Why Radical Islam Cannot Prevail Against the West.

Because people like booze, freedom, and sex.

Yup. I think they do. And not only can a servile womb fail to breed free men—it isn't very likely to breed truly effective servile ones, either.

When I was young and feisty, I used to dream of going to Afghanistan—during the Taliban's reign, of course—with my Glock in a small-of-the-back holster, and taking off my shirt and bra. And then mowing down, quite deliberately, those who cast the first-through-thirtieth stones. (I have an extended magazine for that particular sidearm.)

Of course, no radical Islamist deserves to see my boobs—even as his dying image.

The beautiful thing is that nothing so grandiose will be necessary: the culture will decay from the inside, out. And now it's their own women who are stripping for the webcams. Game, set, and match.

A Fight I'd Like to See:

The National Review guys against the WSJ. On immigration, no less. Be still, my beating heart.

I must admit: the more I find out about the bill currently on the table, the less I like it. Would someone leak the damned text online?—all 1000 pages of it? Come to think of it, that should be done with all bills these days. Otherwise, you know: we might conclude that our legislators have something to hide.

I'd hate to see things go that way.

This Is the Best Idea

. . . I've heard in quite a while: get science fiction writers to think like terrorists.

Who Knew . . .

that grilling was so important to the Great Old Ones?

Overheard, 7

"It turns out that Ritalin is the missing link: the Prozac made me sleepy in the afternoons. But if I have a little Ritalin in the morning, and then a bit more with lunch, I can get some work done."

"So you're getting into the Judy Garland lifestyle."

"Hey! It's not like I'm waking up and doing a line every day . . . . no offense."

"Now that was low."

I love L.A.

So. Those Big, Black Earrings Twenty-Something Guys Are Wearing.

You know the ones I'm talking about: they aren't posts, but rather very large pieces of something-or-other that will definitely leave these young men with loops in their earlobes.

I know they all think they'll be fine with loops in their ears, and I understand that the Beagle look is popular in African tribal society.

And yet I still suspect the whole thing is a plot by some plastic surgeons' guild.

Big Lizards on the War

That is, the war between the MSM and the current administration—which the administration is losing, despite the fact that it's prevailing in the larger War on Terror (including the War in Iraq).

If one simply takes the administration at its word about our intentions and long-term goals in this war, then in fact, we're doing quite well in Iraq. It only looks bad because the Left swore we were going to veer hard-right, but we went straight instead. The passengers thought we'd lost control of the vehicle, when in fact that was the intended route all along.

Maddening, I know.

The Thompson Twins.

Fred is (probably) in.

But don't count Tommy out just yet: according to Hackbarth, he'll always have Iowa.

UPDATE: Great minds think alike.

Al Gore's Busy Schedule.

He's just too busy to debate Bjorn Lomborg.

Fine. Then how about he debates 15-year-old Kristen Byrnes, who spent months debunking his convenient (and profitable) movie?

What a busy, busy man. Run, Al. Run.

The Lost Skill Sets of the Anasazi

Glenn suggests mandatory shop and mandatory home ec. For both sexes.

Yes. Faster, please.

Indoctrinate U

. . . has its own website now, by the way. There's a nice trailer for the film right there on the home page.

I've been excited about this film for the couple of years I've been seeing segments of it at the Liberty Film Festival (which is here in L.A. every fall, courtesy of the folks who created the Libertas blog, Jason Apuzzo and Govindini Murty).

Meanwhile, On the Fence Films is promoting not just Indoctrinate U, but some of their other offerings. A few of these—Dead Meat, in particular—shine the spotlight on how care is rationed under the Canadian healthcare system. I've been thinking that any of these might be good companion pieces to Michael Moore's Sicko. (Yes: I have a standing offer with my lefty friends to watch any of the documentaries they want me to see—as long as I can also show the DVD of my choice on the same night. What I will not do is rent one of Moore's movies myself, thereby putting money in his pocket.)

On the Fence, by the way, now has a blog on its home page.

Documentaries may or may not be fine art (I think they are) but I really feel that center-right filmmaking is about to tackle narrative movies, and in fact that there is a sort of renaissance brewing among classical liberals who are bored with the far-left stances of many writers, producers, filmmakers, painters, sculptors, and performance artists.

It isn't as if art were incompatible with Western Civilization, so it's no surprise that there's more interest in creating art among those who defend its values, now that some of the traditional gatekeepers have been taken off-duty.

The Queen of Flight 327,

Annie Jacobsen, has a blog now.

Bookmark it.

And, for a good summary of that now-infamous test run, see Malkin's digest on the OIG report. The conclusion: Jacobsen was just being hysterical.. Because—you know how chicks get.

Okay. Just kidding. They concede that the whole thing might have presented a little bit of a problem, in terms of how Air Marshalls, the FBI, and the OHS have dealt with it. A small problem, mind you.

So, I'm Re-Reading Iowahawk's Linkfest from a Week Ago.

And at first it makes me sad, because the first time I read it I skipped the video of souped-up VW bugs, but this time I watched it, and thought about my first bug, a '65, and how it was stolen by a stranger—and right after I'd converted it to 12-volt, dammit. And my second one, too: a '69, that my brother gave me, but my mother stole (and she also took the first gun I ever owned [a S&W Chief's Special] the nasty 70-year-old thief—I only hang out with her these days because of her cute, pretty, smart pit bull).

But there are three notable things about Iowahawk, these days: (1) he makes me want to read Garage Magazine, which is a terrible thing, because this in turn leads me to those Big Newsstands that have almost everything while I poke around looking for it. And then I buy a bunch of magazines, and have you looked at the price of cool alternative print media these days?

Yet I'm obviously going to the wrong ones, because I still haven't seen Garage—which I get the feeling neither John Dianna nor Primedia (God bless all of their commercial, quality-be-damned little hearts) had anything to do with.

(2) He has the most scintillating right-hand sidebar in blogger history, because under the heading "blurbs" there lies a series of quotes about his blog and his persona that are almost as creative as the stuff he writes himself.

(3) If Tammy Bruce ain't reading his blog, she should be: after all, she likes hot chicks and hot cars (that's my inference, since she drives at hot car, and she once posed for a picture with me . . .).

My life's mission is now to be published on Iowahawk's sidebar. Not to see one of my crime novels in hardcover. Not to reach the best-seller list with either of them, or with my memoir. I must write something about Iowahawk that is almost as funny as something he would write himself. And, unfortunately, I ain't the funny person in this household.

So here's my first volley:

Iowahawk's the kind of guy you'd want to run into in that alternate universe. You know: the one in which no one is married, and the bars stay open all night.

That Famous-and-Free Cuban Healthcare

Via Insty, a fascinating look at the Cuban health-care system from The New York Times. The Times maintains that Cuban authorities may look the other way if copies of Sicko are smuggled onto the island: I'm not so sure. After all, the average person may find it distasteful to see the level of care available to the elite. We've all seen the pictures of the clinics that are for regular people, right?

Glenn has the money quote:

Having practiced medicine in both Cuba and the United States, Dr. Cordova has an unusual perspective for comparison.

“Actually there are three systems,” Dr. Cordova said, because Cuba has two: one is for party officials and foreigners like those Mr. Moore brought to Havana. “It is as good as this one here, with all the resources, the best doctors, the best medicines, and nobody pays a cent,” he said.

But for the 11 million ordinary Cubans, hospitals are often ill equipped and patients “have to bring their own food, soap, sheets — they have to bring everything.” And up to 20,000 Cuban doctors may be working in Venezuela, creating a shortage in Cuba.

[. . .]

Until he had to have emergency surgery last year, Fidel Castro — who turned 80 this year — was considered a model of vibrant long life in Cuba. But it was only last week that he acknowledged in an open letter that his initial surgery by Cuban doctors had been botched. He did not confirm, however, that a specialist had been flown in from Spain last December to help set things right.

Food Fight!

MeMe Roth vs. the folks at Reason.

Mmm. Peanut Sauce.

I've got to try the Thai Peanut Burger. Like, now: never mind that if I light the grill up at this hour we'll be hit by a plague of insects on the balcony that will make Egypt's tribulations look lightweight by comparison.

But seriously—doesn't it sound yummy? And don't tell my you've never had Thai-style spices, beef, and peanut sauce in the same dish. You've had beef satay, haven't you? I suspect it's the same idea, but with a different texture.

Okay: as soon as it's light outside, I'm firing up the charcoal. (Yes, charcoal: it takse a little more time than cooking with gas or propane, but I really feel that the flavor is superior. Plus, it pollutes more, and therefore irritates hard-core environmentalists. What's not to like?)

Almost at the Halfway Point . . .

at Blogging Away Debt. And this, so far as I can tell, without any involvement in DA. Whatever works!

More on Memorial Day

. . . from BRD, over at Protein Wisdom:

It is on the occasion of Memorial Day that we should perhaps not only consider the innumerable sacrifices made for us around the world and throughout the history of this country, or even the values that so many people gave their lives defending, but rather that we have the exceptional honor and privilege of growing up in such a spectacularly unique society that over and over again gives birth to so many people of such noble and heroic character that time and time again they step to the forefront to defend their nation. It isn’t necessarily the brave pilot who should attract our attention, but the huge number of people who could have much more easily shifted the burden to others, yet chose to take it upon themselves.

Read the whole thing.

I'm Still Off-Duty.

I'm doing some grilling this evening, prepping the Saturn so I can sell it this week, and figuring out how to drum up some business. So light blogging will continue until it stops.

But the Anchoress has a lovely Memorial Day roundup you won't want to miss.

If you believe in God, say a prayer for the men and women of the Armed Forces today. If not, please send good vibes and boycott the MSM. Thanks.

Jim Treacher

. . . debates Iowahawk on how The View might become watchable. I wouldn't know, since I've never watched that show. (Of course, I don't even watch good television, so what the fuck do I know?)

Two of the funniest guys in the blogosphere, in one post!

Missing: Ace. But one cannot have everything. At least, that's what they tell me.

Brunch with My Mother.

She knows I'm broke; I know she's broke. So neither one of us wanted to talk much about money, but I paid the bill while she was in the ladies' room. Afterward, she pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and put it in the glove box of my car as we returned to her house.

The omelets of the Magis.

Yes.

Lotteries are taxes, and they tax those who can least afford it.

I am not anti-gambling, but state-run lotteries prey on the poor, and they should stop. They are an obscenity.

I'm Going Back to the Left.

I'm sorry, but they need me more than the right does. Their forgery skills are lacking, and their document-evaluation abilities haven't improved at all since Rathergate.

They've all let their subscriptions to Communication Arts lapse; it's sad.

I'm no graphic designer, but one does pick up a few things here and there after working in print for 20 years. And years of practicing my teachers' signatures to show my mother—and my mother's signature to show to school administrators—gave me something of an eye for these types of detail.

The left needs me. I must go.

My Friend David Linden

. . . has been labeled a "professor of Zionism," and mentally ill by Thomas R. Pochari of the Joo-Patrol. Oh, yes—and David's probably an "alcoholic," too. I'm honestly trying to get mad, but I'm giggling too hard to be the true-blue loyal friend I want to be.

If you want to know the truth, the bothersome thing about David is his very lack of any sort of mental illness. He's always upbeat, never depressed, relentlessly productive, and . . . in short, the sort of person whom deeply flawed people like me would be terribly tempted to envy and resent, if he weren't always feeding us coq au vin and letting us drink his single-malt Scotch—there's that cunning, clever Jewish bribery at work!

I've never seen David lapse into a "victim" mentality—not even once, and we were all teenagers together—most of us moody, horny youngters with a lot more brains than common sense. Except David, damn him. (Well. I'm sure he was just as horny as the rest of us. But he sure was a good deal less of a drama queen than anyone else I knew.)

Ah, but back to the Vice-President and Jews: Ace calls this potent combo "the mother of all storms." Most of the rest of us just collapse into laughter at the idea that Jews supported the U.S. invasion of Iraq in disproportionate numbers. Unless by "the Jews" we really mean Bill Kristol and Jonah Goldberg, in which case it all sort of hangs together in a beautiful—albeit racist—way.

I would love to worry about "the Jews." (Please note the definite article, because it's somehow always perfectly clear which Joooos we're talking about.) However, I'm way too busy worry about the kiwis. Are you blind to the subtle messages in Peter Jackson's movies? Do you not see what the New Zealanders are up to? I once saw Dick Cheney talking to someone from New Zealand. Wake up, Sheeple!

As for Professor Linden, check out his blog. Homework assignment: read his book, and see if you can find the hidden Zionist messages within! Careful, now—it's subtle stuff! For instance, when he talks about "neural pathways," it's a parable for "committing acts of aggression against Arab and Persian children."

You just need the Zionist decoder ring. I think they're free right now, in Rice Krispies boxes, though. Good luck, kids!

George Will on Immigration.

This is the first really sensible critique I've read of the current Immigration Bill. True, the crux of the matter was summed up by Ace over a week ago,* but I was skeptical because of what I perceived to be his passion on the subject. (Not that I don't dig Ace, right down to his toes and all that—but I was "filtering" out—semi-consciously—what I felt was a bias on his part.)

If our primary objection to this bill is that spending money on enforcement does not equal success in enforcement, then our focus should not be on bitching and moaning, but rather on asking for increased accountability here, just as many of us do with respect to education.

In other words, we might try analysis rather than drama, and take up the mantra of "enforcement benchmarks" (or, "objective measurements") before this bill gets out of committee.

Or, you know: you can all have it your way, and set yourselves on fire in front of an INS office. I'll be home, drinking a dirty martini and smoking a cigar.

Oh, hey. I didn't mean to be callous. But look, boys and girls: do we want some resources allocated to enforcement? If we do, then keep going. Do not simply have a tantrum and pretend that this bill is a reprise of 1986. Whatever it is, it isn't that, and perfectionism doesn't help in this situation.

"Pessimism of the mind. Optimism of the will."
—Gramsci

(I don't care that he was a commie; I care that he was correct on that little-understood issue.)

Via Mickey Kaus, via Glenn Reynolds.

* I spent a bunch of time looking for Ace's post, but his search function isn't working, and I have a character study to finish before I sleep. So if someone else can find the "enforcement doesn't mean enforcement" post, please throw me the URL via comments or email.

On the Future of Chrysler

Hm. It's not like it was a good match for Daimler.

All I want to see is more cars from them: round, responsive cars. They should keep making turbo PTs, and maybe a fuel-efficient PT that I could pretend to buy and then get a performance model instead of, for my next car.

If they were to create a hybrid PT I would send them chocolates every single day.

And if I every give up my woody, I want flames. If you think about it, they should come standard.

Lutherans. They're Such Butchers.

Iowahawk reports:

Kohut pointed to one of the study's key findings that only 29% of all respondents agreed that "bloody, random violence against infidels" was "always" or "frequently" justified, versus 56% who said such violence was "seldom" or "never" justified. The approval of violence rose slightly among younger Lutherans and when the hypothetical violence was targeted against Presbyterians, but still fell well short of a majority.

"The only demographic cohort we saw where murderous random violence had a majority support was among 18-35 year old male followers of the Wisconsin Synod," said Kohut. "And that was barely above the margin of error. Even then, fewer than half (41% to 46%) said they would personally volunteer to carry out the violence themselves."

Further bolstering the findings, Kohut noted that fewer than 6% of respondents physically attacked field interviewers during the survey.

So, nothing to worry about. Except for the Presbyterians, of course—but I'm not one of them, so all is well.

I called up Sean and asked him to read me the dialogue from Iowahawk's article, since I can't really do the accent myself. "Would you read this aloud—and Fargo it up for me, please?" I enquired.

He refused, so we aren't friends any more.

But now I find myself checking under my car for bombs every day. Young Lutheran males, you know . . .

Question for Today:

Why is it that people who believe in astrology—really, really believe it—are so annoying?

I'm being no more rational than they are when I integrate Fung Shui into the way I arrange my furniture, so this isn't a left brain vs. right brain thing.

I suppose it irritates me because in some cases it appears to be a substitute for real religion, and a poor one at that.

Discuss.

Personally,

I feel that the government isn't doing its job unless it follows me home and makes sure I floss my teeth. After all, tooth decay is a serious public health problem in this country.

For the children! And the grownups, too (after all, grownups are merely large children with lines around their eyes)!

And Yet More on Moore.

See this little nugget on Britain's NHS.

Is Sicko Autobiographical?

Canadians are taking issue with Michael Moore's latest faux-documentary:

At a news conference, Canadian journalists harangued Moore for, as Toronto Star film critic Peter Howell wrote, making "it seem as if Canada's socialized medicine is flawless and that Canadians are satisfied with the status quo." Apparently taken aback by the assault from the Canadian journalists, Moore said, "You Canadians! You used to be so funny! ... You gave us all our best comedians. When did you turn so dark?"

And Insty remarks:

I don't know, maybe three years on a waiting list for hemorrhoid surgery will do that to you . . . .

"All We Are Saaaayiiinngg

. . . is give wetbacks a chance."

Or, at least Hugh at Big Lizards is suggesting that we give the immigration bill a chance: no contempt prior to investigation, right? And more hard data on its actual provisions is here.

So that makes, what?—eight of us slightly right-of-center bloggers whose heads are not about to explode over the immigration bill? There's the Anchoress, Beth, Sean, Hugh, Captain Ed, Jonah Goldberg (to some degree), Desert Cat, and me.

Hey—I think most illegals do end up assimilating. So I guess that makes me part of the "Coalition of the Instillin' [of American Values]."

Still: there ain't many of us. Maybe we need a cute icon, like a mortar & pestle with some delicious salsa or guacamole in it. Or perhaps a margarita glass!

Or a slice of beautiful Mexican papaya—those things are about the size of my truck. Yum.

Would Someone Buy This Book

. . . for my husband? It'll change his life. Or, um . . . someone's life.

I've tried the second desk option. Unfortunately, the other member of my household had to set limits when that turned into a third and fourth desk.

I've also been told that, no, we can't just get another house to be the "neat" one that people are allowed to visit.

Via Insty, who is apparently a member of the clutter underground.

Oh, Interesting.

Ace has just converted to Islam. Though one gets the idea it isn't just love of Allah that made him see the light.

The Anchoress

. . . on, of course, the Immigration Bill:

John Podhoretz says there things to like and hate about the bill and he’s distrustful of it, astonished by all the screaming, but doesn’t mind if the screaming brings a better bill. I don’t either…but honestly, I worry that the screaming and foot-stomping, if successful, will become a permanent tactic of the hard-right, and then we’ll have both parties constantly doing this acting-out-and-threatening stuff.

There does seem to be a sort of contest going on as to which group—the hard left, or the hard right—can be more immature. It's a sort of race to the bottom.

"Oh, my God! It's 1986 all over again! But this time, it's the end of the world!"

Well, no. And—no.

Captain Ed

. . . on why the current immigration bill represents progress, even if it doesn't offer perfection:

"It rewards illegal behavior; the penalty for illegal entry should be deportation."

There are 12 million illegals in the US. Let me explain how difficult that would be. In the first place, the ICE has to find them, usually where they work. They then have to build a probable cause for a raid and search warrants (unless we want to toss out the 4th Amendment). That takes quite a bit of time; it might take months to build that kind of a case against an employer, but at least it will take a few weeks. Then they raid the shop, arrest everyone without proper identification, and start the deportation process—which requires a hearing for each person in court to determine their status. During that period, we have to house and feed them.

Now, let's say we can summon up the vast resources it would take to send 10,000 people a month through that long, laborious process. (In comparison, we have 16,000 murders a year, and it sometimes takes years to resolve the cases.) It would still take 100 years to deport all 12 million illegals in that manner—while clogging our courts, eating up our law-enforcement resources, and disrupting American commerce and politics for a century, all while we're fighting a war with radical Islamist terrorists.

Emphasis added; read the whole thing.

H/t: The Anchoress, of course. She's one of the maybe half-dozen bloggers considered "right-of-center" who still want to give this bill the benefit of a doubt, and keep moving forward. We are very much in the minority right now. (The comments to her post are recommended, btw: there is the usual "we are legal and we went through hell to get here, and we want everyone else to go through hell, too" non-argument, along with some interesting flashbacks to the Dubai Port deal flap, which was hardly the rightosphere's—or talk radio's—finest hour.)

Bottom line: I'm seeing a lot more emotion on the right regarding this issue lately than I am solid reasoning. And it worries me. Very, very much.

New Question on the Jimmy Carter Poll!

Over at Instapundit.

Rock the VOTE!

Conservatives Are Still Pissed.

John Hawkins is threatening a "scorched earth" policy, involving "Google bombs" (something every legislator dreads, I'm sure).

I had dinner with Justene (of The Bear Flag League) last night, along with our husbands and a few other people—including She Who Will Not Practice Law. Justene and I agreed that although we hadn't studied the immigration bill thoroughly enough to have an informed opinion yet, it was very promising that both the left and the right were pissed about it.

I'll post more on it once I've had a chance to actually review the sucker. Though, as with all bills, there may be just a bit too much of it. Thanks to N.Z. Bear, whose dishy picture adorns the inside of many a Cotillion girl's locker door.

The Dutchman

. . . is letting others see his fiction! Very cool.

I really dug his faux reviews.

It reminds me of a story about David Linden, from when we were in high school: he used to draw these cool cartoons he called "mugwumps," and eventually (was he in college by then?) sent them off to several publishing houses. He got no takers (which is a shame, especially since he stopped drawing mugwumps soon thereafter), but his cover letter was apparently so witty that one publisher asked if he'd be interested in writing a collection of funny cover letters for (non-existent) literary submissions.

Now This Is An Inconvenient Truth.

Bidinotto on climate change.

Check Out the Anchoress!

She's got it goin' on.

She also agrees with me that we might want so start somewhere realistic in dealing with the immigration issue . . . which, you know—that's an idea some should definitely ponder.

Unless they prefer to sit around wringing their hands, and getting angrier by the day.

(News of the Anchoress' redesign reached me via My Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy.)

Makes Sense to Me.

U.S. out of Baltimore.

The Evolution Debate.

Mostly, I just like to watch.

From Martin G

. . . comes this picture of me in West Los Angeles, taken when I was in my mid-twenties or something like that.

Note the bad hair dye: that was on purpose. I was doing this trailer-trash thing around then, for whatever reason. (I mean, I was wearing it on my cut-off, 80s-style sleeve . . . . )

Ace on Immigration Reform

Strong feelings, here: he's encouraging people to leave the GOP over this issue. Of course, if that happened, there'd be no one left but us little old libertarians, and we could, like stretch out a bit.

But, here, a ray of light:

Again, I'm not really bothered by the amnesty part. I mean, that's a given. What else are we going to do, realistically?

But I refuse to grant amnesty unless I get my part of the quid pro quo first. Amnesty is acceptable only if it's the last amnesty, and the government needs to secure the border, finally, to prove that.

12-30 million new American citizens I can accept. The problem is the 40-60 million to almost immediately follow. Amnesty, if necessary, but as a one-time deal, and I'm going to need some serious evidence to show it's a one-time deal rather than an ongoing cycle of runaway illegal immigration followed by periodic amnesties.

No one gets their side of the quid pro quo first, Ace: it's like a drug deal. The money and the stuff have to show up simultaneously, or the transaction doesn't take place.

No one trusts anyone in politics. Nor should they.

Here's a Koan for You.

Is it ever possible for a female to wear shorts with high heels and not look like a complete whore?

If not, it's rather mysterious, no? I mean, put a skirt on her, and make it even shorter, and it just looks like she's about to go clubbing. More fabric, more modesty as shorts, and . . . instant [ironic] sluttitude.

Why?

"I Guess We Know Who the Puppy-Blender's New Pet Is."

Well, then: I'll share the wealth.

And what wealth it is:

Though, really—does anyone expect Prof. Althouse to be unseated anytime soon?

Okay. I'm Willing to Come Clean.

Iraq is just exactly like Vietnam. Just exactly.

What is the Penalty

. . . for heresy against the Holy Church of the Greenhouse Effect?

Unfortunately, I am an old heretic. Old heretics don't cut much ice. What the world needs is young heretics.

"You Can't Fight City Hall."

Unless you have a blog.

The Foothills Cities blog has retained counsel to defend itself against the attempts at intimidation by the City of Pomona.

The money quote from the Bostwick & Jassy letter sent to Pomona's City Attorney:

A response to any lawsuit will surely include a special motion to strike under Code of Civil Procedure 425.16, which is designed to weed out SLAPP suits (SLAPP is an acronym for Stretegic Lawsuits Against Public Participation). Under that law, the defendants need to demonstrate that the targeted speech relates to a matter of public interest (which it clearly does here), and then the plaintiffs would have the burden of demonstrating a probability of success on their claims, without the benefit of any discovery. Your clients would not be able to satisfy such a burden. As a result, our clients would prevail, and they would be entitled to a mandatory award of their attorneys fees under the anti-SLAPP statute. Not only will any defamation plaintiffs waste the public's money paying their attorneys, they will end up paying our cleints' fees.

It's a beautiful thing. At least, I see it that way. Robert Hymers* may disagree, along with J.L. Kirk & Associates*, Enigma Software Group*, Infotel/Vericom/AmeriCorp***, the City of Pomona, and so many others.

There is a lovely passage in the coverage of this story by the Whittier Daily News (other than the fact that I—a hometown girl, whose four grandparents lived in that town for decades!—got a mention):

Pomona officials questioned the lofty aspirations of Foothill Cities [Blog] and challenged the need for anonymity.

"I could take a pseudonym of somebody that had more prestige or historical significance and be totally inaccurate," said Paula Lantz, a Pomona City Councilwoman. "Why would I give more credence or less credence to what they write by how they identify themselves?"

Lantz likened any Internet buzz over the posts, Alvarez-Glasman's letter and Foothill Cities reaction to spam chain letters that circulate from friend to friend via e-mail.

"It's like when someone forwards some cute, little anecdotal stories about Mother's Day, or Easter, or name the circumstance," Lantz said. "It went to a gazillion people because everyone that gets it turns around and clicks `send to all' and it gets sent to their entire directory of contacts and so on and so on and so on."

Pomona Mayor Norma Torres compared Foothill Cities coverage of Pomona to supermarket tabloids.

"They don't have the full picture of what's going on," she said. "I laugh at them. You know what? They are gossipers."

Lantz said she first became aware of the blog after receiving an e-mail on April 20.

"The e-mail said, `We thought you might be interested in a recent post. We're happy to publish your response or commentary on the topic," Lantz said. "It was signed, `best, Centinel."

So the officials in Pomona admit that they only know about the posts in question because one of the bloggers made a good-faith effort to get their side of the story. And blogs are, to them, simply gossip and innuendo—not worthy of notice. Except, of course, when it's time to send threatening letters on City letterhead.

Amazing.

Thanks to David Carr Harr for sending the link to the Whittier Daily News. My family—both sides, the Goodwins and Whittemores alike—will be thrilled/horrified.

Why Was Last Night Different From All Other Nights?

A little touch of Insty, of course. The man is a force of nature:

Now if only he'd give my deep, profound and downright brilliant analyses the same attention he gives my throwaway lines . . . .

Immigration Compromise Reached in the Senate

And it looks like the approach is somewhat holistic, which is all I asked. (Well—it's one of the things I asked.) Details so far are sketchy. For instance, when we ask people with high-level skill sets to return to their countries of origin in order to become citizens here, how long do they have to stay there? And who covers their jobs or runs their businesses while they are gone?

This would explain why John McCain wasn't available for his periodic blogger conference call this morning, of course.

The fact is, we had to do something about this, and preferably in a way that didn't create perverse incentives for more people to come here simply because some magical "window of opportunity" might close soon. Not because the system wasn't working previously: in a sense, it's been working all along, in its own messy way. But the "don't ask, don't tell" approach has been expensive in some respects, and—more importantly—it's just too risky for us to have porous borders in this day and age.

The "back door" into this country must close, and part of the solution is to make it easier for people to get here legally. We must cut down on that red tape, or the whole thing falls apart.

Steyn on the Hollywood Blacklist

If we were to frame Kazan’s testimony to HUAC in terms of personal loyalty, what about his responsibility to, say, Vsevolod Meyerhold? When Kazan joined the Group straight out of Yale, the company looked to the Russians for inspiration, not just to Stanislavski but also to his wayward disciple Meyerhold. The latter was a great mentor to the young American and other Group members. This was a period, remember, when the Group frequently visited Russia – Lefty, for example, was staged in Moscow. Meyerhold loved the older stylized forms – commedia del’arte, pantomime – and refused to confine himself to Socialist Realism. So Stalin had him arrested and executed.

Think about that: murdered over a difference of opinion about a directing style. As “persecution” goes, that’s a little more thorough than forcing some screenwriter to work on a schlock network variety show under a false name.

Amid the herd-like moral poseurs, Kazan was always temperamentally an outsider, and his work benefited after he became one in a more formal sense. But, both before and after, his best productions concern themselves with a common question: the point at which you’re obliged to break with your own – your union, your class, your group, or, in Kazan’s case, your Group. The 1947 Oscar-winner Gentleman’s Agreement strikes most contemporary observers as very tame, square Kazan. But, in a curious way, that’s the point. When you start watching and you realize it’s an issue movie “about” anti-semitism, you expect it to get ugly, to show us Jew-bashing in the schoolyard, and vile language about kikes. But it stays up the genteel end with dinner party embarrassments, restricted resort hotels, an understanding about the sort of person one sells one’s property to. Dorothy McGuire and her Connecticut friends aren’t bad people, but in their world, as much as on Johnny Friendly’s waterfront, people conform: they turn a blind eye to the Jew-disparaging joke, they discreetly avoid confronting the truth about the hotel’s admission policies, and, as Gregory Peck comes to understand, they’re the respectable face of what at the sharp end means pogroms and genocide.

That’s what all those Hollywood and Broadway Communists did. They were the polite front of an ideology that led to mass murder, and they expected Kazan to honour their gentleman’s agreement. In those polite house parties Gregory Peck goes to, it’s rather boorish and tedious to become too exercised about anti-semitism. And likewise, at gatherings in the arts, it’s boorish and tedious to become too exercised about Communism – no matter how many faraway, foreign, unglamorous people it kills. Elia Kazan was on the right side of history. His enemies line up with the apologists for thugs and tyrants. Whose reputation would you bet on in the long run?

That would have to be in the awfully long run. Read the whole thing.

More on My Precious

I'll get my husband to take a portrait of us soon, but in the meantime here are a few Cruiser surfwagons that look a bit similar to The Woody From Heaven (which sounds vaguely obscene, doesn't it?).

And then there's this one, to all appearances parked along the sexiest stretch of coastline in the world:

The color on mine is a dark taupe. And, of course, The Chariot of Coolness sports a sunroof, and a luggage rack that can be configured to look like a spoiler: I'm sure once I do that my gas mileage will be off the charts, due to reduced drag.

Just certain of it.

When I Picked Up My Dry-Cleaning

. . . the clerk insisted on bringing the clothing out to hang it in my car himself. Outside the building, he saw my Cruiser next to an econo-box and a sedan, and pointed at it: "That car, right? It's small. It looks like you."

I copped to it, with pleasure.

The Cruiser is actually the largest car I've ever driven. I believe he either perceived it to be a truck, in which case it is indeed small—or the term "small" is a euphemism for "curvy and quirky."

Don't Fear

. . . the reaper.

Darrell Speaks

And what's not to like?

You know how chicks are: we like a guy who can take charge. Until it gets boring, of course. Then we ignore him.

Honestly: I had no idea the debate on how I construct my mother's patio would get this heated.

I'm thinking of doing something like this, only a bit larger, and perhaps using mortar around the edges as well as for the center paver (which I'll buy separately, of course). Which means, Darrell, that we will have to forego wearing high heels in the backyard: Sunset is very explicit on that point.

Therefore: everyone is right, and we can all stop bickering about bricks.

So. Christians.

Likely to start making death threats and setting off bombs? I hope not, but it's certainly happened, and more recently than a lot of Americans remember. (Cough, cough . . . Ireland . . . cough, cough.)

But Reynolds' point is that any religious sect that wants special privileges can now look at the behavior practiced by Islamists, and get pretty much exact guidance on how to obtain that kid-glove treatment. Hindus, Jews, Paganists, practitioners of Native American faiths: anyone can pick up those tools and use 'em, if we keep offering a special status to fundamentalist Muslims.

The City of Pomona.

Very clumsy, folks. A city attorney should be able to do better.

When, oh when, will people learn that these "cease and desist" letters will always get posted, and will always bring bad publicity to those who wrote them, unless there is a damned good reason for sending them? (That is, a reason other than intimidation/suppression of First Amendment rights?)

But it's a beautiful thing. Please note the exquisite details:

• web-site
• "publication" [With scare quotes!]
• "blogs" [This one features scare quotes and the usual idiot's confusion of a blog with a blog entry—these are, presumably, the same people who confuse "faxes" with fax machines, and "CDs" with CD players.]

Mmmm. I love the smell of 20th-century modalities in the morning. It smells like . . . well, yeah. I'll say it: Victory.

It just makes me want to "libel" someone.

New "Mom's Patio" Thread!

I thought I'd get a tarp that's about the right size, and we could test it to make sure we can fit enough chairs into it for the mom, me, and three other people. (There can be satellite seating for larger gatherings, but I figured I'd start out with the husband, the mom, two cousins, and one dog zooming around.)

I'd like to do this in early July, when a few of the cousins will be in town. (Unfortunately, it's the teaching contingent, rather than the lumber-supply contingent, so I'll still be taking the lead. Still, a few more pairs of hands won't hurt.)

But for right now the paths really need attention: I actually swept them off the other day, despite them being bare dirt. That got some of the fence-building debris and dog toys out of the way. But allergic people don't have any business breathing any more dirt in than absolutely necessary. We'll start with pea gravel, and then move on to some kind of pavers, interspersed with herb plantings or ground covers. And then the main seating area we've all been discussing.

Chicken for Dinner Tonight.

It seemed like the logical choice: after all, we're dieting. However, I haven't yet cleaned off the grill for use this year. Next weekend, I think.

So: salad, rice with orzo, and breast pieces sauteed for a few minutes, and then braised. I started with "light" olive oil. (Not light in calories—light in taste. I use this for a lot of my sauteeing, since it's healthy and doesn't have a huge effect on the final outcome, as normal olive oil would. If the oil truly must be neutral, of course, I stick with Canola oil.)

Then I added some Moroccan-style sauce from Trader Joe's, cut heavily with broth to make the dish slightly less spicy.

And then I added some slices of Florida mango, for added flavor and some extra vitamin C.

Super-easy. And yummy. I was experimenting and tasting a lot, but this meal with be ready in 35 minutes or so next time I make it.

The Spirit Is Willing, But the Flesh is Resentful.

What if I told you there were a handful of individuals in whom I have trouble seeing the face of God?

Thank You, K!

No vitamin C shortage around here!

One down; eight to go. Yum.

By the Way . . .

this isn't me. It's the other Joy McCann.

Though Joy McCann's refusal to bow to her son's wishes in how she runs this foundation is absolutely inspiring to me (a non-lawyer, IANOL). Once I pass the age my mother is now, I won't just wear purple—I'll drive a purple freaking convertible.

Because . . . why not?

I am positive that my 96-year-old grandmother (my only surviving grandparent, and dad's mom . . . thanks for asking) has never read this poem, or heard of this society..

And yet, her life is suffused with lavendar, a color she didn't pursue when my grandfather was alive (he had been very partial to red).

If anyone knows where I can find a lavendar flag that can be mounted on her scooter, that would be awesome. Bonus points for a cross or a fish on the flag (I have a vision of it being a purple pennant, but I could be wrong about that).

Just no rainbows, please--or woman-identified-woman symbolism. I do not want to have to explain that to her.

Thanks.

Look. I Know Everyone Is Going to Get Mad at Me.

But how much time does Chris Muir spend looking at women's bodies?

Chris, my man—I meant that in the good way.

Canned Black Olives Are Vile.

But if one substituted good green olives, spiked with a few Greek-style black ones, you'd definitely have something, here.

Support H.R. 2060; Save Internet Radio.

For those of you who are new to the issue, there's a nice background piece by Michael Minn here:

In 2005, the digital royalty was 0.07 cents per song streamed (per listener) and small webcasters were able to calculate royalties as a percentage of revenue rather than on a per-song basis. This made it possible for small, often niche, webcasters with limited revenue streams to be financially viable, although most webcasters did it for love rather than money and usually lost modest amounts of money on their webcasting ventures. A typical small Live365 webcaster paid around $600 per year in digital royalties.

On March 2, 2007 the Library of Congress' Copyright Royalty Board (CRB), which oversees royalty rates, got rid of the revenue-based royalty provision, mandated a minimum royalty of $500 per channel per year, and established a higher royalty rate that will increase to 0.19 cents per song streamed per listener in 2010. For a webcaster that broadcasts 15 songs an hour to 500 listeners, that will increase the royalty to over $72,000 a year in 2010. For the six largest Internet-only broadcasters (who are financially marginal, at best), the royalty increase will represent over 50% of their total income. Pandora.com's founder, Tim Westergren, told Newsweek, "If this stays, we're done. Back to the stone age again." My favorite station, JazzPlayerRadio, has already left the web because the new rates will be applied retroactively to the first of the year.

Lest you think that some stations could survive by webcasting music from independent labels and producers, the RIAA has secured legal authority to administer a compulsory license that covers ALL recorded music. This means SoundExchange can force a royalty payment for ALL webcast music, with the provision that an independent label or artist can then join SoundExchange (for a significant fee) and get the money that was extracted on their behalf.

And for you NPR fans, this affects you. NPR is spearheading the effort against the new royalty because they have a significant number of listeners via the web. The new rules would be an accounting nightmare for them because only a portion of their programming is commercial music, but figuring out who is listening when a Justin Timberlake bumper plays on All Things Considered is really hard. For more details on NPR's role in this, see this article on NPR's initial appeal of the royalty increase.

From Mary McCann, Radio IO's The Bone Mama (as well as my sister-in-law, and felow PT Cruiser owner) come these ideas for nullifying the Copyright Royalty Board's decision:

An Easy "How-To Guide" for Making that Fateful Phone Call:

On March 2nd the Copyright Royalty Board set the rates that internet radio must pay for the years 2006-2010. My company and similar-sized operations will go from paying 11% of our revenues to 294% of our revenues, which means we will be upside-down unless HR 2060 passes. The first payment is due on July 17th, so immediate attention is desperately needed! This is a death match for the beautiful medium of internet radio. The issue is access to the net and audiences for artists—not to mention my access to rice and beans. I'm asking you to make a phone call. It really makes a difference!

We have 51 sponsors today; there were only seven 10 days ago, before we went to Washington, D.C. One rep from Arizona is on board, and that’s all from that state. There are a handful from California, including the representative for Marin County, and we have a good early showing from Illinois. The bill is bipartisan: it was started by a guy in Washington state, Rep. Jay Inslee. You can look here to see who’s on board.

Call your Representative's office in Washington, D.C.—or call your local office in the case of your own representative. Ask to speak to the staffer who handles copyright or Internet issues. (If you enter your zip code at http://www.congress.org, they’ll give you your reps name and numbers.) They are used to people who don't call them for a living, and they're very easy to speak with. On the other hand, we have word that certain senators with ties to big record labels are blocking the IP of our coalition site. This is one of the reasons that e-mail is not a good option for working on this issue.

Here are some of the coalition's script ideas. Mix it up, but the main goal is to ask the reps for co-sponsorship. You really will be saving Internet radio—and my job in this baby industry.

1) "I am a constituent, and I’m calling to ask Congressman/woman ________ to save Internet radio by co-sponsoring H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act."

2) "The Copyright Royalty Board's decison to increase royalty rates for webcasters is going to turn off my internet radio, and I do not want that to happen. Please ask Congressman/woman ________ to co-sponsor H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act."

3) "I believe artists should be compensated fairly for the music they make, but putting my webcasters out of business will only hurt artists more. They depend on Internet radio to get their music out to fans and build new audiences. When the webcasters go off the air, so do artists. Please co-sponsor H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act."

4) "Internet radio is one of the only bright spots of diversity for independent music. We need internet radio. Don’t turn it off. Co-sponsor H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act."

5) [If you are an artist] "Internet radio enables artists like me to reach fans throughout the country and the world, and enjoy exposure and airplay that we might not receive otherwise. I'm asking you to co-sponsor H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act."

Or my least favorite: 6) "My friend Mary McCann will be out of a job unless H.R. 2060 passes, and then she won't be able turn me on to fabulous artists any more. I mean, where else can a person with the handle of The Bone Mama get a job? As a geisha?"

One of the artists who lobbied with us on the Hill, SONiA, had her manager run the numbers for promoting her next tour, should H.R. 2060 fail to pass. Without the support of Internet radio those costs would go up 600%.

Broadcast radio does not even pay this copyright fee. They are exempt; satellite radio’s rate has been locked in at 7.5% of their revenue for this same time period. We aren’t even asking for broadcast radio’s rate, but simply parity with satellite radio—hence, the name: the Internet Radio Equality Act.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

She is from Illinois, and our family members live mostly in the Upper Midwest and on the West Coast—that's why she focuses on Western States and Illinois in this guide. But the problem is national in scope—and, by implication, international, given the leadership role the U.S. has in internet development, and the fact that internet radio transcends national boundaries.

It is hard to see this as more than a naked power grab from those in broadcast radio who want to retain their monopoly. Please don't let them get away with it: support H.R. 2060. And hurry: this may come up for vote in the next few days.

More here.

Bad Carpentry vs. Bad Masonry.

My mom needs a little deck or patio in her yard. Since her budget for this is pretty close to zero, I'm trying to figure out whether it would be easier/cheaper to build a little wooden platform there (something sturdy enough to last a few years), or simply level it out and use brick/sand to make a patio in between the "dog runs" and people paths.

Thoughts?

Increasing the "Yum" Factor

My former boss, Drew Hardin, wrote a nice little roundup some years back on the ways people were tricking out their PT Cruisers. The lead for the piece is very cute:

Whether you love it or it leaves you cold, Chrysler’s PT Cruiser is an unmitigated hit. People are still standing in line to buy this little car (van? mini-SUV? whatever...), even a year and a half after its introduction.

That delicate little dance leaves one unsure about Drew's true feelings regarding the Cruiser: either he disliked it intensely, or he secretly thought it was great, but didn't want to appear uncool to his automotive-jock friends.

I've always recognized that I'm not really like Iowahawk: I don't have the money or the time to put into collecting old cars or modifying/restoring them. But I love the fact that some people out there are doing it, and I love the fact that it filters down to my level, to the point that an ordinary chick like me can own and drive a piece of pop art.

And if my books do end up selling as much as my husband tells me they will, I'll probably get a few extra sets of wheels. Maybe even something nice enough to leave to Mr. P's Museum when I die.

So, What Does This Mean?

It means an orange glow beyond the horizon as my constant companion, driving up through Chevy Chase canyon just after midnight.

It means devastation around the Hollywood sign, and the peak—Mt. Hollywood—from which one can see it best. It means farewell to countless movie sets, and the site of several early dates between my husband and me, back in the days when we assumed we'd grow out of this madness.

It means that there is soot in the air, and there are weird noises around the house—from hyperacive insects, and from the particles in the air as they begin to settle.

It means that the venue wherein I saw the Bangles in the 80s is now a staging area for LAFD.

How strange. I'm lookin' for the good in this, but it isn't visible yet.

What If You Had To Choose Between Food and Sex?

Or between food, sex and work. Or between food, sex, work and clean clothes every morning.

Or this: food, sex, work, clean clothes, or potable water?

And there's always: food, sex, work, clean clothes, potable water, or my bitchin' faux surfwagon.

The advanced course: food, sex, work, clean clothes, potable water, my bitchin' faux surfwagon, or a meaningful relationship with a Higher Power. (This is, of course, a trick question: your Higher Power wants you to have lots of goodies. Though perhaps not all at once.)

I'm Still Living that Roger Taylor Lifestyle.

And it's unlikely to stop anytime soon.

Just in love with that car. And with that 2.4.

Much better than the 1.9 in my Saturn SL2, which could at least climb hills at a steady, reasonable pace.

Fairly close, actually, to Attila the Hub's V6 in an engine that—stock—was 2.2, but became gosh-knows-what when they put the extra
cylinders in it. [Would a real car person step in, please, and spare me from further embarrassment?]

I like the fact that I ride high in this trucklet, and yet while I'm cruizin' along the car looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes and says, "faster, please." I pat it on the dashboard, and then look up to discover that I'm doing 80 without even thinking about it.

Naturally, at that point I say "heavens to Betsy," and slow down . . . if I'm in the mood, or if there are CHP cars malingering on that stretch of freeway.

Something About Fred.

Via Caltech Girl, there's a remarkable unedited video of a Fred Thompson interview over at Breitbart's place; the man has presence.

I'm pretty sure he's going to go for it. It's very clear that he knows what the stakes are for the country right now.

"If They Provided Sex, They Were Breaking the Rules."

Of course, if a lot of the most popular escorts were ladies in their 50s, that certainly lends credence to Jeane Palfrey's claim. Naturally, I'll still be Arizona-hot in five years, but I'm the exception.

Will someone remind me why prostitution isn't legal in 49 of the 50 states? Isn't there a lot of effort being expended on this that could go to fighting terrorism, or fostering small businesses, or achieving energy independence, or . . . practically anything else?

Body count before the scandal: zero. Body count after the story broke: 1.

Perhaps D.C. law enforcement needs a hobby, like knitting.

O How I Love the Corn and Miniter Show.

Miniter is back from Iraq, and in his accustomed seat at Johnnie on the Half Shell. Mixed news from Iraq, to be sure. ("The U.S. Army is the Post Office, with guns." Ouch.)

And Ana Marie Cox shows up as their first guest.

Did the Republicans Have a Debate Thingie, or Something Like That?

Seriously: I've got some business correspondence to catch up on, and lunch with a friend/media contact.

Then I'll be working at Ye Olde Nonprofit into the evening.

So the Political Joy will be back on duty sometime over the weekend.

In the meantime, please check out this site and discuss among yourselves.

I'm all for respecting intellectual property rights, myself, but when royalties go up to the point that an entire industry will be decimated by it—and most of the artists themselves are on the other side of the issue—things appear to have gone sideways in a serious way.

Yes, this entire discussion comes under the heading of "does the mainstream music industry have a death wish?" Perhaps they don't, though: after all, once you've secured a government-enforced monopoly on the main avenue through which new music is desseminated, you've got a chance of survival—by killing the competition.

It's a PT Cruiser.

A 2002 Limited Edition in beautiful shape, with a sunroof and those way-cool "faux woody" panels on the sides. The only downside: it's an automatic.

In the end, it came down to this car or a year-old white Scion with a trunk considerably smaller than the one on my friend's old non-hatchback Prius—or, approximately the size of my purse. We went with this car so that, should I need to carry people or objects from one place to another, I will be able to. (The seats fold down, the "trunk" is huge, and the vehicle sports a luggage rack.)

I still have to look up the engine specs, but the pickup on this thing is akin to what I get in my husband's V6, so whatever it is, it's good. (Nope. This info isn't in the owner's manual, which may have been written so that it covers base models as well as the souped-up versions of any particular Cruiser.) I'll hop online tonight, and/or call CarMax tomorrow.

Today our new couch is getting delivered, so I must go rearrange the living room furniture. And then it will be time to get together with a girlfriend for dinner.

Therefore: light blogging, as real-life demands continue to cut into my internet time. No rest for the wicked.

We Bought a Car Today. Yes, Indeedy.

As Darrell predicted, it was "none of the above."

I'm really quite besotted; I may sleep in it tonight.

Anyone care to hazard a guess?

We Might Make a Deal Tomorrow.

We're definitely going used. The more I think about it, the more I want to do it that way. But not private party: I want more guarantees.

Bachelor #1 is a yellow Matrix, with which I'm secretly in love—because he has a sunroof, a tape deck + a CD player, a SIX-speed manual transmission, and a quirky maneuver for getting into reverse (one has to move a certain way, while reciting pagan incantations).

It's un-stealable: say there's a car thief who knows how to drive a stick—despite the fact that it's a dying art. He or she won't know how to get this bad boy onto the road. And it's got plenty of pickup, despite being a souped-up Corolla with a strange, practical Euro-style body.

Od: 35,326
Vintage: 2004
Extras: 4 years or 65,000 left on the extended warranty; tape deck

Even Attila the Hub, who was initially quite put off by the color (inspired, rumor has it, by French's mustard) is starting to warm to the quirky little car. I remind him that he only has to borrow it around three times, so he can get the feel of that funky reverse gear, and then he never has to set foot in it again unless there's an emergency.

Meanwhile, he's seeing more deep-yellow cars all over the highways, and is losing his reservations in that arena. "It's a cheerful color," I remind him. "Without being the kind of cop magnet that most shades of red are."

Bachelor #2 is respectable-looking Honda in a really beautiful light shade of metallic seafoam green. This one doesn't sport a sunroof: it's a grownup-looking car, but it cooks. It's got that Honda maneuverability, and the gears feel nice.

Od: 19K
Vintage: 2003
Extras: It just looks like a sober sort of sedan, in a non-aggressive/pretty color, and yet it maneuvers like a charm. Its another one of these small-but-clever cars, engineered so even tall guys like A the H can ride in comfort. Therefore, I could take him out to dinner without borrowing his car to do it. (Always a nice perk in the marital arena. When it's his birthday, I like to do the driving.)

Bachelor #3 is another Honda Civic, but of the hatchback variety they don't even make any more. He was a sweet ride. His bad habits: two doors (not counting the hatchback), and a rearview mirror that sucked, making daytime look like nighttime. But he might be available for less than his brother four-door Civic, and he like to rock and roll. For me the dealbreaker is that dim rear-view mirror—except that I know these are available on the aftermarket, and some of them are quite a bit better than the ordinary variety. This one is mounted into the windshield, but still: I'm sure there's a fix, and it probably isn't too expensive.

Besides, I carry a purse: think of all the time I'd save by throwing it into the back seat without having to open a back door! Two doors can be pretty practical, when you think it through.

There are a few aces up our sleeves, as Attila the Hub and I set out to negotiate with these people, and maybe even bring one of these sweethearts home:

1) My car works just fine. We aren't in a hurry.

2) When push comes to shove, I'm willing to drive an automatic, if it means a better deal. But they cannot sell their manual-transmission vehicles to people who don't know how to drive 'em.

3) A the H is using a special account for this purpose, and we put $4,500 less into it than we originally planned. This isn't an accident, or carelessness: it's because we knew that once I'd fallen for a couple of used cars, that would get us into a more appropriate price range for the models we were considering.

And I'm me: once my driveability buttons have been pushed, I'd prefer to spend the extra money fixing up our house. I want reliability, and a bit of a speed buzz. After that, who cares? I want to ditch the wallpaper, and paint this palace.

4) We are willing to walk. Not in a dramatic way, but if we aren't happy with a deal on offer, we will saunter off. After all, there are other sweet, sporty abandoned cars with stick shifts that are available for adoption all over the city. We are ready to deal—but not committed.

So if anyone's ready to buy a used car from an actual used-car lot, it's us. We are wearing our financial armor, and yet we carry the loudly beating heart of a passionate wife who has a deep need for speed.

A Possible Explanation

for why males seem so enamoured of IM-ing their female friends. (Scroll down to the third entry on the page, David Linden's.)

Of course, there is a sort of corollary from high school. Those of us who were female and cute and brilliant and not computer jocks would often call our male friends for emotional support, understanding, and practical advice. As time wore on, it became more and more difficult to ignore the sound of the keyboard tapping that accompanied these conversations . . . fucking computer programmers. Fucking guys.

But, you know. We needed the eggs.

I Think I've Died

. . . and gone to conspiracy heaven.

Via Christophe.