Goodbye, Acidman.

I just couldn't read you. Couldn't get around the way you used the word "cunt." Couldn't put up with "nigger."

But I know you touched a lot of lives, and I understand that you were a magical writer. And any friend of Juliette's is a friend of mine.

I wish you peace, and the God I believe in is flexible, so I have high hopes that if there is life after death, it's treating you a lot better than the one here did.

Be well.

Over at Seven Inches of Sense

. . . Joan riffs off one of my favorite ad campaigns of all time, "Real Men of Genius" with "Mr. Obscene Picture E-Mailer"—a worthy addition indeed.

Hitch on Blowjobs as the Epitome of Americana

This has to be one of the funniest, sexiest articles I've ever read.

Damn, I love Hitch:

Stay with me. I've been doing the hard thinking for you. The three-letter "job," with its can-do implications, also makes the term [blowjob] especially American.

I'm married, but I've half a mind to send him some Johnny Walker Bluejob just for that illuminating read.

Via InstaDirtyOldMan.

It's All Over Between Goldstein and Me.

I know it seems sudden, but now he's fucking with Samuel Taylor Coleridge; I shall have to publicly de-link him. (While I'm at it, I may impugn his masculinity because of his stay-at-home-dad status, refer to him as a "failed academic" or some such, and put down his sweet, adorable son—but I haven't quite decided about that part.)

More on Patriotism, NYT-Style

Even Coyne Maloney takes Bill Keller behind the woodshed for hiding behind the skirts of the Founding Fathers.

(Yeah. Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Franklin wore skirts sometimes; a lot of people don't know about that, but they had to let their hair down somehow: they lived in stressful times. Who are you to judge?)

My Present Dermatologist

. . . is very cautious about prescribing medicated skin creams. I believe he's afraid I'll somehow manage to dry them out, create powdered versions, and snort 'em.

Next thing you know, I'd be a Diprolene 'ho, and it would be all his fault.

But, no: he's saving me from that sort of existence.

Well, Now They Know.

The people in Writer's Group seem quite surprised by the solution to my murder mystery, and not 100% dissatisfied, either.

I'm trying to get away from the type of chick-generated puzzle in which the crime was committed either by the sexist, or by the woman who likes to wear fur in public. Or the real estate developer: that's a subtle one.

Now all I have to do is finish this thing and then burn it send it to potential agents/publishers. Piece of cake.

I'll be 44 years old in a week and a half; I've got to get a move on.

Protest Hotties.

Is Reynolds in danger, someday, of becoming a dirty old man?

Intelligent Lefty Blogs?

I have a few on my blogroll; they're mostly written by people I know. But I could use a few more. Every time I find one, it either goes bad or has its comments section taken over by silly people.

Send me your favorites—not from an anthropological perspective, but rather an intellectual one.

Best Small Database?

I'm getting to the point where in order to keep track of all my contacts, clients and prospects, I need to set up a small database.

Has to work on a PowerBook. Has to be user-friendly. Has to be non-threatening to English majors.

I'd also like it to peel grapes for me, but that's probably asking a bit much.

Distressing Moments for Former Marxists, 1

The instant you say to yourself, "oh, wait: I'm a total running dog these days."

So, I Show Up at My Mother's House.

"Do you have anything to eat?" I ask her. "I want salad."

"No problem," she tells me.

"I had a fight with Attila the Hub. Let's hate men for a while."

"I'm not sure I can do that," she responds. "But if I really concentrated, I could probably resent your father for a few minutes."

"Don't. After all, he put some nice semen in you, with cool DNA. And now you have two nice kids. Excuse me: one nice kid, and one repressed workaholic. However, the one who's nice is really nice."

Well, That's Something, Anyway.

I'm over my PMS.

That's the main problem with perimenopause: When I had actual cycles, I could predict the point at which temporary insanity would descend upon me. Now I freak out first, and find out why afterward.

Of course, that just makes me more interesting, colorful, and fun to be around. (Read: a total cunt. That happens to be my own version of the Marabel Morgan approach: a lot less sugar, a lot more spice.)

More Agony for Yemen

In a sur-prise move, the Yemeni "President" is going to stay in office, after all.

Meanwhile, those who are agitating for democracy continue to face imprisonment and the threat of death.

Jane's one-woman campaign to bring attention to the situation in Yemen fills me with grief for its people and gratitude that she has the stomach to keep going. As usual, her observations are worth reading.

Ann Coulter on the Grateful Dead

Who knew she was a 'head? Well, my friend Mikal knew. Apparently, so did Taylor Hill at jambands.com.

That Tiresome SWIFT Story.

Hackbarth takes the ACLU to task over its rather predictable—and unsupported—spin on the NY Times' shocking revelations that Western governments (including ours!) are trying to starve Al Qaeda of funds.

As Sean points out, the only thing shocking about it is the fact that the folks at the Gray Lady thought our enemies should know the details about how this is done.

Next thing you know, Big Brother is going to be asking us how much money we make, and where we get it. Oh, wait . . .

A Beautiful Morning

It's so pretty right now, and relatively cool. I may actually go for a walk before church.

I woke up early, so I'll probably resort to a nap this afternoon. But at the moment, all is well: the birds are singing in the yard, and living in La Canada is like being at summer camp—all year 'round. Nothing but trees everywhere I look.

And the crows—those noisy beasts—are quiet right now. Still no owls, though. Am I supposed to buy my own? Did the city fail to send me a memo?

Will blog for owls. Or Wols; either way.

If You Must.

Insty has a good roundup on the current Kos-TNR dustup, and the TownhallTownhouse-list scandal.

Somehow, the whole thing makes my head hurt, although it's always nice to watch the leftist fringe self-destruct. How funny that "people power" translates into "march in lockstep with me."

Feisty Republican Whore

. . . is staying in tonight.

She does not seem too happy about it, though.

I can relate to the idea that if someone suddenly sounds like Ace, that would be a turn-on. What is it about that guy, anyway?

Nonetheless, I maintain that there's nothing wrong with Feisty a Hitachi Magic Wand wouldn't cure.

From The New Republic

Martin Peretz writes:

It feels a bit demeaning to defend oneself against Kos. But I am one of the neo-con owners, and I am titular editor-in-chief. So here goes . . .

So I guess they aren't quite the Hard Righties Kos is making them out to be. Fun times.

Via Protein Wisdom.

Market Research

If I print up a book of my poems, produced from when I was 15 to around 25, and sold it here, would you buy it?

It'll be a small volume of angry mutterings about the dark side of human sexuality, along with meditations on the importance of fast cars and loud rock music. Some rhyme and many do not.

It's terribly deep.

I think I'd like $12-$15 a volume for it.

Basically, I'm looking to make a quick buck, here. And who can blame me?

It's So Hot in SoCal.

And it will get worse before it gets better; summer is upon us.

Coming Soon

Send me pix if you want to participate: I'm interested in the silliest examples you've seen of cell phone towers dressed up to look like something else. For instance, whenever they try to make them look like trees, they get the colors all wrong, and end up with very un-treelike constructions.

And then there is the church nearby that has added a ring of cells around the cross, as if it were simply a decorative element.

Goodbye, Viola Elder.

I found out a few nights ago that Larry Elder's mother died last Friday.

She was a sweet, good-hearted woman, and the entire country will mourn for her. We all knew her from her appearances on Larry's show; some call her "America's Mother." Larry, of course, called her "the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court."

It made me angry, of course: that's always my first reaction to loss of this kind.

But what she did while she was here was truly amazing. An inspirational gal.

And Starbucks, Too!

The dinner crowd started filtering in at Denny's, so I wandered, waif-like, into the night in search of a table with a power outlet nearby.

Actually, I've been considering nuking the T-Mobile HotSpot subscription, but I have to admit that this is nice: hot chai to fend off the overzealous air conditioner, and all the web I need.

Huzzah for Denny's!

I left work after lunch today so I could avoid L.A.'s nastiest freeway and get out to Redondo Beach early, and am now:

1) enjoying free internet access at the big D, while I

2) eat a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with French fries on the side.

Youngsters, beware; this is what illicit thrills look like when you're 43 years old.

"There's a Lot To Learn . . .

For wasting time.
There's a heart that burns,
There's an open mind."

Via Joyner, who didn't mention Neil Young or Linda Ronstadt. Not at all.

Femmes Fatale of WWII

They had ovaries of steel, those spy chicks. Jeff of Beautiful Atrocities commemorates one of them over at Agent Bedhead's digs.

More later, 'cause I have a few other good stories of distaff intel-gathering during that war.

Send Me to Siggraph

It's on the East Coast this year, so I'll need a few hundred dollars from you people to pay for my airfare. I was in Boston once, as a little girl of nine or so. We were driving through—my mother, my brother and I—during one of our New England road trips. (Weren't those a blast!)

I'm afraid I had a horrible allergic attack, though, so all I remember are violent sneezes and cobblestoned streets glimpsed through the back window of a red VW bug. If you send me to Siggraph this year, I'll suddenly become worldly and educated and stuff. Also, you'll get lots of juicy material on the latest trends in CGI.

Thanks!

Murtha

. . . is in trouble.

Sarah Silverman.

Fucking amazing. I just saw Jesus Is Magic with Attila the Hub, and it was vicious, simply inhuman . . . and insanely funny. It's your basic standup routine, sandwiched by a silly story line. But this chick is beyond edgy&mdashedgy is eating her dust.

The title, in case you were wondering, is not particularly representative of the movie: she's got no issues with Christians. I'm a little concerned, however, that she might be a bit anti-Semitic. And the show is obscene. Yet it's funny, funny, funny.

Local Murder.

This year we're hearing and seeing a lot of crows. This might be okay, except that I haven't heard any owls in a while, and if the crow populations have gone up because we don't have enough owls in the neighborhood, we will be plagued soon by bunnies eating our grass.

When that happens, we have to step in to protect, quite literally, our turf.

The only creature that really bothers me is the homo sapiens: there have been far too many of those in the past few years.

Oooh, Cool.

The site's back up. Hope you missed me. Absence, after all, makes something-or-other thingamajig.

I'm home, and happy, but after yesterday—volunteer work all morning, then housework and cooking all evening—I'm home, eating lotos flowers and surfing the web.

I May Be the Cleverest Woman in the World.

"What is this?" my father asked.

"It's boysenberry pancake syrup from Knott's Berry Farm," I told him.

"I'm supposed to put this on the fish?" He seemed startled.

"Just fucking do it," I responded. "And forget what I said it was."

Sure enough, he loved it. "I'd never before thought of treating salmon
as if it were pancakes," he told me. But I'd known that if I heated
that stuff up on the stove and poured it in a gravy boat, it would be
good on fish—which if course I don't even eat.

The Sun Also Rises.

My lime tree has recovered from its acute case of not-being-watered (from a few depressions ago), and it's a lovely day.

I'm up early, and headed out to Culver City to hang with my DA homies for a few hours (Regional Group Board Meetings and whatnot), and then I'm back to make the house slightly less messy before my father and stepmother show up for a nice dinner of grilled lamb and salmon.

Life could definitely be worse.

In other words, sometimes the blessings are so numerous they start counting themselves.

Excelsior.

Ever Had This Happen?

You're just sort of going along, just about as depressed as usual—no more, no less—when you suddenly hit a genuine bump in the road and realize that depression isn't so bad at all. As a matter of fact, it's downright tolerable.

Oh, well. I was on the Westside, and my mother made me a nice chicken salad. That's something.

Don't make me count the rest of my blessings; I'm not ready to quite yet.

"I've Got To—Got To—

lose this skin I'm in."

In more ways than one.

The Time Has Come.

I just hope that either women can be honorary pricks in this party, or that there's an auxiliary organization for Arrogant Cunts ('cause I have friends . . . you know).

Wow. He's, Like, the Anti-Goldstein.

Sifu Tweety is a bright guy, and his rhetorical inflections are so similar to those on Protein Wisdom that I must conclude he and Jeff were separated at birth, and one of them is in fact the other's evil twin.

Which one is evil? Time will tell.

Via Jeff. (You saw that one coming, right?)

So, What Would You Call This?

The Ultimate Feline Championship?

Blogagog

. . . has gone vegetarian. Or so he thinks, anyway.

Stand Up to HFM

One-stop shopping to protest the disgusting spectacle HFM has made of itself by stealing one of Michael Yon's photographs for the cover of Shock magazine.

The link includes: an online petition, ideas for pressuring the publishers of other HFM magazines (such as Woman's Day and Road and Track), a list of retailers that are carrying this pathetic attempt at a launch, and a list of executives within Hachette Filipacchi Media.

Thirty Things About Me, 8: Finale

1. What time did you get up this morning?

People get up in the morning? What, do they live on farms? Milk cows? WTF?

2. Diamonds or pearls?

Both. Though my pearl:diamond ratio is probably 30:1, so you know which one is my daily drive.

3. What was the last film you saw at the movie house?

United 93. But you knew that, deep down.

4. What is your favorite TV show?

Current: The Sopranos. All-time: either Banacek or Strangers with Candy.

Yes. We Ordered the Prius.

It should be here in September or so. In the meantime, we're planning on winning a Mercedes for Attila the Hub at our church fundraiser, and then I'm going to win Adam Carolla's Toyota Corolla in early July.

So we'll be okay, car-wise, for a few years. Until my mother decides that we all have to be driving hybrids, right this very minute!

I know what you're thinking. But we're way luckier than average: it's not as far-fetched as you imagine that we'll win two cars within three weeks.

Thirty Things About Me, 7

5. What did you have for breakfast?

An English muffin. Then watermelon, a bit later. Ain't this the fucking life?

6. What is your middle name?

Classified.

7. What is your favorite cuisine?

Indian, or maybe something Continental (e.g., French or Italian). Do I really have to choose?

8. What foods do you dislike?

Fish. Shellfish. Seafood. You know.

9. What kind of car do you drive?

A 12-year-old Saturn beater.

And Another Thing!

All you guys who are complaining that we let UBL slip through our fingers in Tora Bora should either tell me what your strategy would have been in that situation, or STFU.

Glad I got that off my chest. Whew!

Thirty Things About Me, 6

10. Favorite Sandwich?

Ham and gruyere.

11. What characteristic do you despise?

Cluttering. Hate it.

12. Favorite item of clothing?

Summer: my tank tops. Winter: my wool socks.

13. If you could go anywhere in the world for a holiday where would you go?

Fiji.

14. What color is your bathroom?

Right now, an awful beige. But it will be a light green, possibly with white accents.

Getting To Know the Cotillion Ladies.

It's Cassandra's "30 Things About Me" Carnival! And I was even allowed to participate with my memory problems limiting me to short posts (you have to scroll up and down to read the various installments of my "Thirty Things").

If you want the straight dope on some of the sexiest, smartest chicks in the rightosphere, head on over.

The Second Saga

. . . of Michael Yon and Those Who Steal His Work continues.

At least with the U.S. Army it appeared to be a bureaucratic blunder. This instance is outright theft by bottom-feeders.

Car Dealers

. . . can be real pigeons.

My mom wants to buy a Prius. We've had fun watching the bait-and-switch games, and the prices/interest rates that change, kaleidescope-like.

Tomorrow we'll get together to discuss options and then head to the dealership that hasn't been lying to her. If they can continue to tell the truth and feed us Actual Information, we'll ink the deal.

Never go to one of these places without a writing pad and a pen.

Thirty Things About Me, 5

15. What's your favorite brand of clothing?

Old Navy, along with any other manufacturer that uses natural fibers. Cotton and silk for me, Baby.

16. Where would you like to retire?

Right here where I am in good old SoCal. Perhaps a bit closer to the beach.

17. Favorite time of the day?

Ask Eric Clapton.

Thirty Things About Me, 4

18. What was your most memorable birthday?

A tie between 17th (a beautiful clear glass tea set) and 18th (for ten minutes, my very own male harem). There was also a lovely Polish meal, circa 22nd or so. I've had some good times, 'cause I've always had good friends.

19. Where were you born?
Woodruff Community Hospital. My father worked there as a pharmacist at the time.

Zarkman at Iowahawk

He's finding Paradise "overrated."

I figured I'd be caught in the next round of downsizing, so I started keeping myself prepared. For example, I shaved my junk every morning this week. Okay, I know what you're thinking: what the fizzuck? But trust me, it's in the Koran, and it's not as weird as it sounds. If you're about to be banging a room full of doe-eyed virgins, you're gonna want those nards Brazilian waxed pornstar style.

Thirty Things About Me, 3

20. Favorite sport to watch?
Gossiping. Okay, okay: track. Soccer. Men's basketball.

21. What are you wearing right now?
Oversize T-shirt, socks, underwear, a flannel shirt and a bathrobe. Very chic.

22. Under what star sign were you born?
Cancer. Which makes me a crabby person who likes rubies. Well, sometimes I cheat and buy garnets; I hope the January people don't mind.

Thirty Things About Me, 2

23. What fabric detergent do you use?
Whatever is cheapest and claims to be unscented.

24. Pepsi or Coke?
Gin and tonic. (Okay, okay: Coke, if I must.)

25. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
As Gertrude Stein once observed, if one is going to be up at dawn, it's better to ease into it rather than waking up and suddenly being confronted with such a sight.

Though when that blue light first spills over the curtains, my initial thought is usually, "I'm a very bad girl indeed. I ought to go to bed. As soon as I finish reading one more chapter, of course."

Thirty Things About Me, 1

26. What is your shoe size?
Ladies 5. It was 4 1/2 for years, but my foot spread out a bit.

27. Do you have any pets?
Not yet, but I want a doggie as soon as is practical.

28. Any new exciting news you'd like to share with your readers?
I'll be studying the crime novel with a well-known mystery writer and am in grave danger of finishing my book.

29. What did you want to be when you were little?
Bigger. And a fiction writer.

30. What are you meant to be doing today?
Just exactly what I am doing.

If Drugs Are Like Gold and Jewels

. . . physicians are the dragons placed in front of the cave to guard them.

I went to the doctor today for a hydrocortisone shot and some prednisone, but was instead given more skin care advice—none of it too different from what I've been doing over the past three decades. The only real news is that diphenhydramine is not a form of diprolene, so I've been buying the wrong OTC shit. I'm mad at myself, because I'm a proofreader and fact-checker. No excuse.

If the holistic approach doesn't work, however, I will install myself in a tower with a long-range rifle and start shooting—just before I scratch the skin right off my body.

Wow.

I cruised on over to Iowahawk this morning to see if he'd gotten around yet to pissing on Zarqawi's grave, and came across this summary of the "signifier blogstorm" last week. I'd heard of it, but hadn't yet followed the links.

Very insider-ey. And funnier 'n' hell, if one happened to be following the drama. No one slides from voice to voice like Dave—his parodies have the beauty of the best surfing footage. Right in the tunnel, Baby.

Damn Those Memory Issues

Lair also wants to know:

How involved were Iraqi forces in this? Can they conduct such operations on their own yet, or are they just a candy-coated shell over Coalition forces still?

I think precision bombing/close air support will remain an American specialty in Iraq, as it is everywhere else. I don't really have a problem with that. It's, you know: it's what we do best.

Laurence Has

Some sobering questions about the Zarkman's demise. Such as:

Zarqawi commanded Sunnis to hunt Shi'ites. Bin Laden wants everyone to unite and hunt Americans and Jews. Could Bin Laden have ordered Zarqawi's deputies to rat him out?

Zarqawi was attempting to exploit existing fault lines—a much more effective strategy than the "all together now" dreams of AQ leaders outside Iraq. But the simultaneous raids on insurgent strongholds suggests that the "resistance" is in its dying throes in Iraq. Onward.

It's Got a Great Beat.

So you can dance to it. And it contains an important message.

Quag--

mire!

You'd Think the Puppy-Blending Thing

. . . would have tipped us off.

(Via Mr. 666 himself.)

Abortion and Plan B

So far, things have stayed remarkably civil over here, where a young woman named Sara is taking Darleen to task over her abortion post.

Usually when I discuss my experiences on so-called "feminist" websites I'm referred to as a "troll," labeled "anti-choice," and disregarded by the kids I'm attempting to warn that this is a "choice" you would do well to avoid.

It's apparently quite shocking that some of us really do think it should be "safe, legal, and rare."

The Conservatives Are Coming!

And, boy: are they pissed.

The Answer?

Yes.

Back in Black.

Wow. Three DDoS attacks over the weekend. Fortunately, our hero Pixy fixed 'em with his Australian kung fu.

With guys like Ace in Munuvia, we're going to have problems. But the jihadis just can't compete, because 1) Westerners can get help from the wimmin in solving problems, and 2) Christian, Jewish, and normal Muslim men get laid more than Islamonutters. So they can concentrate better. Even setting aside our chick brain trust, we'd come out ahead.

A Word About Libel: Memo to Bob Hymers

RL Hymers has apparently expressed concern about "slanderous" discussions over the internet of his rather peculiar methodologies for running a church.

A few reminders are in order for my former pastor, Dr. Robert L. Hymers:

1) If it happens in writing, it's libel—not slander.

2) If it's true, it isn't libel. What I write about my experiences in your "churches" (read: cults) is true. I'll carry the scars with me for the rest of my life. Let it be.

Or apologize and renounce preying on the young.

Plenty to Blush About

. . . when Darleen and I look around and see what our pro-choice "allies" have to offer in the way of critical reasoning.

Women in Islamic countries live under house arrest and are having their genitals removed, but we're oppressed in this country for not having over-the-counter access to Plan B. Super.

Yes. Still Celebrating.

Last week I made the annual First Hamburgers of Summer to start grilling season and celebrate our anniversary. Tonight the husband took me out to an amazing restaurant.

We're running late this year: May is our month. Years ago we started dating at the beginning of the month, and we got married some years later over Memorial Day weekend. We celebrate the marriage, and our respective survival thereof.

I have work to do this weekend, but I believe I will get up early tomorrow and take care of it before church—because right now I'm enjoying the afterglow of venison and foie gras.

Lucky. That's me. Very lucky.

I'd Forgotten

. . . how much fun it is to sit around in 90-degree weather with a pillow on one's lap to protect one's knees from a hot computer.

I could turn on the AC, sure. But I'm far too noble and virtuous to do that until we hit 100.

I swear: this summer I'm going to work on one of the balconies. The downstairs one, I think. It's cooler.

Wow.

It's one of those times again: like the six-month period in which:

• we bought a house;
• three of our pine trees blew down in a windstorm;
• we went through a legal wrangle with our former landlady;
• I changed jobs at the Largish Publishing Company, jumping to an entirely new department featuring a different corporate culture;
• Attila the Hub won his first two Emmys;
• we got married.

I'm fastening my seat belt.