

And with the defection due to injury of Australia’s bad boy tennis genius Nick Kyrgios, he has one less of the up-and-coming young men to worry over. He has been in fantastic form, taking titles in Monte Carlo, Barcelona, and Rome to prepare his title defense. Like LeBron James on the basketball court, like Mike Trout (Justin Verlander, Max Scherzer, you know what I mean) on the mound, Rafa Nadal is the King. At least on clay. In tennis, surfaces matter; the maestro, Roger Federer, has only one Coupe des Mousquetaires among his 20 Slam trophies.

Moreover, Federer, the Stan-da-Man of tennis in our era, is following last year’s strategy of sitting out the clay season the fresher to be on grass and during the North American summer hard-courts. (He won at Wimbledon, not at Flushing Meadows.) And Andy Murray is out, recovering from injuries that he hopes will be gone in time for the All-England in early July.

Injuries, age; recovery, youth. The beauty of this sport derives from the way it brings out the basics of life in stark simplicity. An individual sport, in which you are upfront and alone: you step up or you do not and there is no team to back you up — or a single star like LeBron James to bail out the team. It is, pace Andre Agassi’s famous quip, not like boxing; you do have to run and you cannot hide.

It is Nadal’s to lose this year, making it likely he will get an unprecedented 11th trophy in a single major tournament. His lean and hungry challengers have fallen short in the endurance tests that are unique to the Slam circuit, or succumbed under Nadal’s clay power game, designed, and perfected for the conditions produced by this surface (limestone and crushed brick, if you ever wondered).

So, not too much suspense here, though y’never know. American men have not done very well on clay in recent years, but Jared Donaldson won his first round match in five sets, showing good form, while Frances Tiafoe and Sam Querrey both have shots at reaching the second week; unfortunately they square off in the first round so only one will (maybe) do it. (Update: it goes to Querrey in three sets; Isner, before the rain, was up two against Tiafoe’s contemporary, Noah Rubin.)

On the women’s side, Venus Williams went down in the first round and her sister goes into action on Tuesday. They have two doubles titles here, Venus has never won the Coupe Lenglen, but Serena has done it three times. The defending champ, Jelena Ostapenko, lost her first round match on an injured foot. Sloane Stephens and Madison Keys easily got through to round two. They are best friends, there was a touching scene when Miss S. beat Miss K. at the final of the U.S. Open last September, real friendship. But still it is a lonely sport.

Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver returned to Roland-Garros 50 years ago, in the inaugural major of the Open era; “Muscles” prevailed over “Rocket” in the finals. He also took the doubles with his compatriot Fred Stolle. Outside the tournament, France was in some turmoil as the cultural revolt known as the May Events continued.

These have been the subject of rather dull retrospectives and remembrances for the past months; for all their charm, you have to admit the French have a predilection for editing their own history rather in the direction of fashion, which is annoying. The fashion is that in the grand scheme of things, the May Events were a Good Thing. As far as I can tell, their main effect was that the French stopped saying “vous” and also gave up on wearing ties and hats. For the past few years, they have been destroying their own grammar, abolishing the gender declensions that charmed (and tortured) students of their language.

The remembrance that came to my mind, perhaps by unconscious association with our Memorial Day weekend when we honor those who gave all for our freedom, was one that no one, to my knowledge, mentions in all the yak-yak. I had in mind a man named Maurice Grimaud. He was the police prefect of Paris, in effect the man responsible for security, and he was heavily handicapped by the fact that his forces were overwhelmingly outnumbered by the thousands of kids who had nothing better to do than skip class, block the entrances to the university so those who wanted to learn could not get in, and instead tear up the cobble stones of the old streets of the Latin Quarter and throw them at the cops, who exercised admirable restraint.

Grimaud, who died ten years ago after a long and distinguished career as a high civil servant, had put out the word that there was to be as little rough stuff as possible, which is why the “revolutionaries” had a field day and for the next half century have been able to compare themselves to the men women and children whom you see in Les Misérables, and who were mowed down by cannon and musket when protesting for actual real reasons, such as having nought to eat. In 1968, the enactors were bourgeois kids, playing at historical drama.

Detachments of CRS and gendarmes (police under military discipline but in this case under Grimaud’s authority) reinforced the Paris uniforms. These were for the most part working class and farm-region boys, young men who had served their country in the last years of the colonial wars and were not exactly impressed with tweed-wearing students who had avoided those bitter wars and had not grown up in the poverty that was still common in those years, yet had the gall to claim they spoke for the wretched of the earth. The young men working overtime to keep the city safe while others spouted verses from Mao and Trotsky must have wondered what future elites the country was going to have, but they kept their cool and, no doubt, had a sense of humor sorely lacking in the feverish brains of bourgeois Stalinists.

In one of the “iconic” photos of the time, the student leader Dany Cohn-Bendit is seen offering a mischievous grin to a stern looking gendarme (who on closer inspection is repressing a sly smile); this has gone down in history as a symbol of the “whole” “liberation” “movement” of the ’60s.

Cohn-Bendit was, in fact, one of the less ridiculous soixante-huitards (in English: hippies, or San Francisco Democrats). He was ferociously anti-communist; the Stalinists and Trotskyists hated him. They piggy-backed the protests he and his anarchist pals started against dorm restrictions on the university campus. But he himself knew he was using sex stuff to kick start the reverse potty training he gleefully wanted to spread all over society. This is why Charles de Gaulle, who was president at the time, referred to the events aschien-lit, dog s….

Dany said they were in it to oppose “imperialism” as well as dorm restrictions, meaning the Vietnam war. What did he know about the Vietnam war? He knew enough to admit, 50 years later, that even then he knew that in Vietnam, he would have ended before a firing squad. Instead, he has a seat in the European Parliament at Strasbourg. It is not clear what they do there, but they get nice perks.

As we know, the year 1968 began with a communist rampage in Vietnam. Known as the Tet offensive, it had as its objectives to shock public opinion in the U.S. and convince our “elites” the war was unwinnable; to hold territory long enough, in such provincial capitals as Hue, to mass-murder civic and intellectual leaders, as well as policemen, who might form the backbone of resistance to their imperialism; and to destroy the Viet Cong cadres in the South, whom the Northern Stalinists did not trust. Although American and South Vietnamese forces, despite taking terrible casualties, threw back the onslaught, these objectives were achieved.

Some commemoration. Better to remember that first Open tournament on the far west side of Paris, on a street named for Gordon Bennett, an American newspaper tycoon and, no doubt, a Yankee imperialist!

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This Bear Picked a Fight With the Wrong Elk

The video footage was taken near Flagstaff, Arizona and shows a bear cub big enough to kill the elk charging at it.

With mama bear nowhere in sight, a blond-phase bear cub faces off with a young elk in the woods by a photographer who gets a little too close for comfort.

From the footage, it looks like the baby bear was able to injure the baby elk. Unfortunately the footage doesn’t show what happened afterwards, but it’s possible that the bear was able to finish the job.

Young Elk Shot After Human Contact

Last year, a five minute video of a photographer getting cozy with an elk made the rounds. Sitting on the side of the road with his equipment, the elk gets closer and closer until he starts pushing the man with his antlers and head until the man had to run for his car to honk.

The poor creature was killed shortly afterwards by the rangers who felt the elk was more likely to approach other humans and cause future harm. It was killed because of a photograph and a video that went viral. The elk was euthanized because people wouldn’t stop feeding it, he kept approaching visitors.

Indeed, it was a great risk as especially the elk could’ve accidentally injured the photographers eyes and or face due to his carelessness. Any photographer or person with common sense wouldn’t be sitting on the road and would be using lenses to observe the animals in their natural habitat.

For another stressful encounter, bowhunters found themselves ten yards away from two adult male elk fighting. The hunter holds his bow as the animals slowly move away, but he managed to shoot one of them while they were still locked together without drawing attention to himself.

There must be something in the water near these elk grounds, because people just keep finding themselves far too close for comfort such as the video of the elk in Yellowstone.

Then, there’s the electrified deer that keeps getting the best of a hungry bear who never quiet learns his lesson. The North American brown bear, or grizzly, in the footage is filmed remotely and he keeps resting the waters until the electricity is disconnected.

A Montana grizzly bear attempts to retrieve an electrically charged, road-killed deer. The deer is electrified as an experiment to protect hunters’ game kills and, in turn, to minimize bear-human encounters.

Arizona Is Going Crazy

Recently, we announced that Arizona would be requiring people in the state looking to board domestic flights to purchase a $25 identification card expressly to fulfill a federal regulation that’s been on the books since 2005.

The airport in Flagstaff, which takes about 60,000 passengers every year is among the new airports that will require the ID.

“As well, these new identification cards will be required to access certain federal and military bases. But, minors traveling with an adult who fulfills the requirement of the new ID will be able to forgo needing to purchase one. It is unclear whether an Arizona resident may skip the trouble by driving to an airport in California or New Mexico.

The purchase cost of the IDs will be $25, half a day of wasted time in the MVD and they will last for eight years.”

More Animal Encounters

Recently, a strange looking creature was shot in Montana. The rancher called in the kill, thinking he had shot a particularly aggressive wolf, but local animal authorities sent the carcass off for more testing because he was missing some telltale signs of being a pure wolf.

The animal is suggested to be a rare wolf/dog hybrid, which is a type of animal almost exclusively bred in captivity owing to the territorial nature of wolves.

Hybrid pups can have varied appearances due to the mixed genetic bag, and their behavior is difficult to predict. Because of the difficulty in caring for a hybrid, thousands of pet wolves and pet hybrids are abandoned or euthanized every year.

So, if the DNA turns out that the strange beast shot in Denton, Montana is a hybrid, it was likely dropped off in the woods by an owner who bite off more than he could chew.

Source: Wide Open Spaces

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Off-Duty Officer Shoots Gun-Toting Attacker

When a bad guy has a gun and intends to shoot someone, the only thing that will ever stop this is a good guy with a gun. This should be an accepted, universal truth.

But, it’s not. There are those out there who absolutely refuse to accept this reality. They reject it like Michael Moore rejects hygiene (allegedly) or Amy Schumer rejects chastity (which is completely true based on her comedy).

Here’s yet another example, this time from Georgia.

Police say an off-duty officer has fatally shot a man in suburban Atlanta.

Clayton County Police spokeswoman Sgt. Ashanti Marbury told news outlets the officer saw someone firing shots toward another person near a restaurant Sunday afternoon. The officer was working an approved security job at a nearby church.

Police say the initial shooting erupted after a man made an inappropriate comment toward a woman with two other men in the restaurant. An argument ensued outside as the suspect followed them before firing shots, police say.

It was at this point that the off-duty officer went to confront the suspect, who then fired at him. The officer then returned the favor and wounded them assailant who then died en route to the hospital.

“But he was a police officer. That doesn’t count as a good guy with a gun,” some whiney anti-gun crusader will screech.

Unfortunately for Dippy the Wonder Spud, the police are good guys with guns. I know that’s hard for some people to accept, especially when they’re knee deep in pretending that the police are the enemy of all that is good and decent in the world. They’re not. Police officers are just people, regular folks who have a job to do. Sometimes, though, they encounter some horrible stuff and have to act while the rest of us have a choice in the matter.

Well, some people do. Some of us don’t. Not really.

Anyway, the point is that it doesn’t matter what the armed individual does for a living. What matters is that good guys with guns are the only thing that stops bad people with evil in their hearts. Some are police officers while some are private citizens who are exercising their right to bear arms in accordance with local law.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that a good guy with a gun was there and stopped the bad guy. That’s why we need more good guys with guns. We need people who will see situations like this and act, thus putting an end to the violent confrontation and, over time, reducing violence in general.

You know, people like this officer who, under the circumstances, wasn’t nearly as obligated to respond as when he was in uniform. He was being paid to guard a church, not confront an armed attacker, but he did it anyway. He did it and helped make our streets a little safer.

Like I said, the only thing that will stop an attack like that is a good guy with a gun. Nothing else will do. Luckily, there was one handy so the only person who is now a statistic is the thug in question.

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