Eeek!

Writer's group tonight, and I don't have a thing to wear read.

I'm also scrambling on my volunteer/underpaid work for the nonprofit, and begin my bimonthly stint at the magazine tomorrow. All while other clients scream at me from the sidelines (including my father, who would like me to actually do the things he's paid me for; this seems a bit unreasonable, of course).

Blogging will be light, possibly until the end of time.

I'm Sorry.

But when a few drunks are trying to ruin your standup act—standup being one of the most difficult art forms there are—you are entitled to call them anything you like.

If they can't take the heat, they oughtn't to have stepped into a kitchen infamous for its sauna-like atmosphere.

And how many times must I remind everyone that there is only one cure for the undue power people give the word "nigger"? Say it until it loses that power. Nigger, nigger, nigger. (And I am "trailer trash, BTW. And a "white mutt.")

The Secret of the Universe

. . . has to do with making turkey stock. But you knew that deep down, right?

1) Let the carcass, some skin, and the giblets (minus the liver, of course) simmer for 12-24 hours with pieces of onion, carrot, and celery.
2) Add a little bit of sage and black pepper (it's too early to add salt; you don't know how much this stuff will reduce).
3) Throw in a slice of cooked bacon or ham.

Boil it on high for 20 minutes before you take it off the heat for good; better safe than sorry. Either make soup, or freeze it till you need it.

Rachel Carson:

Saint, or sinner?

I Know It's Wrong of Me . . .

but I love Dennis when he's cranky, which is of course most of the time.

Except for the obsession with you-know-what after it launched: that got boring in a hurry.

A Nice Post-Thanksgiving Dinner, Indeed.

I stuck to the basics, and just roasted a small turkey. I bought the pumpkin pie.

There are still things I forget every year, such as: 1) wear supportive shoes, not just socks. Running around in the kitchen for four hours straight requires serious footwear. And: 2) remember to check the electric oven (yes, I know: ick), to make sure it isn't set to "broil."

I'm thinking of adding these notes to the turkey recipes in my cookbooks, so I can create institional memory on these matters, as well as on roasting times, good ways to adapt recipes, and the required temperature for "well-done."

There's a Lovely Discussion Going On

. . . over here about blowjobs.

I have no opinion, except to suggest that the more extensive one's "relationship toolkit," the less likely one is to get bored.

Much debate ensued among the Cotillion Ladies about how psychologically meaningful/maritally helpful such acts are. (The consensus: very meaningful, very helpful. And very, very good. I report, you decide.)

The More Things Change . . .

the more they stay the same.

When Harry Met Nancy

Iowahawk gives us a glimpse of the smart-and-tough programs we can expect from our new Democratic Overlords.

Steyn Loves to Scare Me.

Every single fucking day. More Steynian wisdom about demographic trends. I'd love it if one of my liberal readers were able to refute his argument.

Please, please.

(h/t: Glenn)

Little Old Lady Survives Police Raid!

Always nice when they manage to live, huh?

And this one is in my very own Golden State.

Via Radley Balko.

License to Kill

Desert Cat is all over this one, of course. The elderly woman who was killed by the police might have been victim of "dynamic entry," rather than a "no knock" raid. I'm sure her loved ones are reassured by that fact.

Like most aspects of the "War on Drugs," this has to stop: innocent people are dying because a technique that should only be used on the most violent of criminals is turning into the "first resort," and there are virtually no safeguards in place. I'm furious. You should be, too.

Reprise Dinner

. . . is tomorrow. Usually when we have Thanksgiving dinner at someone else's place I cook an additional turkey at home. Often, it happens on the day after, but this time I'll be roasting a nine-pounder tomorrow, when we get back from church.

And then? Planes, Trains & Automobiles,of course.

My Traffic Last Week

. . . climbed while I was out of town. This is either a tribute to Cal Tech Girl's prowess, or a delicate way my readers have of suggesting that the best way to increase my hits is to stop writing.

Not that I'm hurt, mind you.

Mary Katherine Ham

. . . praises the upturn in the economy in the few weeks since the Democrats won back the house. It's a Christmas miracle!

"No-Knock" Raids

If we don't restrict them further and make law enforcement fully responsible for the inevitable tragedies that result, the Constitution means nothing. Nothing.

Dan Collins

. . . has another cheery little Mark Steyn quote over at Protein Wisdom.

Steyn. I so hope he's wrong, and I fear he's right.

Hm. I Seem To Be Developing Narcolepsy.

But I'd rather have the door to sleep unlocked, versus locked—and a prison once I'm in it.

One of the officers on board the Titanic was asked how he could have slept through the hubbub that ensued when the ship hit the iceberg: "we don't get too much sleep," he replied. "So when we do sleep, we die."

These days I get drowsy, and it's delightful. I can nap at will, without fearing that I'll be out of commission for 18 hours—mostly.

Waco Girl

. . . is upset about military tribunals. Dan of Riehl World View suggests that we merely place suspected terrorists in Texas farmhouses and burn them alive on national TV: much more humane.

Via Fausta.

The Linden Brothers

. . . are now blogging.

(Of course, I mean "The Linden Brothers" in the same way my ex used to refer to "The Asimov Brothers." There are some people who are simply so productive one has to conclude they are here only to annoy the rest of us—who have thoughts of Achieving Things, and then eat Top Ramen until the urge passes.)

Seriously: check it out. This guy is the stud/god of the neurological world.

Memo to the Blogosphere:

Please, please learn to spell. Please. It's a brave new world out there, and people like me really suffer in it.

See what you can do.

On Cars

Attila and I continue to squabble about who in the family gets the next new car. I say he should get it; he says I should. It's the spending plan of the Magi, here. If I cannot get my way, here are the parameters. Please advise.

1) As cheap as humanly possible.
2) Good gas mileage, without performance that's too sucky. Must be able to take hills.
3) Decent stereo (but not audiophile-level).
4) If I can get a sunroof out of it, I'll be a happy camper. That would seem to nix a Prius, which may be just as well. Have you noticed they look like tiny sperm whales?

My Cousin Attila

. . . in Maryland puts to rest my doubts about Thanksgiving as a holiday. It turns out it isn't simply a day of gluttony after all.

I have to set aside my Methodist side and affirm that a feast is a celebration of life itself.

There is nothing as worthy as this. "This is the day that the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad."

The Market Says "Hi" . . .

to our favorite murdering media whore.

I mean, I wasn't going to comment on the current Butcher of Brentwood eruption, but this was intensely satisfying.

Thanks to Agent Bedhead.

To Tell You the Truth . . .

there is something deeply neurotic about someone who persists in cleaning off her glasses, and then pouring another gin and tonic, so the fizzy water jumps back up onto the lenses.

I have, um. An acquaintance. She does this sort of thing. Sisyphean, no?

Okay, I Lied.

I got more on Turkey Day. This chick quite literally wrote the book on roasting.

For a few years I was devoutly Kafkaesque in my approach, but now I synthesize her system with traditional roasting in order to seal in juices—yet still not turn the cleanup into a nightmare.

And yet I use her method for making turkey stock. Every single year. She rawks.

It's Still Thanksgiving Weekend

. . . for two more days, but I think Harrell gets the last word on the topic.

Great News

. . . for those who live with picky eaters.

She's Baaaaaaccckk!

Did you miss me?

I missed you.

Give Thanks

For all the things that really matter

h/t Wild Thing

If the shoe glove fits

Presented without further comment:

Happy Thanksgiving!

Tomorrow morning I'm off to my aunt's place. I'm not sure she even has an internet connection in her home, much less hot and cold running WiFi. No skin off my husband's nose; he only needs the word processor.

I, on the other hand, will be Jonesing.

However, Cal Tech Girl will be checking in here from time to time, and I'll be back on Friday night, before your Tryptophan high even wears off.

Darleen Is Asking

for your favorite Thx-day recipes and tips.

Here's my tip: even if you happen to make a bitchin' pumpkin pie—and, believe me, I do—it turns out it's easier just to buy one.

So that's what I do: I may be stupid, but I'm not a complete freakin' idiot.

On the Steps of Central Asia

At a DA meeting tonight a friend of mine who is also in one of the "chemical programs" (those that deal with physical addiction to mind-altering substances) discussed the reason he can can't drink too much coffee, or eat too many carbs or sweets.

"Because sooner or later, the thought crosses my mind that I shouldn't be messing around, and sort of running away. Because I really know how to do it right. I can run away like a champ.

"The next day, I'm smoking weed again."

Fundraising

It's a long story, but K is hot on the trail of a functional scooter. There is a chance that she may have to get a car with a larger trunk in order to carry it around, so let's keep hitting her PayPal button.

She sent Attila the Hub a thank you note for our contribution, and asked how she could repay us. He replied: "there's only one way: get a speeding ticket in the new scooter."

Capitalism vs. Cockroaches

Two very different approaches to improving healthcare in this country.

I love the quote from Gratzer: "The problem and the predicament of American health care can be stated in a single, paradoxical sentence: Everyone agrees that it's the best in the world, but nobody really likes it."

Hey, Guys.

Here you go. Make your wives happy.

Officially Under the Weather.

Yesterday I got a couple of headaches during the day, but I didn't think much of it: I figured it was dehydration. Got light-headed a few times as we were setting up for the big monthly meetings. And my runny nose I chalked up to being in a meeting room with too many donated/dusty couches. Got chills though, late last night: my teeth chattered.

I slept 17 hours, and I'm still sniffly, dehydrated, and tired. So it's either some sort of little bug, or post-stress exhaustion. Yet tomorrow and Tuesday will be crunch days, so I'm "power-resting" right now. I need to get a lot done before we drive up to the Bay Area on Tuesday.

Join the Fun!

Insty is running a poll on which of the two main political parties is going to blow it worse during the course of the coming "two-year dumb-off."

Calling All Christians

A woman from my writer's group asks how those who live a religious life reconcile taking a vow of poverty with the relationships all Catholics have with Rome, and its concentration of wealth.

I'd also put the same question to Protestants whose denominations are particularly prosperous: hwo do you process the Lord's admonitions about how dangerous wealth is, and justapose that with some members of the clergy living large? What about the pastor who ministers in a poor neighborhood, and lives as his congregation does, versus the minister in a wealthier area, whose fundraising activities demand that he eat at nice restaurants, etc.?

U.S. Out of Europe!

Glenn riffs off of an article in Investor's Business Daily, and proposes that we cut and run from Germany, France, South Korea, et al.:

I'd like to see a timetable for getting troops out of Europe. It's time they took responsibility for their own security and stopped their childlike dependence upon / resentment of America.

Survey: What Should I Do With My Life?

A. Concentrate on my children's book.
B. Prepare for the inevitable divorce proceedings, once my husband sees just how badly the murder mystery sucks.
C. Throw myself into my nonprofit work.
D. Try to get some short stories published.
E. Work on that memoir thingy.
F. Drink red wine, and eat salad made with butter lettuce.
G. Get a real job.

UPDATE: Alphabet now alphabetized.

Goodbye, Milton Friedman.

Thanks for undoing some of the damage inflicted by my beloved Bloomsbury Group.

Thanks for inspiring Reagan and Thatcher.

And, thanks . . . for all the fish.

I Call Hog.

"I'd like to see you," I tell him. "Once I'm past these deadlines."

"Do you have a recent picture?" He asks.

"Nothing under a year old. And I've put on some weight since then."

"I'm kind of busy lately," he remarks. "Why don't I give you a Yahoo address, and you can write me there . . . ?"

Chuck Schumer

jokes that anti-Semites vote Republican.

Hell of a glass house he lives in, huh? Of course, John Podhoretz has already made that point.

Via Beth Donovan.

Insty

. . . quotes Dean Barnett, writing over at Hewitt's digs on the current kettle of fish: "Is it just me, or is it becoming increasingly apparent that the Republicans and Democrats are determined to engage in a two year dumb-off?"

Nope, Dean. It's not just you.

Glenn has more on GOP idiocy here, and there's plenty on his main page if you want to keep scrolling.

The GOP Death Wish

Robert Bidinotto surveys the trainwreck that once was a grand old party.

I'm beyond wishing for a third party: if we got a third and fourth one we could replace the Republicans and the Democrats.

Good Question. I've Wondered About It Myself.

B: "Am I self-centered, or is it just me?"

Via Jeff Harrell

. . . a series of rules that strike me as well-meaning but entirely too restrictive.

Wait . . . all rules strike me that way.

Oh, Jeff, Jeff. Jeff.

John Hawkins Has Landed

. . . his third interview with stud/god Mark Steyn:

I was real gung ho, you know, for making the accusations of American imperialism a little more literal, a little more merited in the days after 9-ll, but there were no takers [. . .] and one has to respect that. Nonetheless, the idea just this kind of essentially benign super power that lets the world go on its way—unless you fellas really re-think that, I think the American moment will end very quickly.

Rudy's In.

I'm going to ask my so-con readers if they could bring themselves to vote for him in '08. (Please keep in mind that one of the other guys who's going to try for this goes by the name "McCain." That's short for "McCain, the Constitution Shredder.")

So, Down at the Alano Club

I'm hanging out with young R, and his friend the college student. R mentions that he's got a crush on a 35-year-old woman, and his friend remarks, "you can learn a lot from these older women."

I try not to smile.

He turns to me and starts, "you know, speaking of which—" and then catches sight of my left hand. "You're married. Say, do you happen to have a daughter?"

Memo to the Western World

From a man who knows:

Stop asking what you have done wrong. Stop it! They're slaughtering you like sheep and you still look within. You criticize your history, your institutions, your churches. Why can't you realize that it has nothing to do with what you have done?

h/t: Insty.

Day 2, Liberty Film Festival

Benjamin Wilbanks is an American Indie filmmaker in Austin, Texas who gave up a lucrative career as an editor at CBS to accompany his uncle to Iraq. The trip was part of a missionary project to help set up a printing press for a Kurdish Christian group, but included a week-long stopover in Jordan, wherein Mr. Wilbanks and his uncle got to know some of the work being done there by Christians among the Iraqi refugees.

The result? A Journey to Iraq. It's an intimate and beautiful portrait of Iraqis who want freedom, seen through the lens of Christian outreach.

Whatever Gets You Through the Night . . .

Menu for a Midnight Snack—and Beyond

• 2-3 ounces of red wine;
• Instant Blueberry Oatmeal;
• Butter-lettuce salad with Wishbone Balsamic Breeze spray-on dressing and a kiss of black pepper;
• bottled water, or "Earl of Africa" red tea (naturally decaffeinated);
• Top Ramen (oriental flavor) with a bit of sesame oil added in, and a tiny bit of chili-garlic paste;
• finish with a Prozac capsule for dessert.

I'm So Proud

. . . of my blog-nephew:

If the Democrats move to limit their own power and to change the underlying incentives, they'll change the culture. If not, then they were never serious about getting rid of the corruption . . . they just wanted a piece of it.

h/t: Glenn

Steven Taylor

. . . on AQ propoganda regarding the Democratic victory, over at Outside the Beltway.

Genius Entertainment,

distributor of the amazing In the Face of Eviland Michael & Me, is releasing an amazing film on immigration, Border War. This is the movie I've been waiting for to help clarify my thinking on the issue. It's a decent, humane documentary that is free on that unattractive xenophobia one so often catches a whiff of around the edges of the debate.

A wide variety of viewpoints are presented, and with no voiceover, the viewer can simply make up his/her own mind on the subject. Very thought-provoking.

Day 1, Liberty Film Festival

In light of Rusty Shackleford's Townhall article about Jon Stewart's political influence, it was nice to see a right-tilting faux news show: entitled This Just In, it features newscasters and talking heads performing quasi-sketches. In one segment, for example, anchors and guests alike are mystified by just what exactly foiled conspirators in a aborted terrorist plot might have in common with one another. Very high-concept; very funny. Nicely done.
More, please.

The Liberty Film Festival

. . . begins tonight. This is the event of the year for those who want a wider variety of viewpoints reflected in the entertainment industry, and all the heavyweights will be there: Ron Silver, David Zucker, David Horowitz, Michael Medved, and the always-inspiring Govindini Murty and Jason Apuzzo, who started the Festival several years ago, and are the force behind Libertas as well.

Glenn on Guns, the Election

. . . and Rush Limbaugh's newfound sense of "liberation."

Support the Troops!

Bring them home!

Are There Any

. . . bad Tom Petty songs? Just askin'.

Why Would a Person Need Internet Porn

. . . when they have menopausal dreams?

Oh, wait—not everyone's that lucky, are they? Sorry, guys: your loss.

Bad Libertarians!

No free market for you!

Bill Whittle

. . . writes about taking responsibility for the failures of the GOP, and the necessity for grace under fire.

He also points out that in terms of fighting terror, the 2004 victory was the one we had to have, and we got it.

Read the whole thing; it's only a few graphs!

Via Glenn.

Welcoming

. . . our new Democratic Overlords.

Via Insty.

Yeah. Weird To Be Out of the Swing.

But after I voted I worked until 1:00 a.m. out at the nonprofit gig in Culver City.

I pretty much agreed with Darleen's reasoning—except, of course, on parental notification. (Because, like Cathy Seipp, I think parental notification laws may lead to more suicide among teenage girls; I'm not a person who always gives parents the benefit of a doubt. Sorry.)

I Love the Smell

. . . of political gridlock in the morning.

So politicians will have their hands tied, I guess.

And Jesus weeps . . .

Okay, My Friends.

This convinced me. I'm pulling the lever for the Dems tomorrow.

It's like waking up from a long, long, sleep.

Thanks for standing by me when the times were rough. But at least now you know all those interventions finally showed results.

The Dictatorial Gene

Friday night my husband was out of town. I found myself on the Westside, so I crashed on my mother's couch. Pretty uneventful, except that she was weirdly thrilled to make up the couch as a bed, and her dog is not (contra what I was told) completely out of heat. Of course, homoerotic inter-species advances from pit bulls are about as subtle as those from 17-year-old human males. Word.

In the morning I half awoke and listened to my mother puttering around and making the strangest noises—not a hum, just a sort of "hm" noise, over and over. How annoying, I thought. Several hours later, I realized I do it myself.

Cassandra

. . . on what's wrong with the way the MSM tells stories in wartime. (Hint: we ought to bear in mind that parents and spouses will read stories that name their family members. Names and gory details don't necessarily go together.)

Patterico Takes Time Out

. . . from reporting on bias in the Los Angeles Times to point out an outright falsehood in The New York Times.

Why do people trust these newspapers at all any more?

I Believe

. . . that somewhere in this transcript, hidden in a forest of self-justification and attacks on the GOP, is a tiny fern with the word "sorry" written on its stem.

It would have been nice if he'd delivered a grown-up apology, but I suspect the Dems will take what they can get at this point.

Glenn has more thoughts.

The Republican Syntax Machine

. . . continues to encourage people to say what they mean, mean what they say, and try not to be mean.

Oddly enough, the Democratic "We Don't Read Minds" Machine agrees.

Via Insty.

James Joyner

Penned a nice little critique of William Odom's approach to "cutting and running" (withdrawing soon) from Iraq.

Look, It's Really Simple.

John Kerry has a history of insulting soldiers and Marines, from the Ghengis Khan remark to the Winter Soldier hearings to that horrible book he wrote about Vietnam.

So either the remarks he made the other day were a continuation of that habit, or he doesn't have the command of the English language one ought to expect of a United States senator, and is too stubborn to admit that fact.

His intentions don't matter: he either meant it the way it came out, and/or he is stupid.