Random Stuff

In August of 2012 Cane Caldo exploded into the manosphere with what was, as far as I know, the first guest post at Dalrock. I had been seeing evidence of Cane’s presence for a few months prior to his guest post in various comboxes. he may have been around for ten years before August of 2012. I just didn’t know it.

One thing about Cane is you can’t ignore him. He is known to be where he is…know what i mean? Not important, this isn’t a psychoanalysis of anyone.

I think Ive mentioned seeing a Dalrock post back when he first started, liking it, but being unable to recall his blog’s name. It was two or three years later when I started consistently reading and commenting there. Dalrock’s even temperament doesn’t normally coexist in someone who can make an analysis with specificity, detail, rigor and yet always readable.  Those things do not often coexist in the same person. But this is not an analysis of Dalrock either.

Over the last couple of days I opened Cane’s and Dalrock’s blogs, respectively, during separate internet sessions, and found that both of them are away, both have disabled comments, and both will be back soon.

I can’t hold back my revelation any longer. Folks………………………………………

Cane and Dalrock are the same person!


Do you ever notice strange things about some song lyrics decades after the song was popular in your youth or early adulthood. Have you noticed, too, that things you found profound 30 years ago are pedestrian now? Finally things that we may have missed back then are clear now.

True randomness….I was getting something from a shelf in my closet. A CD jewel box fell from the very top and landed on the floor. It was a John Cougar Mellencamp CD. More randomness, did he get his name hyphenated? I know a man who hyphenated his name along with his wife. So he was John Smith Jones, and she was Jane Jones Smith. Ground breakers….that was in the 80’s.

On the CD that fell there is a fairly well known song called “Jackie Brown”. In it Cougar sings:

What ugly truths freedom brings
And it hasn’t been very kind to you.

Is this a reference to race? I doubt an Indiana white boy is singing about slavery, but if he is a liberal , liberals cannot get enough attention trying to make slavery their issue. Lets peal off into more randomness… This is why you hear movie stars blathering on and on that they “advocate” for Africa. What does that even MEAN anyway? Advocate is a word with real utility in a few cases. Lawyers,a  medical ethicist, perhaps a lobbyist …but these are paid advocates. Apparently even I can be an advocate. I can even advocate for Africa. Now….is it not absurd to say one is an advocate foe an entire continent? Can something tangible be accomplished? Of course not. But only meanies are not advocates for Africa. I’m a meany. Back the lyrics.

If its not white guilt manifested, the more likely meaning is more disturbing and frankly stupid. Its a bleeding heart cry that under “freedom” some people don’t do as well as others. So we animate “freedom” and make it unkind. Its not hard to figure what would be kind then is it?

Last random thing. Its a wonder women are not robbed or accosted more often. Bless their precious hearts, they have almost no spacial awareness. Do this. Take a cart and walk the aisles of a grocer. Come across a woman furrowing at a can of soup. Her vision can be as little as 45 degrees to your line of approach. Well inside her range of vision, not her peripheral, rather her direct vision. When your cart is 1 inch from her hips she MAY look very surprised and move. More likely you will still have to ask. How do they make it through a day like that? Simple. men do what we are supposed to. We graciously accommodate and we protect. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Its a stretch to call this a post. But I’m advocating exactly that.










19 thoughts on “Random Stuff

  1. I don’t understand those who give up allowing comments on their blogs for Lent. Doesn’t seem like much of a sacrifice, innit?

    Then again, I don’t believe in giving up anything for Lent.

    I’m a Reformational Protestant; we don’t do that.

  2. 1. Giving up things strikes me as an absurd parody of what we are supposed to do everyday as Christians.

    2. I don’t think Cane and Dalrock are the same person, but I agree with the overall concept: They are two sides of the same coin.

  3. So the three blogs represent the three sides of the man we call Cane Caldo? The statistician at Dalrock, the fiercely analytical at Zippy’s, the poetic, theologically profound preacher at Cane Caldo’s.


  4. Yes Empath, I have carefully observed how unobservant most people really are. They do not use their peripheral vision. Growing up in the woods that was always high on my list of senses. Women are definitely the worst (by me anecdotal observations).

  5. Dalrock has too big of an ego to post under other names. But he might be copying the other two.

  6. Elspeth – “So the three blogs represent the three sides of the man we call Cane Caldo? The statistician at Dalrock, the fiercely analytical at Zippy’s, the poetic, theologically profound preacher at Cane Caldo’s.”

    No, he’s just Zippy.

    Cane has impersonated Stingray on occasion when she needed to protect her secret identity, though.

  7. Unintended consequences….I didn’t intend a seriousmdiscourse on Cane/Dalrock, Cane being Dalrock being Cane was a joke.
    Then again, I am missing things. I didn’t realize it was a Lent thing. To each their own as far as giving things up. Giving things up and wearing on your sleeve however I have noted and find it , well, unfortunate

    Zippy….fiercely analytical? I think you have ….qua……confused an analytical person….qua…..with a sesquipedalian, did I say qua

  8. GIL it is anecdotal about the obliviousness. Its one of those STRONG anecdotes that I feel safe assuming it an be extrapolated to a generalization.

  9. Empath, it works with my chickens too. The rooster is keeping a lookout while the hens have there heads down eating. Call it risk awareness or whatever. Some of us are just more domesticated than others. Growing up our version of “Teddybear” went like:

    “If you go out to the woods today you’d better open your eyes.
    If you go out to the woods today you’re in for a big surprise,,,,,,,,,”

    That and I play hockey, so it’s only natural that we kept our heads on a swivel lest it get knocked off.

  10. ’tis the season for random. This fits with the hamster-whisperer too.

    The forsythia gave out a week ago in suburban Houston, it’s just green now, and I thought the yellow jessamine was already gone except for a couple of sparse way-out-of-reach clusters high up in small trees budding in the woods. But while strolling this Saturday I came across a big patch head high, thick enough to get tangled in, by following the strong scent. I wrapped the vine around my left fist a couple dozen times, snipped it with my mini multitool pliers, and brought it home just minutes away. “Oh that smells lovely!” my wife said when I showed her. It really does, clean, like it should be women’s shampoo or something.

    “But I don’t have anything you can put it in,” she said. “I know” I said. We have this same discussion, every year, usually a month earlier. “I just brought it so you could smell it. It probably won’t last more than a few more minutes anyway.” I learned not to let the dog smell it first because he’d try to eat it. The cats don’t care one way or the other. “I didn’t know forsythia could smell so good!” she said, like she says every year. “It’s not forsythia, it’s jessamine. It’s a vine. It grows up in the trees. This year I didn’t have to climb to the treetop like usual, because the bough had broken.” She didn’t pick up on any of it, no concern about baby falling, or anything. I don’t go into details, usually, especially if they involve trespassing etc.

    “Oh, it’s a kind of honeysuckle” she said, like she says every year. “No,” I said patiently, “honeysuckle won’t be out until next month, probably around Easter, it’s so late this year. This is jessamine. It smells a lot better.” The blooms were starting to fall off already. “Shouldn’t you put that in water?” she started being uneasy. “It doesn’t matter” I said, as I began unwinding. The crushed blooms smelled the sweetest. “You’re making a mess” she continued towards making difficulty. “It doesn’t matter” I said, and picked up the fallen flowers and began smearing them like they were hand lotion. “What is wrong with you, don’t you know honeysuckle is poisonous?” she was full out painful. The cats ran off. “No, honeysuckle is not poisonous, but jessamine is extremely toxic. It’ll shut down your breathing, and you’ll suffocate while still conscious.” I advanced on her with yellowish hands.

  11. Cane….you needn’t convince me. I knew you’d not be caught in any such thing as cyber-lent

    jf12, I was just in Houston last week. Having lived there 1 years I can tell you last Wednesday was one of two nice days Houston gets per year. One in the fall and one in spring. No cumulus clouds, so low humidity, 76 degrees and a deeper blue sky than usual. Magical….sadly rare

    We had Oleanders around our pool that we cut to nubs every fall and were 8 feet tall by the next fall with such gorgeous flowers and so nice around the pool. You can through a handful of random crap out your back door in Houston and some kind of plant will grow.

    What is not rare is that every year this time i head for San Antonia for a petrochemical convention, this year marks 26 times. In 1985 I went for the first time and I lived in West Va. We flew to Houston and drove and I marveled at the blue bonnets and Indian Paintbrush on I10. through my time in Houston we photographed out then little kids in bluebonnets every year. They are magnificent. Now I live elsewhere and fly straight to San Antonio so i miss Ladybirds gift to Texans that she placed along the interstates.

  12. Cane and I can’t possibly be the same person. As everyone knows, he wears glasses and I do not.

    Thanks for the kind words Empath.

  13. Kicking the can of random down the road.

    My sitting-outside-at-work buddies have dwindled. One old guy, the heavy smoker, retired, and another is now too good for us or something. So we few gather at breaks around the smoking barrel, although the only one who smokes is my little gay fwend, a middle-aged Latinate who would be cuter without his little ponytail and new black beard. He often leers broadly, with impossibly white teeth, especially at young women, as if they share a secret understanding of something they should not. He never says much, although he has a pleasant, rich voice, albeit with an unaffected lisp. He gets all of my jokes, instantly, without explanation, so most of my comments are directed to him. He sits or stands in place and smokes sharply, jerkily, yanking the fag out whilst inhaling. I instead pace around gesticulating, and staying upwind of his smoke. The tall new girl has only been coming a few years, and smoked for a while, for an excuse I guess, and sometimes says a lot, gung-ho, but not often. She once said I seemed to circle my fwend like he was my prey, and seemed to think it significant rather than merely evocatant. The young security guard, married, with children, and gaining weight due to sitting around listening to the radio and pretending to check ids, has also been coming with me on some lunch walks. He got curious on where I went since I often had to use his faucet to hose the slime off my boots when returning from a brownfield walk. He can’t seem make up his mind whether to be more interested in the gay guy or gung-ho girl.

  14. A dose of random. As I was walking at lunch, I went the “good boy” way down sidewalks and through a big park. I rapidly realized virtually all of the half-naked people there (it was in the 80s, partly cloudy) were women. Women jogging. Women pushing strollers. Women laying out, exposing their goodies to the sun god. Women power-walking. Women playing volleyball. You get the picture. At one point a group of hooligan women on skateboards came barreling down the walk (no, not making it up. It’s April no fools day) and I stepped off into knee-high clover. It looked like it felt good, so I removed my boots and socks and carried them, my ultrawhite feet getting somewhat grass stained. After a while I sat down on a little knoll, facing away from the sunworshippers, removed my cowboy hat and fanned myself, and a tiny little girl squealed and ran and hugged me. Her mother, a blushing young girl herself, said I looked like her father, and that she hoped I wouldn’t mind.

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