When Does Insanity Indicate Anti-Semitism?

Darleen on the horror in SF, and connecting the dots.

The Reverend Kev

. . . is teaching once again, at a Christian high school. Quite a change from pastoring.

If this is your sort of thing, please pray that he helps to draw young people closer to God. If not, please send good vibes. Teaching is a very hard job, as my mother has been telling me since I was born—shortly after she was manipulated back into the august profession.

I happen to think it's the most important job, and one that should only be undertaken when there's a calling. Pastor K. has it, by the way.

It's a Whole New Ball Game,

Senator Stevens. Can you cope?

The audience is listening.

h/t: Insty.

Plame, Set,

and Match.

Okay.

All better now.

Back to the symbolic kind of killing: slaying the dragons of commerce, offing the goblins in my psyche.

Publicity, office work, manuscript for the book.

Let's be careful out there, boys and girls: it's a scary world.

It Isn't About Guns.

I could accomplish what needs to be done with my bare hands.

But I won't, so there's that.

Goonight.

Am I Angry Because I'm Sad?

Or am I sad because I'm angry?

Something inside me is tangled up. And I won't be able to write decent male characters until it's straightened out. After that, it could go either way.
Attila the Hub: "can't you just write female characters and give 'em male names?"

We're all confused down here, by the way. Does someone have a flashlight? (If you turn that into a dirty joke I will kick your teeth in.)

The Path to 9/11

A week from this coming Sunday ABC will air the first of its two installments of The Path to 9/11. The conclusion will follow the next night, on the anniversary of the attack.

Govindini Murty of Libertas praises the production for its fidelity to the actual course of events that took us from the 1993 bombing of the WTC to the destruction of 9/11.

Please spread the word; this will be a watershed event.

I Need to Engineer

. . . a prison break. Can anyone help me?

There Could Be Trouble.

Someone's started a new site dedicated to the one and only Bobbie Sue—the infamous cult leader R.L. Hymers, Jr.

But how do you tell the parody site fromBobbie Sue's real site? Good Question. The parody site looks good, and is soundly designed. The real site looks like shit, and brings up error messages on your computer screen.

Don't smoke dope, kiddies: it leads to joining cults!

A Man with Great Hands.

I may be falling in love with Christopher Hitchens.

Conserva-Hotties

Stacy has pix up from the last Rocky Mountain Blogger's Bash, including some of her, Rae, and . . . Jeff Goldstein, without his face all P-shopped out!

They're all dreamy.

I wish I lived in Colorado. Well, except for that weather thingie.

Scott Ott Breaks the News

. . . that an anonymous agency will be providing the U.N. with the balance of its peacekeeping force in Lebanon. What's better: it's a "reputable" organization that's already in the region! Hooray!

Yay! The New Creative From Ford Is Ready!

I'm digging their new "anti-campaign" campaign. I swear if I had money I'd buy a Ford right this minute. Who knew that people telling the truth could be so freakin' appealing?

It reminds me of Hog's approach to sales, which he refers to as "no bullshit." He has a lot of success with it.

Anyway, check the Ford documentaries out: they're right there in the premium slot on my right sidebar.

"Closing Time"

In how many books, poems, songs, or albums has the phenomenon of closing time at a bar been used as a metaphor for the end of a relationship and—sometimes—the futility of it all?

Open thread: comment, then leave. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

The L.A. Times Has, Um, an Insight.

Steve Frank comments on the sudden realization in some quarters—even here in the City of Angels—that demonizing Wal-Mart is not good politics.

I've Got It!

Can't someone just see to it that Ahmadinejad gets laid sometime between now and the 11th of next month? I suspect that would help enormously.

Someone's Got to Talk Goldstein Down.

Again.

"Um. About That Sex Scene."

"Yeah?"
"You said he was 'wet.' Didn't you mean 'hard'?"
"No, wet. Precum."
"But precum isn't sexy," another girl interjects.
"Is too! I love precum."
As usual, we all look to the gay guy. "Well, that's a lot of precum, to get her jeans wet that way." Like Solomon in his wisdom.

I Don't Get It.

Can't we just get some "McCain Off" and spray the GOP with it? Ick.

How about a "McCain Motel: Psuedo-Republicans with Bad Free Speech Records Check In—But They Don't Check Out!"

How about traps?

More from Hog

"So I got together with my nephew for lunch."

"The skinny, quiet kid who used to roadie for us?"

"Well, he's not nearly so skinny, and he's a lot less quiet these days. Everything was 'fuck' this, and 'pussy' that."

"So you guys had a lot to talk about?"

He pauses for a moment. "Yes. Yes, we did."

Goldstein vs. Sartre

I guess it's time for all of us to emerge from our bunkers and engage with the world. Especially Ahmadinejad.

Me? I don't know from Sartre; I read de Beauvoir instead. I really tried to stick to the classics in college, and stay away from that niche "men's literature" stuff.

I'm Sitting at the Computer,

minding my own business, when Attila the Hub passes by.

"We need to talk about a few things," he tells me, in that tone of voice that suggests we're about to have a heavy conversation. I look up, and see that he's carrying a machete.

I nod at him. "You know, there's a time when every married person has to decide how he or she looks in orange," I remark. "I don't think you do."

"Well, then I guess I'll give this to the gardener after all."

The Refrigerator Swap

When I was a child I always envied the kids whose families had side-by-side refrigerators: they were upper middle-class. Charmed kids who had lots of toys. (Later, they were charmed kids who got piano lessons and cars, and access to darkrooms. Now they are the kids with trust funds.)

I just swapped my 1970s side-by-side for a four-year-old Whirlpool from my father's lab. From his POV, it was a mercy swap.

Now he's cleaning out mold, meat juice, and hyper-bacterial icky stuff. I'm cleaning out dyes and perfumes, which at this moment strikes me as worse.

Today is Fridge Day.

Fun, fun, fun.

We get to move my father's three-year-old refrigerator over here, and then move my 30-year-old fridge back to my father's lab.

It'll take most of the day, but I'll get a better refrigerator, without spending much money.

I guess I should shower before I get dressed. I wonder if there's any point to that . . .

Do You Live in a Ghetto?

Do you hang out only with people who are like you?

By age? Sexual orientation? Income bracket? Intelligence level? Political philosophy? Religion?

Similar levels of neurosis?

Tell all.

"You've Sent Him Notes," He Tells Me.

"You need to call him."

"Like, on the phone?" I practically squeal. My business consultant and decorator is on the line. I've just told him that a client's invoice is at 41 days without payment.

"What shall I say?"

B. explains that I should write it all out, and be nice, but mention that I have other obligations I'd like to meet. I thank him. I hang up. It's 5:00 p.m. I decide I'll call the client tomorrow.

Find Me a JonBenet Roundup, Please.

I'm pretty focused on work right now, but a girl like me needs to keep her hand in WRT murderers in this day and age. Let me know where the best digests are, because I ain' about to turn on the news.

How Do You Distinguish Evangelicals from Charismatics from Fundamentalists from Snake-Handlers?

And, if you're in any one of those groups, how do you feel about Roman Catholics? Are some of them "saved"?

Remember, class: next week we'll be discussing Buddhism, so hit the books!

Spiritual Paths

Is there only one? Is the one you follow the correct one?

Does your faith call upon you to separate yourself from those who follow different paths, lest you endorse their principles? Is this wise?

If you are a Christian, how do you handle this difficult issue? On the one hand, the Lord hung out with sinners. On the other, hanging out with sinners can subject you to temptation.

If you're a Twelve-Stepper, how do you function in slippery places (e.g., bars, Grateful Dead concerts, pastry shops, gift stores—whatever)?

Still Working.

Which is good. The phenomenon of "happy clients" is wonderful; after "happy clients" comes "clients who pay invoices on time."

Working Today.

Check out my blogroll. (And send me a note if you run across a dead link. I don't prune it often enough, I'm afraid.)

My Thoughts?

Bring on the fake menstrual blood. And fake vaginal secretions, if you have any on hand.

Today

. . . we are all moonbats.

I'm sorry, but there is, to me, all the difference in the world between a meditative "think piece" and an actual analysis of security concerns. Helen's post was about her subjective responses; it was not a set of policy prescriptions.

The Neighbors

. . . are starting to tire of hearing me alternate between The Essential Alice Cooper and Queen II.

I suspect they are conspiring with the household across the street, taking up a collection to get me another album. And I'd like to make a suggestion.

If not, fine: All the young girls love Alice.

Protein Wisdom Connects the Dots

. . . between the UK-plane plot and a right-wing conspiracy to sour Lamont's win in Connecticut:

It won’t work. NEDRENALINE IS IMPERVIOUS TO THE VICISSITUDES OF THE REAL WORLD! Hell, Islamofascists could blow a hole in Darien the size of a Super Target and all that would do is prove that the only way to defeat terrorism is to refuse to egg it on by looking it directly in the eye or making any sudden movements.

Helen

. . . laments the new flying restrictions in the U.K.

I can totally see barring liquids and electronics; I'm still not so sure where the prohibition on books came from. (Sure, they are easy to hollow out, but it's just as easy to check that this wasn't done.)

It's sad. It really is.

Cassandra

. . . thinks it over, and decides the blame lies with Bush and Blair. She makes a persuasive case.

Trans-Atlantic Terror

No makeup is fine. One always looks like shit while flying, right? But no books = cruel and unusual punishment. And no bottled water sucks big-time.

Have the jihadis gone to therapy to unravel their odd obsession with airplanes? Sounds like some sort of childhood trauma.

A friend of mine just returned from London on one of the supposedly targeted flights.

Kill the Islamo-fascists. Wipe 'em out. Now.

Place This Quote

how do I get - how do I get to sleep?
Please let me sleep.
po-po-poetry. That'll work
Come sweet slumber, enshroud me in thy purple cloak.
hm. Doesn't even rhyme.

Oh, Prof. Purkinje: you tried so hard to enlighten me, and I remain such a nerd. To this very day.

Note to self: No Red Bull after lunchtime. Ever.

Lieberman

. . . will be back.

Sure: on a strictly partisan basis, what happened in Connecticut is good for the GOP. Lamont is a probably the weaker candidate.

But I liked Joe, and I take no pleasure in this. The Democratic Party is self-destructing before my eyes.

Attila the Hub thinks we may be ripe for a replay of the McGovern candidacy. What a waste that would be. Sigh.

Holy Biofuel, Batman.

Ford Motor Company just bought an ad from me. And it's started . . . well, it started a blog. With word entries and video updates about its efforts to go green and turn the company around. It makes me want to buy a Mustang—one that runs on ethanol, of course.

Hat tip: the folks at blogads, who let me know what a brave new world of corporate communications I entered earlier today when I approved that ad.

Ace Unmasked.

The blogosphere's most charming man-about-town was on Fox News this morning.

The Cotillion girls (except those of us who sleep late), waited breathlessly, aggrieved that the people at Faux spent so much time on an immobilized tank, and so little time with Ace.

The Blogfather

. . . is back, Baby. Which is rather nice: his guest bloggers were fine, but I was Jonesing.

If You've Got the Skillz,

Rusty has the bandwidth.

Submit your best Reuters-worthy P-shop.

See?

Jeff is a true patriot.

I Need to Trace an IP Number.

Can someone give me the step-by-step? Can I do it from within Movable Type?

My readers are the awesomest.

Ouch!

Beth just put Althouse in her place over her "one true key to weight control" gaffe.

Okay. Games.

Which ones do I desperately need to play in order not to be a technological philistine?

Just give me your top ten, and your advice on how I can play 'em cheaply, with minimal investment in equipment.

Thanks!!!!!111!!!!111!!!!111

Reutersgate.

I usually start at Protein Wisdom when a scandal is particularly juicy. Goldstein's got commentary and lynx.

I hear Reuters is reconsidering its policy of getting all undead-related coverage from vampires. They're still thinking about it; don't rush 'em.

Sure Thing, Althouse.

The only way to lose weight is to eat less. And the only way to go broke is to earn less—spending has nothing to do with it.

No rich person has ever lived beyond his/her means. Ever.

MySpace

So. How do I add color to this thing?

And does anyone want to be my friend? I have Frappr friends—as Attila Girl—but I'm not in the cool MySpace crowd yet.

Also, please send me money, buy ads, and have your agent friends call me about my book. Thanks!

My Stepmother's Grandsons

. . . decide to teach my sister-in-law to play blackjack. I'm not good at it and don't care to admit this, so I watch from the sidelines. They are at the dining table, betting Monopoly money. Youngest person: the nine-year-old, Ray. Oldest person: my stepmother.

At one point my sister-in-law tells her son Ray that he has to stop betting so aggressively, or he'll run out of money and will have to stop playing. I drop by the bank, pull $50 out in fake money, and hand it to the kid. "Thank you," he says.

Breeding shows.

"I Like Green Day,"

my nephew tells me. "Even though it has lots of swear words in it."

"Swear words? Like what?" I ask.

"Like faggot," he responds.

"Faggot isn't always bad," I explain. "It usually is, but sometimes the speaker is just talking about something that's on fire. Especially if they're English—then it might just be a cigarette."

And Then There's the Nine-Year-Old.

He has a lot of energy, and talks very fast. He's very good at ducking when I point the camera in his direction. Early on, he decides he wants me to give him wine, which I won't do. "It isn't up to me," I explain. When he attempts to sneak a sip from my wine glass I gently take it back and tell him softly to get in touch with me when he's 16.

"Why?" he asks.

"No reason," I reply. "And I didn't say that, either."

Dinner with the Nephews.

The twelve-year-old is well-behaved, but aloof. When I ask him questions, he says, "do you want the sarcastic answer, or the non-sarcastic answer?" He appears to struggle between his upbringing and his preteen inclination to smart-assedness.

"Don't worry about me," I tell him. "I'll let you know if you cross the line."

He's

. . . baaaaaaaccccckkkkk . . .

Thank God. You know what protein deficiencies can do to a girl.

Note to Self:

For the high-intensity writing workshop, it won't do to throw the characters into the scene and figure you'll do a re-write on it later. No: actionless characters who are just standing around get noticed in this crowd. Not in the good way. Enough with the cut-and-paste: only take stuff there after it's been polished to some degree.

(Aw, come on, guys: I can take it. I really can. It won't slow me down. Not to worry, though when you finally read it I hope you'll be a bit gentler than this group was.)

Life Is Astonishing, Sometimes.

It can really turn on a dime.

I'm still broke—which is annoying, and all that—but in almost every other category things are really going my way.

Which is sobering and scary. It means I have a lot to lose. I may need to act accordingly.

Double criticism groups again this week: tonight, and tomorrow night. Wish me luck.

Lunch Today

. . . with the Reverend Macktastic Dazzle. We don't discuss evangelical theology much, which is good. He knows I'm gun shy. He respects that.

Instead, I ask, "do you think the Lord ever got drunk?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"He drank constantly. He had to at least get tipsy."

"Tipsy, I believe. And there's nothing wrong with that."