(h/t Willie Soon)
I hadn’t heard of Paul Thacker, journalist at DrilledNews. An article he wrote for Environmental Science and Technology back in 2006 defending Mann from criticisms by McIntyre is archived at Realclimate – Gaia knows why, since it contains no information about Mann’s work or McIntyre’s criticisms, referring merely to “former mining executive” McIntyre having possibly discovered a “glitch.”
More recently, in 2016 he wrote an opinion piece for the New York Times titled: “Scientists, Give Up Your E-mails,” so either he’s had a change of heart or he hadn’t been paying attention for the previous decade.
Last year Chris Monckton at WUWT accused Thacker of promoting a “sedulously-fabricated foofaraw of flatulent whigmaleeries” about Willie Soon. (I clearly wasn’t paying attention then – I who claim to have a foofaraw-proof whigmaleery-detector.)
Anyway, Thacker has just written this obituary for the late Fred Singer:
which says, among other things:
I regret the day when I ran into Singer in person and didn’t walk over and throw something at him. One summer morning in Washington, I took some friends across town to the Eastern Market neighborhood for brunch at Montmartre, a neighborhood treasure of Parisian flair and simple-yet-amazing French food […] Halfway through my ham and cheese omelette with mustard crème, I looked across the restaurant and recoiled as if slapped. Seated two tables away was Fred Singer. Putting my fork down, I told my friends why I was no longer hungry. They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I spoke ill of Singer that day, and I feel no need to stop just because the bastard doesn’t breathe. What I saw that day was the face of evil, a detestable animal shoveling fine food into his fanged maw. Many have said to me in private that they also found him evil. That’s why evil persists: because too many fear risking the high salaries that pay for nice meals at French restaurants by speaking up in public. I would prefer to eat bologna sandwiches on stale bread and preserve my dignity. […]
Today there’s a generation of young people coming into adulthood completely pissed off and frightened (for good cause) that because of people like Singer, we have done next to nothing to halt global warming. It’s true that others who are still alive have also done horrible things to protect the fossil fuel industry. But having studied Singer closely for years, I know that he did this not just for a paycheck. He did it with wild abandon and joy, and delighted in his power to frighten and cow those who tried to point out that he was wrong. […]
More important than reciting someone’s resume, is painting a portrait for readers of the deep emotions that person stirred within others. Capturing the essence of the deceased. So here goes:
Fred Singer was the beast whose name must not be said. He was the mad fantasy of corporate lawyers who, catching a glimpse of a harvest moon, tear off their ties and rip apart their clothing to release their inner werewolves. Howling with mad money glee, they leap from oak-paneled boardrooms with gold-coffered ceilings to run naked through the heartland of America, shitting nuclear waste in town squares. They pollute the air with foul breath, poison streams with toxic sweat — causing death, destruction, and horrifying economic misery — before ending the night’s orgy with a scrumptious dessert of fat little toddlers, roasted beneath a UV lamp.
The dead do not read. Obituaries are written for the living. Fred Singer is survived by 7.5 billion inhabitants of our planet, which is being destroyed by global warming.
Well, that certainly captures the essence of something, I’m not sure what, and I’m not sure I want to know.
For an alternative view of the late Fred Singer, see a number of articles at WattsUpWithThat filed here.