No Alzheimer's, but the Same Exploitation.

According to the New York Post, one of Michael Moore's many victims has finally filed a lawsuit because of the way an interview with him in the hospital was taken out of context for Fahrenheit 9/11.

Good for him. I seem to recall him appearing in Michael Wilson's Michael Moore Hates America to protest the way his voice and image were exploited by the Lyingest Lefty of Them All.

Via Night Rider.

"Forget That I'm Fifty, 'Cause You Just Got Paid."

Robert C. Balling, Jr. makes Al Gore his bitch.

True or False

The average brilliant person is a total idiot in one arena or another.

Don't Knock Yourself Out.

Circa 1982, my friend EB came up with a list of kitchen items that Only Need To Be Rinsed. Such as:

• the coffee maker; and

• the garlic press.

To which I'd add:

• the cast-iron frying pans;

• the outdoor grill; and

• that bowl that holds the fresh fruit on the counter.

What else?

So, My Glasses Are Finally Fixed.

They got broken while I was working for The Stepfather and his Stepford Wife. The computer screen was set up at the back of my desk, so the focal point was out past the range of my reading glasses. I don't have bifocals, so I had to keep switching back and forth between my driving and reading glasses. Off, on. Off, on.

Finally one of the screws gave way on my reading glasses while I was reviewing proofs on the July issue. I read all the finals for August without them, fighting headaches all the way. My reward? No time off to get the things fixed. Then I got fired.

O how I miss that job.

It Was Bound to Happen.

I found an error in the book about punctuation. I may cry. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope that the text somehow had to be re-entered for the American edition (or perhaps for paperback), and the British version is actually pure, without blemish.

Eats, Shoots, and Leaves. Now with a typo. Lynne Truss has betrayed my trust.

True or False

The entire world of graphic arts would be very different without the vogue LSD enjoyed in the 60s/70s/80s.

Memorial Day Thoughts

. . . from the guy who was blending autobiography with political commentary long before the term "blog" was even coined.

Via Insty.

She Is Maybe Nine Years Old.

She's a fan. I read a story aloud at a party last month that she liked a lot. Today Attila the Hub chatted with her mother while the girl talked to me about my writing, and her writing, and whom we each liked to read.

I realize that this is one of many times in my life I've witnessed an exchange between a precocious little girl and an adult who is just awfully dense: yes, this small person really is interested in adult things, and can be spoken to on an intellectual level.

Every other time, of course, I've seen this from the perspective of the smart little girl. Now I'm the stupid adult. Tempus fugit.

Goldstein

. . . wants to know if we're having trouble with his site. I am. There are too many big words used over there.

He actually is the only human being on the planet against whom I've lodged this complaint, though I believe I brought a similar charge against Professor Purkinje when I suggested that the chemical compounds he uses in his lab have way too many syllables in their names.

If I ran the circus . . .

Bloody, But Unbowed.

And untapped.

Royce Gracie is a class act. Thirty-nine freakin' years old.

Alexandra

. . . on the Mt. Soledad Memorial Cross issue.

Cool

. . . Art Blog. Expecially if you're Korean, or Polish.

I Was Going To Go Out Tonight.

Instead, I think I'll stay in and work on my writing and my weight problem.

Not necessarily in that order.

No Such Luck.

Writer's Group didn't turn on me with pitchforks. So I suppose I shall have to finish this thing.

Fuck Congress.

Both parties. Just fuck 'em.

Via Insty, who's not the least bit pleased with the bipartisan assertion that Representatives are above the law.

If only they made rat traps big enough for congresscritters . . .

Were We Talking About Bob Hymers?

I guess we were. If you're curious about his church—either the Baptist Tabernacle or its predecessors—feel free to join the Hymer Warners Group (via Yahoo Groups). Members of that group are able to give you a historical perspective you may not be receiving now.

Just be very honest about the reason you're checking it out: Yahoo Group members are very sensitive about hearing "half-truths" from those they suspect of spying on behalf of R.L. Hymers. After all they've been through, I cannot blame them.

While We're on the Subject

I'd be interested in knowing how a judge can rule that the City of San Diego cannot give a monument to the Federal Government to manage.

And, of course, why the Feds are allowed to maintain memorial crosses, but cities and counties cannot allow crosses to appear anywhere that is officially sanctioned (even itty bitty ones on the Los Angeles County Seal).

Why Are Athiests So Thin-Skinned?

The idea of forcing the City of San Diego to tear down a cross that honors vets of the Korean War is just outrageous.

When you see a memorial cross do you think "I hope our leaders respect every drop of blood that's shed on our behalf"? Or do you think, "freedom isn't free"? Perhaps, instead, you think, "I guess the local government is attempting to endorse, sub rosa, a specific religion, violating the principle that separates church from state." If so, how freaking stupid are you? As stupid as Philip Paulson? That's pretty stupid.

There Is No Life Challenge

. . . that cannot be faced when one is fortified on a regular basis by fresh berries, topped with a little creme fraiche.

(I'll add the accents to creme fraiche if someone will give me the html; I'm busy printing out fiction; I'm going to let them have an important reveal tonight, and I'm shakin' in my boots. More later.)

"You Know," She Remarked,

"you do look beautifully put together."

It was nice to hear, especially since I was wearing black velour sweatpants and flipflops, and had barely decided to wear makeup yesterday, crappy as I was feeling.

Most of the time my mother regards me as awfully vain for wanting to bathe every day and wear makeup when I go out: it disrupts her schedule. It takes too long.

But on a day I've invested nearly nothing in my appearance, it's a nice surprise when she says a thing like that.

Full Slate Today.

Errands galore, and tonight is writer's group—so I need to crank out a little bit of fiction. Therefore, you may not hear too much from me until I get that 11:00 p.m. energy surge and check in to obsess about Some. Urgent. New. Thing.

Diagnostic Time.

Lunch with my mother. I talked mostly about myself. We came up with theories about my stomach problems, including:

1) inflammation of my appendix, with fun times ahead of me;

2) an ulcer;

3) some exotic cancer (perhaps the first of its type);

4) pain resulting from alien abduction and resulting abdominal probe (up-to-date Martians have appently gotten bored with the lower intestines and are moving up the old digestive system);

5) "Welcome to middle-age, Babe: you're fat and you get tummy aches. Deal."

Okay. We Can Play Doctor.

Wait; that sounded wrong. I was convinced it was the flu until I failed to get any body aches. So my symptoms are occasional vague feelings of nausea and gassiness, along with:

-dizzy spells every 48 hours or so;

-near-constant discomfort all along the front of my torso, from right below my boobs nearly down to my pelvis;

-bloating (e.g., I'm wearing sweatpants because anything with a waistband is uncomfortable).

Harrell's Done

. . . with the GOP. He has a few points, of course. And, as usual, his writing is exquisite.

Ultimately he is wrong in his conclusions, and very right in a couple of his premises.

Via Feisty Republican Whore, who alerted the Cotillion via e-mail. Arguments ensued about: 1) the merits of Jeff's arguments; 2) the prevalence of his state of mind; and 3) which among us is entitled to call him "my Jeffypoo." (Several, it turns out. Men are such sluts.)

Of Course, My System Is Still a Mess.

Probably an obscure symptom of peri-menopause, because of the way the stomach upset comes and goes. It's likely that my hormones have gone kerflooey, and taken my erstwhile iron-clad constitution with 'em. Oh, well: some people live like this their entire lives.

Boy. Suddenly, Publishing is Hot Again.

This is the first time in some time I've run out of business cards at an event like this. And the first time I've had cocktail-hour chit-chat turn into a quasi-interview right on the spot.

I'm also hearing from potential clients through other means of networking. It looks like the client I had to "release" during the mistake-job era has already been made up for. And, of course, I could end up getting that one back anyway.

Plus, a lot of the "slow payers" are sending me checks I'd given up hope on. So not only do I have great prospects—I'm not nearly as cash-poor right now as I thought I'd be.

Out Tonight

. . . to the Flacks and Hacks party. I have to be the extraverted Joy. How tiresome.

But I need business cards—they're like oxygen to me—so off I go.

I haven't yet fully recovered from last week's mini-flu/upset stomach (exacerbated by the waiting-to-be-fired thing on Friday), so no gin for me, either. Strictly tonic and lime.

On the other hand, these things are always held in fascinating places: cute bars discovered by the folks at Media Bistro. It's generally worth going for that alone.

Reynolds on the Idiocy

. . . of managers who restrict access to the web, making any quick research question a long, involved process that entails getting permission to enter ordinary URLs on your browser.

There's more to managing, he suggests, than simply making sure your employees look busy. Well. One would think. Of course, there are some extraordinarily poor managers out there.

I know my page views go up during the week, and simply assume that my posts go particularly well with a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish—or whatever people are having on their mid-morning breaks these days.

Insty and Dr. Helen

. . . interview Mary Cheney about her new book, Now It's My Turn.

Nice to see her abandon the low-profile approach I've always admired, yet been somewhat frustrated by. I've been so curious about her story.

Glenn:

Unlike some people, we actually spend most of our time talking about the non-gay parts! And, shockingly, that's actually most of the book. Who knew?

Boston.

End of July/beginning of August.

I'll be travelling alone, so I'll consider any money-saving tips that don't involve either sharing a room or giving up internet access.

Why? Well, you know: it's hard to drop by if you aren't in the neighborhood. And how else would I see my friends?

Thank you,

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. We owe you so much. Happy birthday.

(And thank you Google, for letting me know. But that doesn't mean I'm not still mad. "I hate myself for lovin' you.")

"Will the excess of fat on your American bones . . ."

"cushion the impact as you sink like a stone?"

Whatever, by the way, happened to Crowded House?

I loved that song: after all, Americans do run to excess on many matters. I maintain that we are amateurs when it comes to drinking (our Skid Row bums, for example, cannot out-drink Europeans, Aussies or Kiwis), but other than that we're exuberant bundles of excess.

We overeat, overwork and overplan.

My Husband Tells Me

. . . that I stop at horse crossings, but only slow down for stop signs.

I've explained that I can tell when there's another vehicle at a stop sign, and when there is not. But a stop sign in and of itself is very unlikely to jump out into the street in front of my car, causing a collision.

Whereas large mammals (horses, deer, humans) will do that every now and again.

He appears unconvinced. Which leads me to believe the Sheriff's deputies will likewise be a bit skeptical, should any of them observe my unorthodox approach . . .

The Birds Sound So Strange Up Here.

One of them made a whistling noise the reminded me of a tea kettle just as the water is beginning to simmer.

Another produces a sound very like a dial tone, but louder—as if through a speaker phone.

I've lived up here for nine and a half years, and have never learned the names of our flora and fauna. (Can one say "fauna" WRT birds? Someone check for me.)

"My Life Is an Open Book."

What are the advantages? Disadvantages? Discuss.

There is a school of thought out there to the effect that bloggers disclose too much about their private lives. Yet because a lot of them have dealt with the demons in their closets, many of them seem extraordinarily well-adjusted to me.

I believe in privacy. As a matter of fact, I hold those who violate it in deep contempt. But the confessional style of writing has a huge fan base, and those who indulge in it online seem stronger to me than most, in a bunch of ways.

Ad Time!

Now that I'm producing actual entries, you can buy blogads from me again. Yippee!

Or those of you who are earning steadily could just send me some dough, since I'm going to be doing a little outreach, and it's lovely to have "seed money" in the business account for same.

As usual, certain people are prohibited from contributing, because they live too close to the edge as it is. And they know who they are.

So I Was Telling Some of My DA Friends About Getting Fired.

"Would it be fair," one of the older women there asked me, "to say it was a blessing in disguise?"

"No, it wouldn't," I responded. "There was no disguise involved. None whatsoever. Pure blessing."

Excellent News.

I got fired.

And, I'm being perfectly sincere: it's the best thing that could have happened. I'll explain later, but right now I'm dancing around, celebrating my newfound freedom.

I have May pole up in the living room. I know it's a bit late, and it turns out that it's particularly challenging for one person to dance around a May pole by herself, aided only by her husband—when he's awake.

But I'm managing just fine.

Political Prisoners in the United States.

I know we have 'em. How many are there?

Are there any who are behind bars for reasons other than the "War on Drugs"? Not many, I imagine.

Just askin' the question.

So . . .

We can call it a SoCal snow day. I've caught up on sleep. I dealt with a few of my volunteer commitments, and housework . . . um, no. Shall I watch TV? I'm not walking downstairs unless someone tells me it's going to be worth my while. Is there a new Boston Legal on?

Or shall I just finish re-reading America's Secret War?

I only listen to you, my readers, on these matters. I used to have an id, but I traded it away for a package of crackers.

Paging

. . . Japan. I mean, is there anything you wanted to say out loud?

(h/t: Goldstein.)

So. The House is Rented.

And my mother's getting full price for the place, which is nice after everything she's been through.

One woman who looked at it tried to 1) bargain her down, and 2) hustle into an immediate commitment that very afternoon. She's a producer, which kinda figures (not to promote stereotypes; some of my best spouses are producers, ya know).

It kind of annoys me when people try to take advantage of my mother because she seems like a sweet little old lady. But mom just said—sweetly—"I'm not comfortable making sudden decisions."

Saved me some ammo, that did.

Is Wisconsin Descending

. . . . Into Civil War?

I'm worried, you know: people disagree with each other. And stuff.

In Response to My Post

. . . . about real estate management—and what it means, philosophically, to be a landlord—K put together an extensive meditation on the subject, with plenty of practical tips.

Head on over there.

Mark Steyn Lays It on the Line

. . . in an essay entitled "To Connect the Dots, You Have To See the Dots."

Suppose you're a savvy mid-level guy in Washington, you've just noticed a pattern, you think there might be something in it. But it requires enormous will to talk your bosses into agreeing to investigate further, and everyone up the chain is thinking, gee, if this gets out, will Pat Leahy haul me before the Senate and kill my promotion prospects? There was a lot of that before 9/11, and thousands died.

Please read the whole thing.

Via Insty.

When You're Right, You're Right.

Remarks Percifield:

If the cheap tramp is going to run around dressed like that, you can hardly blame the sea lion.

Sleep Till Noon.

And screw 'em all.

UPDATE: Okay. Slow crowd tonight. Need a hint?

Gentrification

Follow-up to my landlord post: how often do good—but poor—tenants get kicked out of properties because a neighborhood is becoming "gentrified"?

I ask because my some of my liberal friends treat "gentrification" as if it were a dirty word: to me, it means I'm less likely to get assaulted. But there's a presumption that lots of the "worthy poor" were displaced to make room for the students, artists, and young professionals who are moving in.

Thoughts?

What's the Opposite

. . . of "Independently Wealthy"?

If You Rent Houses or Apartments to Other People

is it a sort of calling, an opportunity to be of service while securing your financial future, or simply a business?

How often do you raise the rent? Does the rising value of your rental property justify raising the rent as little and as infrequently as possible?

Is it better to charge market rates, or slightly below?

Is the business of providing housing different from other businesses? How?

My Plan

. . . was to go to bed early on Friday night, and sleep for-freakin'-ever. Instead of crashing around midnight and getting up sometime around 6:30—as is my habit during the week these days—I was going to start sleeping circa 10:00 and keep going until noon in hopes of cancelling this entire week's rest debt.

With some inactivity and a little Ambien, I was indeed asleep before 10:00. However, my body has somehow gotten the message that after six hours it's time to wake up and begin feverishly worrying about work.

So I arose at 4:00 a.m. On a Saturday morning.

Yes, I'm having a gin and tonic. One. No, I didn't take any more sleeping pills.

I Wish I Were Better

. . . at lying to myself. I'm too quick to admit stuff.

Presumably, the absence of conventional defense mechanisms is in itself a defense mechanism of a more twisted variety.

Would Someone Go

. . . fun Jeff out of this?

Prof. Reynolds

. . . on Tom Cat:

"Celebrity isn't an entitlement."

Indeed.

I Wonder What Normal People Do

. . . to celebrate their anniversaries. They probably don't settle down in the media room with a deli chicken from Ralph's and the Ultimate Fighting Championship on pay-per-view. But one of the Gracies will be there! We must watch. Nothing more romantic than watching Brazilian-style jujitsu dominate the cage.

Who Do You Know

. . . who's more arrogant than I am?

Answer: nobody.

I Have a Friend.

She's started ordering tonic and lime when she goes to bars, because all the gin there is so pedestrian.

Is she turning into a snob?

"How Do You Stay So Prolific, Joy?"

I work hard to make sure that 99% of what I write is complete and utter shit.

I'm also capable of whipping up a few pages of dialogue on my lunch hour if writers' group is meeting that night.

Though I shudder to take it in: our teacher always tells me I'm really good at dialogue, and should stop writing so much of it. She's harsh, I tell you.

Glenn Reynolds

. . . on Abstinence Education:

I think that it's OK to tell high school kids they shouldn't have sex yet. I think that saying that sex outside of marriage is bad is both wrong (sex outside of marriage isn't necessarily bad at all, in my opinion, and can be an excellent thing), and an inappropriate use of tax dollars.

"An excellent thing." That would, of course, depend upon whom one selects for same, and the talents he/she brings to the, um, table.

I'm Writing.

It's just that you aren't reading.

I'm blogging, but MT is having its annual snit about the length of my posts: it only wants short ones these days. So you don't get to see most of my brilliant observations about life.

Of course, that means that when Movable Type is in a better mood I'll never have to blog again, what with all the entries I've got stashed away in various Word files.

I Want a Kitty Cat.

And Prof. Purkinje once alerted me to the fact that genetic engineering has finally produced hypo-allergenic ones.

Two grand, from what I hear. But I'd be happy every moment for the rest of my life, and you can't put a price on that.

Movable Type, aka Carrie Nation.

It won't let me correct my typos from last night.

And now I just popped tonight's Ambien, so I'll be producing more quite soon.

Editors around the world, prepare to disown me.

Why I Cannot Trust Men.

Think about it: here is a group of people who share a profound yet irrational conviction that their worth as human beings is directly tied to the size of a particular item.

Each pretends to know that this item is bigger than most others like it. Each tries to project this confidence wherever he goes.

And then, when he has to urinate, he pulls this thing out in front of others afflicted by the same general anxiety he is. The pulls theirs out, too. All in front of each other.

Is this smart behavior? Would you vote for someone from this sex as President of the Fucking United States? If so, what are you smoking?

I Have One Free Night a Week.

Should I:

1) Start dropping by the range again for some badly needed target practice?

2) Find a yoga studio or T'ai Chi class near my workplace?

3) Take up jujitsu again?

4) Work on one of my long-term writing projects?

5) Leave it unstructured and stop getting all compulsive about filling every waking hour.

I'm Hearing Concerns

. . . about how, exactly, people are supposed to get in touch with me. After all, I've somehow messed up my home e-mail account, and can't send out from that.

And then there's the fact that I'm no longer picking up messages on my landline.

Got something urgent to tell me? You can always drop a comment here.

Better yet, write me a note, and tuck it into a box with a bottle of Van Gogh gin. Place it on my doorstep, ring the bell, and run away.

It's, you know. It's the only way to be sure.

Send Jeffie G.

. . . some money. Now. Lots of money.

Thanks.

Authentification, 2

What else am I reading? Well, I'm re-reading this, because it's so soothing. That is, I've read it before, and the story of all the activities that went on under the public radar in the wake of 9/11 somehow reassure me. Even the failures, like Tora Bora, make me consider the possibility that we never wanted to talk UBL out in the first place. At least, it leads me to believe that we learned a lot from the things that went wrong.

Also, I like ordnance. Can I get a witness on that?

Authentification, 1

What am I reading now? Glad you asked.

It's a book about punctuation. However, because the decision was made not to Americanize the Stateside edition, the punctuation is all "wrong" in the eyes of the average Yankee copyeditor.

"Two people, divided by a common language."

No. It Really Is Me.

I know you've never gone a full week before without hearing from me—or at least a guest blogger—but it apppears you all survived, or you wouldn't be pestering me with suggestions that I was kidnapped by aliens and have secretly been replaced with an alien 'droid.

It is me, and I shall prove it.

How Funny.

First hardware issues—and now something going wrong with my e-mail application. If you need to get in touch, try me at my blog address so I can respond. Right now my home account is acting up a bit.

Of Course, We Were Tremendously

Successful at yesterday's fundraiser: we doubled last year's take. (#1)

I got tons of compliments on the refreshments, keeping my group's reputation intact as Those Who Put on a Great Workshop with Lots of Terrific Snacks. (#2)

Goal #3, getting through the day without cussing at anyone, would have also been met if it hadn't been for those obnoxious cops from Pasadena PD.

Oh, well. Next year on that one.

No, Seriously.

It was bad. I almost got the DTs. Attila the Hub nearly had me committed over the weekend.

Working hard,

playin' hard . . .

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