"I May Need to Drop by the Cigar Store," I Tell My Husband.

"Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Remember? I'm having the blog chicks over for pasta tomorrow night."

"Isn't it a bit cold on the balcony?" he asks.

"Aha!" I had him, there. "I told them to bring their coats, in case they wanted to smoke after dinner."

"How many of the blog chicks smoke cigars, Dear?"

"Well, let's see." I closed my eyes. "I smoke. And Justene smokes. And sometimes Justene's husband. So that makes three of us. Neither Caltech Girl nor her husband are into cigars."

"And how many smokes are in your humidor right now?" There's a smile playing around the edge of his lips.

"Well, there are nineteen full-size ones, and then five of those little minis—the Partagas from Cuba."

He steps on the brakes as we near the Chrysler service shop. "That might be enough, you know."

"Ah, but we might be able to talk Baldilocks into having one."

"Which could bring you down to only fifteen. I see."

"Wait, wait!" I burst out, and for a second A the H veers to the side of the road, thinking he's about to miss the driveway to the service department.

"What the hell?" he asks. He spots the driveway and makes the turn.

"Sometimes one of Justene's teenagers will have a drag on one of the cigars, or a sip of red wine from one of our glasses."

"Okay." He's gritting his teeth, now. "Let's say the two girls get completely carried away, and you're left with a baker's dozen."

"Would you pull over here, Honey?" I ask him, sweetly. "I've got to scoot. More cigars, and—more wine. Thanks for reminding me about the twins. See you at home!"

If I had to live with me I think I'd poison myself. But that onerous task falls to someone else. I mean, the living with, rather than the poisoning. So far.

Say Goodnight, Joy.

Helen Thomas . . .

has the face that brought back a thousand ships.

Okay, I'm sorry. I swore I'd never do that sort of humor, because it's sexist and offensive.

It's also unnecessary, since Dana Perino has already taken care of the situation. You go, girl!

Laura W. on the Debate

Over at Ace's digs:

. . . The correct answer to the Confederate Flag question is "Sir, I am not running for Governor of Georgia. Fly the flag, don't fly the flag, honestly, most Americans see this as a regional controversy best left to individuals and States. Fuck You, Next Question."

Leave it to Ace's crew to come up with the appropriate response to these "gotchas." FY, NQ.

I Take a Lot of Heat

for "spending too much time on enterprises that don't reflect my core competencies."

Not so with some people.

Americans: Stupid, or Just Idiotic?

Iowahawk covers the disappointing earnings from Hollywood's latest wave of hard-hitting anti-Santa, anti-Christmas movies:

Star power was also unable to save Sundance Films' "Dialog On 34th Street," Writer/ Producer/ Director/ Star/ Costume Designer/ Makeup Artist Robert Redford's take on the Christmas quagmire. Just last month the film had a triumphant debut for Redford at Redford's prestigious Sundance Film Festival, where it brought home Best Picture and earned Redford the Golden Redford for his portrayal of a young, gauzily-lit rugged dissident intellectual cowboy filmmaker who exposes the lies told by a department store Santa Claus (Tom Cruise) to a cynical 7-year old girl (Meryl Streep). During its national weekend opening, however, it was only able to generate $7,425 in tickets sales, a figure which some industry analyst said would not cover the film's advertising budget, let alone the CGI and spackle cost for Mr. Redford's closeup scenes. The film may have also suffered from lukewarm reviews that faulted its overly cerebral tone, and 68-minute laptop dialog between Cruise and Streep.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Chicago Sun-Times film critic Roger Ebert, who gave glowing, 5-star reviews to each of the films, said he was not surprised by their poor financial performance.

"It's sad, but hopefully these wonderful films will do much better in the overseas market," said Ebert. "No matter how much down inside they know how Christmas is wrong, and Santa is wrong, it's hard for Americans to see their elves portrayed in a balanced, realistic way, as tragically haunted sadistic pederasts. By contrast European filmgoers are much more sophisticated and educated, so they eat that shit right up."

CNN: Not Ready for Prime Time?

Protein Wisdom's Karl runs a small roundup, and concludes:

It seems that CNN spent about as much time researching the criticism of its televised trainwreck as it put into vetting the people they put at the controls of the train. It also appears that the network’s spokespeople have no idea that the content of the selected questions says every bit as much about their biases as the questioners they promoted — though CNN could have discovered it by canvassing the blogs discussing the “debate.”

Then again, it does appear that CNN does not have what the YouTube generation would call “mad Intartubes skillz.”

Update: It appears that Rush Limbaugh also thought a debate amongst Republican candidates leading up to Republican caucuses and primaries should feature questions about the issues which most concern Republicans, rather than reflecting CNN’s stereotype of the GOP. So add radio to the list of technologies CNN has yet to master.

I'm actually pretty embarrassed for CNN. I'm not even sure that they're stonewalling: it could be that they just honestly don't get it. If the stakes weren't so high, their tiny minds would tug at my heartstrings. But selecting a President is kind of a serious matter; any chance CNN could hire some grownups to get them through the next year?

More on the CNN Ambush

Red State is drawing a line in the sand over the number of Democratic party activist questioners in last night's "Republican" debate on CNN:

This debate was not about Republicans asking the Republican candidates questions. This was about CNN abusing its position to push a Democratic agenda.

This has all the markings of a set up, and heads should roll at CNN.

In the meantime:

1) Republican candidates for President should boycott CNN.

2) Republican viewers should boycott CNN until they fire Sam Feist, their political director; and David Bohrman, Senior Vice President and Executive Producer of the debate.

3) One or more of the Republican candidates should demand a do-over, wherein we can have a substantive debate about substantive issues that exclude CNN's agenda, which is clearly out of touch with the Republican party, and the drivel we saw from YouTube.

Though it is rare we take this additional step from a "Directors" post, we the undersigned contributors want to make sure our names are attached hereto:

Erick Erickson
Thomas Crown
Ben Domenech
Jeff Emanuel
Dan Spencer, aka California Yankee
Mark I.
Kevin Holtsberry
Pejman Yousefzadeh
Moe Lane
streiff
Alexham
Dave Poff, aka haystack
Martin A. Knight
Robert A. Hahn
Leon H. Wolf

(The emphasis is mine.)

That Little Bitty CNN Misstep

Over at Protein Wisdom, Karl fillets CNN.

Jonathan Rauch Rawks!

I first wrote about a Rauch article on my old blog, when I praised his coining of the term apatheistim in The Atlantic as a philosophy of life—not merely for athiests and agnostics, but for hard-core believers (in any faith) as well. (The entry is here scroll down to "live and let live.") Rauch isn't an old-school church-and-state separatist, but rather someone who sees the danger in us becoming so preoccupied with our religions or lack thereof that we lose the benefits of living in a civil society.

My biggest online adversary (and high-school sweetheart, the best boyfriend I ever had) lauded that entry of mine—along with the Rauch philosophy it espoused—and posted about it, both on his blog and on our high-school email list. (Unfortunately, he's nuked his archives, so I can't find his public comments on the subject.)

Now I've had a chance to tap into the mother lode. Rauch's book Kindly Inquisitors lays the broad intellectual framework for why tolerance of minority opinions—even the ones we are tempted to label as "hate speech"—is the only way our society can flourish, and the only way scientific inquiry can go forward.

My copy of the book is so dog-eared, it would have saved time if I had simply marked the pages that didn't contain blazing insights or fun turns-of-phrase.

It's put together as cleverly as a Malcolm Gladwell book, with a sort of circular structure to it. Rauch takes us on a light intellectual romp through the playgrounds of Plato, Descartes, Hume, Popper and Mencken to preach his ultimate message: if we want to preserve scientific inquiry and Western Civilization, we need to develop thicker skins. If we are offended by mere words (those that do not threaten physical violence), he writes, we need to simply get over it.

And upon this, he argues—free speech—the whole house of cards we live in rests.

Read the book.

h/t: Virginia Postrel, of course. After I finished her second book, The Substance of Style, I was very sad that she had only written two. My solution was to scour her bibliographies and simply start reading the stuff she'd been reading. So far, so bitchin'. But, Virginia: more books, please. Stat.

Reynolds on Ron Paul

Why his popularity is a victory for libertarians, no matter how we feel about him as a man or a candidate:

He's just terrible, even when—which is often, once he's off the subject of the war—I agree with him. His voice is too high, he can't remember who the Kurds are, and he often comes off like a crazy old man in a bus station.

But that's good news, in a way. Paul's doing better than anyone expected. It's abundantly clear that he's not doing it on charisma and rhetorical skill. Which means that libertarian ideas are actually appealing, since Ron Paul isn't. Paul's flaws as a vessel for those ideas prove the ideas' appeal. If they sell with him as the pitchman, they must be really resonating. I suspect Paul himself would agree with this analysis. Er, except maybe the bus station part.

Ace on Last Night's GOP Debate:

"I'm not buying that CNN was an honest broker here."

Was Keith Kerr's question fair? Well, sure, the question was fair. The staging of a sympathetic Hillary plant to ask it live, and seemingly without end, was not. CNN will argue they didn't know he was a Hillary plant (despite the fact it was easy enough to find out; he was found on Google to be a plant within minutes of the debate's end). But so what if they didn't know his partisan affiliation? What the hell were they doing handing the show over to him for a solid five or seven minutes anyway?

It made for sharp questioning and good drama. But if that's the name of the game, let me suggest to CNN that they allow a paralyzed veteran with limbs missing due to an IED attack similarly grill the Democratic candidates on whether they support the Democratic Congress' determination to choke off all monies needed for the military's anti-IED program. Give him the mic, live, and let him harangue the Democrats on the viciousness of IEDs, and the viciousness of them putting soldiers' lives, and limbs, in jeopardy to appease their netroots base.

Would CNN ever do such a thing? Of course not. There would be no vetting of whether he was affiliated with any campaign because there would never even be a thought of letting him grill the Democrats at all.

So CNN can fuck itself sideways with their claims of "just allowing ordinary Americans to voice their concerns." They choose which "ordinary Americans" get to ask questions; they're nothing but sock-puppets for the political agenda of CNN. The moment they begin allowing sympathetic figures to embarrass Democrats, I'll call them fair. But they won't -- the Democrats get protected, the Republicans get embarrassed.

Even the right-wing (or supposedly right-wing) questioners in these debates are chosen for their scare value. I remember at the last CNN You Tube debate -- the Democratic one -- when their question about gun rights was posed by a frankly frightening character who demonstrated a nearly sexual fascination with his weapons, calling them his "babies" (presumably, the babies he molests at night). They could have chosen, I'm sure, a dozen gun-rights questions from a dozen more reputable and more reasonable folks... instead, they put the gun-rights question in the mouth of just the sort of character that gives gun rights a bad name.

Given that a guy you wouldn't trust with a butter knife was asking if he could have all the M-16s he could possibly want for his regularly-scheduled schoolyard killing spree, it was rather easy for Joe Biden to call this nutjob what he was and say something along the lines of "You're exactly the moron I'm thinking of when I'm voting for gun control laws." And of course most of America agreed; hell, even I agreed.

RTWT.

My Car Got Sick.

It wasn't just the power steering, as I had thought. A couple of other things went wrong at the same time. (The brakeline, the engine mounts.)

So, all kidding aside, this would be a great time to renew your "subscription" to LMA; all the funds I'd allotted to the CPAC convention in February are pretty much gone, and I'll be fundraising for that trip from scratch.

Christmas will be simple this year: everyone will get chocolate-chip cookies, and a hearty handshake . . .

Hey! Obesity Rates Aren't Climbing!

So the "epidemic" has plateaued, some are suggesting.

Perhaps our immune systems are learning to fight the virus that creates obesity. That would really stop the disease from spreading.

I'm Not Saying that Men Are Irrational Creatures.

But if you did want to see a typical specimen behave in an irrational fashion, which topic would you bring up?—breasts, or lesbianism? I'm just askin'.

Total fan of men and all that . . . but, well. You know.

I Say,

make Mother Earth happy, and construct your Christmas trees from recycled [and recycleable] materials.

Can't Anyone on the Fuckin' Web Identify a Fuckin' Joke

. . . when they see it?

Why Does San Francisco

stop at closing late-night eateries?

Shouldn't they also escort bar-hoppers home, help them into their jammies, and tuck them into bed? And no leaving without a bedtime story, either: hearing Many Moons is a human right, after all.

Jump on in, Meryl.

The water's fine!

I'd go for revolver, first. Maybe a .357 that you only have to shoot .38s out of. The additional weight seems to help form a stabler platform, and it'll keep your shot groups tight.

My first revolver was actually a little Chief's special, because I wanted the option to carry. That worked fine, though a hammerless spur is actually better for concealed carry. That little snubby is the one my mother stole from me, which is good. Larger guns are a bit more intimidating, though: maybe I should trader her for the .357.

I've got to get to the range again, though: I don't want to get too rusty. Also, I haven't had a chance to play with my 20-gauge at all.

And people at most ranges and gun shops are so helpful: I actually did a couple of stories a few years ago in which I went "undercover" to some local establishments as a gun novice, to see whether the advice I got was sound, and whether I got patronized as a short woman. I was treated with complete respect, and no one tried to pull the "little woman, therefore a little gun" garbage with me. All the businesses passed with flying colors, and I was encouraged to start with a revolver—which is the advice I always give, too.

Via Glenn.

Bye-bye, Trent.

I'd like to say I'll miss you, but . . .

Kaus . . .

on the gun grabbers' folly in DC.

Via Insty.

Jesus H. Chrysler, on a . . .

well, which is it? What would Jesus drive?

Naturally, I think Jesus was into the MoPar thing. His father's house has many mansions, presumably with a fair number of garages. And I suspect Chryslers are well-represented.

Via Fausta, and the Cotillion Mafia.

Pray for Lebanon.

I'd like to see it change for good over there. And I'm starting to think they have a shot at pulling free of Syria.

Gateway Pundit has a nice summary.

Traffic's Down.

This sounds like a good time to bleg. After all, with no one actually reading the thing, imagine what's happening to my morale. But remember: there's nothing wrong with me that some money and premium gin won't fix.

(Darrell, you're soooo off the hook, here: I'm directing this toward the gin/cash deadbeats out there, and they know who they are. I'm still doing fine on Damrak, but I'm low on No. 209 [amazing stuff from SF] and could use some more Citadelle. I was about to take the Cascade Mountain plunge, but got Junipero at the last minute, instead. I wouldn't mind some more Hendrick's, of course. I've lost my passion for Dry, which is a step above normal Beefeaters, but can't compete at the Citadelle/Junipero/209 level. These gins take the clear beauty of London dry gins and add just a bit more juniper, plus a little bit of 1-2 compatible botanicals [usually involving citrus peel]. The way to make a martini with these guys is to get some really clean, fresh ice, pour the gin atop, and say the word "vermouth" out loud. Nothing else is necessary; even adding an olive would be a crime with these gins.

I'm thinking of doing a three-way "shootout" between Junipero, No. 209, and Citadelle.)

Well . . .

Don Henley's lawyer's apparently won't let me embed the video—but at least they let it stay up on YouTube, which is something.

Is this every conservative/libertarian's favorite Eagles song?

And now they're distributing their latest album through Wal-Mart, which just makes my little right-of-center heart go pitter-pat.

Just Thought I'd "Claim" This Blog on Technorati.

Though goodness knows why; my profile over there is doing just fine without any intervention whatsoever. But I'm just feeling a bit blog-whorish today, so there you go.

Technorati Profile

Bloody Canvas . . . Er, Kansas.

The Paul-Bots have broken free of the internet, and invaded the heartland.

Via American Princess.

The Minnesota Blog-Plagiarist. Attn: SoCal Blogs!

That "Seventh Son" guy in Minnesota who's infamous for lifting people's blog-posts is now covering a story in Glendale, California (one town over from where I live). Did any of our local cohorts get ripped off here?

(The story sounds fishy, anyway: I'm sure the Fire Department coordinates with the cities so that trees are cut back within set guidelines, even for oak trees. And why would one hire a tree-trimming company out of Orange County to come all the way up here to the foothills, when they don't even know the local ordinances?)

Geez . . . what a scumbucket.

h/t: Laura, over at Ace's digs.

More on Those Lights Going Out in Georgia . . .

I still love this song. I suppose I should download Reba's version on iTunes, and then I can hear it back-to-back with Vicki's on my iPod.

But of course I've never been able to figure out the time frame involved in the story: it starts in the evening, when Andy and his friend are having a drink at the bar, and in that same evening Andy gets killed, Dear Brother is arrested, a trial occurs, and the Sheriff/Judge still get home in time for supper.

It seem to me that unless there's a time machine involved, there had to be two nights which, cumulatively, led to the lights going out in Georgia (or at least—metaphorically—for the narrator's brother).

Which is better for the story arc, but not as good for the scanning of the lines in the chorus:

Those were the two nights that culminated in the lights going out in Georgia,
On the second of which they hung an innocent man,
So don't trust your soul—or, at least, the physical part of your being—to no backwoods Southern lawyer,
'Cause the Judge in the town has been corrupt and sloppy in the past, and after this incident he had blood on his hands, though not really in the same sense as Lady MacBeth did, and these ones might someday wash out.

Andyway, here are Vicki and Reba talking about the song—and then singing Reba's version. Reba has a better accent for it, and she does fabulous things with her eyes. On the other hand, she does flub the lyrics slightly.

Video clip via Janette.

From the Carol Burnett Show . . .

Courtesy of Cassandra, now on blog-hiatus (no true blogger ever really quits for good; you know it, and I know it):

The funniest thing about that show was the fact that the actors kept losing their shit: it didn't feel like a lack of professionalism so much as a sort of good-natured expression of camaraderie among them. Of course, that means that the outtakes from the show are the best part.

And, yes: after asking the other Cotillion women, and checking out Vicki's website, we have indeed confirmed that the Vicki Lawrence from "The Carol Burnett Show" is the same one who originally performed "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia."

She, Carol Burnett, Harvey Korman and Tim Conway are just the best: Comedy without a body count. Love it.

So, What Do We Call Those Muslims (Or "Perverters of Islam," If You Prefer)

. . . who are trying to kill us?

Timothy Ash of The Guardian makes the linguistic case against "Islamofascists," and argues that "Islamists" describes those who advocate through peaceful means for repressive systems such as Sharia law, whereas the term "Jihadis" should be reserved for those who murder in Allah's name.

I've been using "fuckin' assholes," but I've been cautioned that this lacks precision.

h/t: Memeorandum.

UPDATE: Dr. D. suggests in the comments that all "real Muslims" believe everything in the Koran—in a very literal way. Does that mean that all real Christians believe that every word in the Bible is literally true? Does it mean all real Jews believe everything in the Torah is literally true? Because I have a few challenging passages for you, if that's the case.

Furthermore, Dr. D. would like to see this country "Muslim-frei." Not only do I not particularly want that—I find the very proposal scarier than the Jihadis, or whatever we've decided to call them.

But Brian Micklethwait seems to agree that it's the religion itself we need to denounce. I still don't see it: I'd rather wage war on a few hundred people who want to kill me, or a few thousand people who want to convert me by force, rather than a few billion who don't care one way or another what I'm doing and are perfectly indifferent to whether I wear shorts, or whether my gay friends are living with their boyfriends, or whether I believe that Jesus was, in fact, the Christ.

As for those who love to ironically discuss "the religion of peace," you enjoy that. Me, I'd like to know whether, in point of fact, "they will know we are Christians by our love." Not always, boys and girls. And I'm not discussing the Middle Ages here, either.

I'd like to clean my own house before I see to other faiths' own Reformations. And by that, I mean The House of Joy McCann. There is plenty to be done in it—physically, metaphorically, spiritually, emotionally.

And so I shall leave the religious wars to others. Have at it, kids.

Always Nice To Get in Touch with Old Friends.

I sent a note to Dr. Prime:

When last we spoke, a year and a half ago, you were really getting into weed, chocolate, and eating pussy. How go all of the above?

Excellent. They always deliver. Although things are a bit slow in the pussy department right now. My girlfriend is in another state, and my wife has this whole "we're separated now" philosophy which has definitely cut down on availability.

And how are your kids and wife? And girlfriend?

Everyone's good. My out-of-state daughter is a kickass kid (she's 5 1/2 now) and I'm going to visit in a few weeks. My girlfriend is my best friend, and she also has really big breasts, so it works out great.

He still hasn't sent me the manuscript for his book, yet. I suppose I could simply "borrow" it from my friends' houses . . .

Hackbarth,

on the Ron Paul phenomenon:

Most [Paul supporters] are normal people who live next to you, who go to the same supermarkets with you, and who send their children to the same schools. I’m leaning towards Soren Dayton’s belief that the Paul phenomenon is a protest vote. It’s a reaction to failures of Republicans to reduce the size and scope of government. It’s sort of like Pat Buchanan opposing President George H.W. Bush in 1992.

Kathleen Willey's New Book

. . . may not be coming out at a particularly convenient time for Mrs. Clinton:

Mrs. Willey noted that Carl Bernstein wrote in his biography of Mrs. Clinton, "A Woman in Charge," that it "was not Clinton's philandering that bothered Hillary so much as her inability to control it," and that Mrs. Clinton has long been aware of her husband's wandering ways.

"Hillary has been hiring private investigators to scope out what Bill had been doing since he was governor," Ms. Willey said.

Other women — including Juanita Broaddrick, Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones — have testified to Mr. Clinton's behavior as governor of Arkansas. That behavior exploded into crisis during the 1998 Lewinsky scandal, which ended with Mr. Clinton impeached by the House on charges of perjury and obstruction of justice, but acquitted by the Senate.

Mrs. Willey said that the Clinton administration's "damage control" operation consisted of private investigators keeping quiet the women with whom Mr. Clinton had supposed relations through intimidation, while influencing press coverage.

"It was hard to sit there and watch what the media was saying about me night after night" after her name became public during Kenneth W. Starr's independent counsel investigation of the Lewinsky scandal, she said.

"It was all untrue," she said. "It was a terrible smear campaign. There are bruises, believe me, but since I am a strong woman, I stayed strong."

Mrs. Willey says she received numerous threats — nails were driven in all four tires of her sport utility vehicle, her cat disappeared and a mysterious jogger near her Virginia home told her, "Hey, Kathleen. ... You are just not getting the message, are you?"

It was "a reign of terror," she said. "My car was vandalized; my children were threatened; I was threatened."

She sees all of this as part of a pattern.

"I think it's pretty obvious that she stuck with him because she had a 30-year plan to be president," Mrs. Willey said. "They are co-presidents. 'Buy one, get one free.' Clinton admitted this in the 1992 campaign."

As to Mrs. Clinton's playing what she calls "the gender card" in the current election campaign, Mrs. Willey said the former first lady is not an "advocate for feminism, but an advocate for one woman: Hillary Clinton."

Bill Clinton is one of the most talented politicians that has ever lived. But the idea of having him back in the White House—even as a First Spouse—really turns my stomach. Ironically, he may be his wife's greatest liability. And I'm not talking about his tomcatting, but rather the scorched earth tactics both Clintons used against their political opponents.

I wonder what it says in my FBI file. Ugh. The Clintons are very unattractive people.

Willey again:

"This is an important story for people to read, women in particular, and first-time voters who are considering [voting] for Hillary," she said. "This book will enlighten the public about what happened to me, and the kind of people we are dealing with: the Clintons."

Happy Thanksgiving.

It must be time for Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

The message: we are, in fact, our brothers' keepers. At least, to some degree. Or, as someone once observed of Mrs. Dalloway:

. . . She was one of the most thoroughgoing sceptics he had ever met, and possibly (this was a theory he used to make up to account for her, so transparent in some ways, so inscrutable in others), possibly she said to herself, As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was Huxley and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical metaphors), as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners (Huxley again); decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly can. Those ruffians, the Gods, shan't have it all their own way,—her notion being that the Gods, who never lost a chance of hurting, thwarting and spoiling human lives were seriously put out if, all the same, you behaved like a lady.

Or, for that matter, a gentleman. Steve Martin is brilliant in this movie. Go see it soon; it's time, and it still counts as Thanksgiving viewing if you see it before the end of November. (In my family, it would count if you watched it before March, but we tend to run late on these matters. We also take our Christimas decorations down by July 4th, whether we need to or not.)

Glenn:

"People don't stop killers. People with guns do."

Via, well . . . Glenn.

Sorry, Kitty-Cat.

I've been AWOL on our Afghanistan discussion (under the Camille Paglia post). I have client-itis, and I'll be back later.

You're making some great points, and I'll catch up over the long weekend, once I get the family disposed of. (Um. I didn't mean in shallow graves in my backyard, though, come to think of it . . . . )

I <3 Brian May

Via Ace's news sidebar (his mini-blog, to the left of the main one) comes this little tidbit about Queen's sainted guitarist:

LONDON (Reuters) - Brian May, lead guitarist from rock band Queen who has just completed a doctorate in astrophysics, was on Monday named as the next chancellor to Liverpool John Moores University.

May, who will take up the role early next year, became an honorary fellow of the university earlier this year in recognition of his contribution to the arts and for encouraging public understanding of science with his book Bang! The Complete History of the Universe.

Three problems with the Reuters story: 1) that horrific dangling participle; 2) the egregious omission of the fact that—alone among the top guitarists of all time (Harrison didn't do it, Clapton didn't do it, Hendrix didn't do it; no one did it) May built the guitar he later played in concert for many years. He still has it; he still plays it. It's his signature. He fashioned it as a teenager, with his father's help in their workshop. (Maybe that was in their GARage, it being England and all.) He's not just a physicist; he's an amazing engineer.

And an underrated guitarist. Remember: before News of the World came out (or maybe it was The Game; I'll have to check), Queen produced sounds that were semi-orthodox for the time, but every other prog band was using synthesizers to do it. Queen's first five albums used no synthesizers at all. It was all Yankee British ingenuity, and Brian.

And 3) this:

"In this age of celebrity culture, it is rare to find someone who has fame, fortune and universal acclaim and yet who remains true to his core values of learning and enlightenment," said the university's vice chancellor Michael Brown.

The boys from Queen were all academics; even Freddie had studied visual arts formally. And they weren't alone in not checking their intellects at the door when they got into entertainment: after all, the guys from Monty Python and Beyond the Fringe are/were the same way.

Now if only someone would coax John Deacon back into the spotlight. Hermit Boy: your fans need you.

I Know What You're Going To Say:

"Bookkeeping in general, is not out to get you. And neither is arithmetic in particular."

What do you know? Have you felt the mind rays emanating from the QuickBooks program? The palpable malice with which the calculator bombards me?

Note to self: resume wearing tinfoil hats to work.

So, What Is To Be Done?

About the perils of PowerPoint?

(Via Martin G.)

I Know; I'm Late.

But I love this 9/11 memorial ad by the folks at Budweiser.

I always mean to watch the Super Bowl, because of the ads, but I always forget. Also, I'd probably have to watch it on my own television: my husband hates having me around when there's football on TV. I always forget to check whether there is a play going on before I talk.

If I had TiVo, could I set it to record the Super Bowl, but only play the commercials? I mean, they are the best of the best—they almost always win the Clios. (And, no: I haven't been to the Clio Awards since I broke up with the guy from Rhythm & Hues. But I loved going to 'em, back in the day. I've been kissing up to all my friends who work at ad agencies, so it's just a matter of time.)

Can We Just All Make an Agreement

Not to talk about our exes on our blogs, unless we preserve their anonymity, as I used to do over at Dean's place? (Such as here, and here. And here.)

The fact is, I really like my exes. Even the quirky, annoying one, whom I can only take in small doses. I like 'em all, except the Westwood Village denizen who took my virginity by force. That was not too cool.

Now, do I now question what on earth I was thinking, with one or two of these people? Sure. But that has to do with compatibility issues. I hope they are all doing well. Even Mr. Westwood Village, for that matter; he was a bit out of his depth with me, after all. I never want to speak with him again, but I do pray for him, every now and then.

"Any Statist, 2008"

I don't think I've ever been made fun of quite this elegantly.

(The next post down is where the Cat and I have been having our debate about Terrorism vs. the Economy as the main challenge of this day and age.)

For the record, I do agree with Ben Franklin about how it isn't a hot idea to give up liberty for safety. And, in fact, that is why McCain ranks so low on my list—and why, despite my admiration for his gender-bending, Giuliani has so many question marks next to his name (and it isn't just gun rights that Rudy is weak on: there were all kinds of infringements on civil liberties when he was mayor of NYC, and seeing that expanded to the Federal level—when the Feds aren't bastions of restraint, even now—certainly gives one pause.

So, yes. I'm over my crush on Giuliani.)

"I Don't Care What You Say!"

"The middle class is getting squeezed, and the glass is half empty. La la la la la! I can't hear you!"

Apologies all around. But, food for thought, no?

"Did You See That Story?"

"Right—the one about protagonists, and gray hair."

At writers' group they are discussing the fact that some novelists are creating more story lines that feature heroes and heroines over 50.

"Because most readers are over 50 now. Isn't that sad?"

"That's so sad."

"Um." I find myself speaking again, something I try not to do at writers' group when I'm not actually reading my work. "How is this sad? People are living longer. We're not dying as young. Why does this depress you?"

"Because," one of them explains, "it means that young people don't really read any more."

"Um, no. It means that there aren't as many of them in this country as there are middle-aged folks."

They look at me, and I realize that they are completely unaware of the broader demographic trends that underlie the statistics they're quoting. And, once more, I shut up and let them play "ain't it awful." But it's boring.

There's an Intersting Discussion About Health Care . . .

going on over at James' place.

My favorite part is Dave's demolishing of the "left/right" construct. Always annoying, those labels.

(Note to self: decide on this blog's style for "health care" vs. "healthcare." And, for crying out loud, pick the latter.

"The cobbler's children have no shoes." To my shame, it's been four and a half years—but I still don't have a style sheet for this site.

I must go now and hit myself over the head with The Chicago Manual of Style, or perhaps Words Into Type. Or maybe Web 11.

Your average proofreader sure knows how to have fun on a Saturday night. Yesirree.)

Well. Nice To Be Famous, However Briefly.

So they are "bloggers," and I am only an "L.A.-area blogger." Just a local chick who drove up for the event in her bitchin' PT Cruiser. Oh, the shame of it. Did anyone ever abuse Moxie so? Of course not: after all, she's blonde.

FWIW, I did ask the Big Dawgs for advice on improving my traffic. Rusty suggested that "sometimes the shallowest posts bring in the most hits," and you could never go wrong by posting pics of girls in lingerie. Ace told me that the fastest—if not quite the classiest—way to get traffic was to blog about how hard it was to find a bra that was the right size for one's ample breasts. When I told him I was okay now that my local Nordstrom had a new buyer, he looked at me funny. After that, he spoke more slowly, and a bit more loudly. And he used shorter words.

Finally, I asked Jeff. I was sort of expecting him to discuss some part of my body about which I should do some real in-depth/hard-hitting reporting—and I think I arched my back, just to be safe—but he merely enquired as to whether his pecs had met my expectations.

"Well, you're wearing a T-shirt with sleeves," I responded irritably. "So I can't see them as well as I might. But if you must know, the biceps pass. Get me another Bloody Mary, willya? Put it on Rusty's tab. Or your wife's." After that, I kind of stewed in a corner for a while, muttering under my breath, and then I went upstairs to write neo-feminist screeds in defense of manhaters.

Fred on "Amnesty"

I'll send you to Sean's site; last time I was at Fred's place the video started automatically, and I'm still traumatized from the experience. (I have a delicate constitution.)

Blah, blah, blah. I wasn't so much listening to what he said as admiring the extras on the set he uses. I really dig the artifice of it: how the people in this old-fashioned coffee shop ignore the guy in the makeup under the bright lights and pretending to go about their own conversations.

It's so fake, and yet so well-done that I want to vote for him now!

Um, yes. I did grow up near Disneyland. Just like Zonker. And . . .?

The Fun Never Stops.

Another installment from The Codependency Chronicles:

When I left my mother's house yesterday I'd hauled most of the recycleables out to the bin, but left a small pile of them there. With the mom urging me to take off and avoid the rush-hour traffic (it was too late anyway, it turns out), I extracted a promise that she'd do it herself, pronto.

After all, the last thing either of us wanted was to have Mandy tear all the plastic, cardboard and whatnot into itty-bitty pieces and strew them all over the place—necessitating yet one more round of picking up the debris by hand, and then running the vacuum.

And yet, that's exactly what had happened when I got there this afternoon. The dog had also opened an entire bag of potting soil onto the living room carpet, and spread it around. Furthermore, it was a hot day: the place smelled like mouse piss.

(A couple of months ago my mother informed me that there was a mouse in her house. Though was a biology major, and had studied genetics at the graduate level at UCLA, she apparently failed to anticipate what happens when there is a little rodent around, and it manages to find even one friend. And, no: when I showed up with traps a few months ago, she wouldn't allow me to set one of them for her, and come back later for the little mousie corpse. She was going to do it herself. So now I'm doing it, but I need to set many. Unless Cougar Boy takes care of it tomorrow, and gets to rediscover that when mom gets tense, 90% of what one does is wrong. And not just a little bit wrong. Desperately, irrevocably, irretrievably wrong!)

I wasn't particularly happy to see my accomplishments of the previous two days undone, but I got to work cleaning, dusting, straightening, and hauling things around. A few times I asked my mother to get me a beer—which didn't seem unreasonable, in all that heat. (No, I didn't want to turn on the AC. I was trying to air the place out. Did I specify that I'm crazy and codependent?)

But of course the trick with clutterers is that one cannot either (1) touch their things, or (2) ask them to make a decision about the disposition of any of their possessions.

At one point she saw me picking up the second half of a broken chair and taking it toward the garage. "What in the name of God are you doing?" she shrieked.

Ah, my mother. The woman I grew up with, in those bracing pre-Prozac days. How nice to have her back. Really: just like being a teenager again. Without the acne.

"Well," I responded, "due to the fact that it's broken, I was going to take it to the garage. But I won't do that if you want it here in your breakfast nook."

"I want it here," she told me.

"Sure thing. Do you just want this part, or do you want the broken-off seat?"

"I want both parts of it here."

Personally, I think she was confusing me with the dog again, and had just read somewhere about the importance of establishing that one is the "alpha."

A few minutes later I cornered her in the kitchen. "You know," I explained, "I understand that I'm not allowed to throw things away without permission. But not being able to put broken things in the garage without permission is quite a handicap."

"Listen," she replied. "I don't want to discuss this kind of thing with you unless you can get to a better mental place."

I"m working on that right now, eight hours later. The better mental place thing. I took double the normal dosage of Ambien, because the mental place I want to be is unconsciousness. With any luck I'll soon slip away to a happy land in which everyone can be an orphan, with a little hard work and determination . . .

Who Knew that Olympia

. . . was such a hotbed of activism? I'm gonna grab my tie-dye and go!

Hat-tip to Ace's crew.

No Getting Directions Today.

MapQuest is beta-ing some lame new dysfunctional site. Google Maps keeps locking up on me ("did you mean that address in California?" "Well, didja?"). And Yahoo won't work at all—presumably because it won't give me directions until I log in. Very creepy.

I might have to resort to looking at one of those large dead-tree things.

Ronnie's Jeep.

And some blogger.

This is at the Reagan Ranch Center in downtown Santa Barbara, which is run by the excellent Young America's Foundation. It's partly a museum, and it houses some archival materials from the Ranch itself. It also contains a small theater in which footage of Reagan's speeches can be viewed.

The small-but-growing library encompasses all the ideas commonly labeled conservative ("from Ayn Rand to Dinesh D'Souza," as our gracious guide, Bryant Conger of the local staff, put it). And YAF will be installing a bookstore soon. The library is not for archival purposes, of course—there's something-or-other in Simi Valley that handles that task—but rather a working library that will ensure the students who attend workshops, events, and classes at the Center will be able to access ideas that their high schools and universities may have, um, forgotten to let them in on.

The main feature in the entrance is a piece of the Berlin wall (from the colorful, graffitti'd Western side, of course), framed by the Pink Floyd Ronald Reagan quote, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall."

The most important room in the Center is the classroom. YAF takes a lot of its educational work "on the road" to campuses throughout the country, but it now has a facility in Santa Barbara that makes larger-scale conservative functions affordable to those who live in the Western states on a shoestring (such as mendicant bloggers and, much more importantly, college students).

The entire installation is run, by the way, with private funds only, with no corners cut—or even rounded off a little. (Really: don't get me started on what a class act YAF is—from hosting bloggers at the Leadership Conference to the quality of the banquet food at its events. I've attended a lot of entertainment industry functions, and the catering at the YAF banquets was a step above what I've had at any of those dinners in Manhattan or Beverly Hills. [Blogging ethics standard disclaimer: I ate the food. But only enough to verify that it was up to my foodie standards.])

Naturally, there was no general agreement from Conference attendees about such things as the relationship between Church and State, or on what Reagan's legacy might be beyond the liberation of millions of people from totalitarianism. That's all to the good: Classical Liberalism (that is, conservatism) is about the free exchange of ideas. Open dialogue.

So why does YAF use Reagan's legacy—the preservation of the Ranch and the installation of the nearby Center—as a jumping-off point for promoting conservative ideals? Because, like Abraham Lincoln, Reagan got lots of things wrong, and got the most important thing very, very right. In fact, the thing they both got right was the very same thing.

Slavery is wrong, whether it is perpetrated by private individuals, or by the State.

Thanks once more to Jason Mattera of YAF's national team for putting together some of the media outreach at this rather extraordinary event.

Camille Paglia Is a Stud/God.

(Hey! What did I say? Stop looking at me like that!)

Her latest bitchfest in Salon is incredible. On Hillary Clinton:

Hillary seems to have acolytes rather than friends -- hardly a reassuring trait for a potential president whose paranoia has already been called Nixonian. Isolated monarchs never hear the bad news until the people riot and the lynch mob is at the door.

And on the paucity of good female candidates for President:

I have repeatedly said that Sen. Dianne Feinstein of California should have been the first woman president. With all due respect to Salon's perspicacious Glenn Greenwald, whose hard-hitting columns on Feinstein as a Beltway politician have been must-reads, Feinstein's statewide and national popularity are mainly due to her unflappable performances on television as a shrewd, steady, articulate public servant, deeply informed about military matters. She handles and deflects media queries with silky ease. Exuding both authority and compassion, she has true gravitas -- a rare quality in women. Dianne Feinstein, not Hillary Clinton, has already created the paradigm for a female commander in chief.

Well, except for that whole "I want to ban guns that look scary" campaign. And the "here, Mr. Serial Killer! We know what your tennis shoes look like, so you might want to dump them in the Bay!" escapade. And, of course, that awkward moment during the Milk murder. Other than those itty bitty problems, Feinstein is just terrific. I would definitely nominate her for Gun-Grabber in Chief, or Investigation Botcher in Chief, if we had such titles.

As far as I'm concerned, the archtypal female CiC remains Condi Rice. Hillary might have been fine in terms of her presentation skills (which, of course, is a big stumbling block for Paglia), but my problem is that ever since she got her face botoxed Hillary can't really show emotion (except by popping her eyes out), and I want someone in the Oval Office who's going to scare the shit out of our enemies. (Yup. We have 'em. Sorry to break it to you.) I don't care so much whether it's a man, or a woman, or . . . what was that other sex? I'm getting very absent-minded in my old age.

We've had some bitchin' female heads of state throughout history. It's simply an accident that we haven't had one in this particular country quite yet. But there's no rush, for it will certainly happen at some point.

And here's Camille on the environment:

This facile attribution of climate change to human agency is an act of hubris. Good stewardship of the environment is an ethical imperative for every nation. But breast-beating hysteria merely betrays impious tunnel vision. Thousands of factors, minute and grand, are at work in cyclic climate change, whose long-term outcomes we cannot possibly predict. Nature should inspire us with awe, not pity.

I probably don't read Paglia enough, because 1) her blindness about the War on Terror is irritating, given that this is the primary challenge we face today, and 2) I have an old-fashioned feminist streak in me that once in a while gets hit crosswise with her swashbuckling PI rhetoric.

But the important thing about Paglia is this: she writes what she thinks, notwithstanding how her homies are going to feel about it. Truth trumps diplomacy, every time.

It's an enchanting quality, and a rare one. It's the same reason I adore Christopher Hitchens, with whom I agree on very little.

Read Paglia's whole essay, though: as a special bonus, she wrote silly apologetics about the morally/intellectually bankrupt Norman Mailer, and they made me giggle.

I Believe I've Solved

. . . the problem of Mandy taking up 70% of the loveseat, leaving very little room for me. I swung my feet and legs above her body, resting the right foot on the farther arm of the tiny couch.

The left knee is propping up my mom's laptop, and Mandy has her nose resting on my right knee.

Time for another sleeping pill. It turns out they work better if you take them with other pills (I picked a few at random), and wash the whole chemical salad down with some beer.

If We Are Winning in Iraq . . .

then how does that change the game in the 2008 election?

Insty:

[It's] bad news for the Republicans in that those who have held their nose and stuck with the GOP because of the war are likely to feel freer to vote for people they agree with on other issues. And while it's true that Iraq is not the war on terror, it's also likely that the post-2009 phase of the war on terror will involve less outright war and more spying, backstabbing, subtle undermining, bribery, extortion and cooptation. Hmm. What candidate might be good at that sort of thing?

Don't fear the reaper.

I'm at My Mom's.

Helping her get the place ready for a houseguest—who happens to be my brother. And, you know: when the Sultan of Software comes to town, everything has to be just so.

Here, late at night, I can clean things with some impunity; that's probably why I elected to spend the night. But when my mother is around, the rules of engagement are different. It is paramount that she interrupt me every few minutes with some of the following types of concerns:

• "No! Don't put those piles of paper together. I had them sorted!"

• "Oh! Instead of dusting, would you fold laundry?"

• "No!" (This one's directed at the dog, but I swing around, wondering what I'm doing wrong.)

• "The way I usually do that is, I . . ."

• "You're not throwing that away, are you?"

Of course not. When you have a house that's cluttered up to the rafters, and you're trying to transform it into a livable environment, the last thing you want to do is throw anything away. Particularly when it's a partially used paper towel, or the plastic lid from a carton of cottage cheese.

Mandy decided I was probably playing some kind of fun game, and got in my way a lot until I lost my shit and yelled at her, warning her to not jump on me while I was doing housework. That subdued her for a while.

Meanwhile, I have obligations creeping up on me from my volunteer life. But for the next day or so, I'll want to focus on Matricide Avoidance.

Now That's Cute!

Iowahawk's got a new post up (car-related, rather than satiric or political).

I should have something like this. Perhaps not, though: I've noticed that small people tend to like big cars, and big people tend to like small cars.

Is that because some people consider their rides a type of avatar? If so, this gives the driver a chance to "try on" a new body type—metaphorically.

Giving the Lie to Producers' Claims.

Re: the writer's strike, Glenn has a note from one of the writer/producers involved, along with some devastating video that shows them bragging about all the revenue they'll be making from the internet—while continuing to insist that writers' compensation shouldn't take these monies into account.

Bonus question for my younger readers: The added background sounds are a persistent clicking, along with the ringing of a bell (thank you, foley artists). What are these noises meant to represent?

Speech.

It's what's for dinner.

Via Insty.

ADHD:

In some cases, it can delay brain development by several decades. At least, that's what I hear.

What I'm Reading.

A cool book about the erosion of civil liberties by Jonathan Rauch. (A bit out of date; I hope he revises it at some point.)

In case my SoCon readers want something to be annoyed by, they can always check this one out.

I love Jonathan Rauch.

Overheard, 11

"I'm really annoyed by That Prominent Blogger," she complained.

"Hey. We like him. What did he ever do to you?"

"Well, he's a sexist, and kind of ageist, too. I had an exchange with him that went on for 400 comments or something, in which he argued that by definition, I couldn't be attractive because I'm in my forties. It wouldn't bother me if he'd ever seen me, because I may not be his type—and I suspect I'm not. But the sight-unseen thing bugged me."

"He wants you," says the blogger wearing the hoodie.

"Oh, yeah," chimes in the one in a T-shirt. "Have you ever seen a picture of him? No great shakes there."

"Listen," Mr. Hoodie says. "His arguments can go up to 200 comments easily. But 400? He wants you bad."

"He's never seen me, though."

"Oh—like he really cares about that."

Simponsized!

By my main stalker, Darrell:

http://simpsonizeme.com/ecard.php?lang=en_us&code=dvuumzmygltdqkpnvhkbmpqjsveeuiyj

It takes a moment to load.

Some of it is familiar, but removing people's chins and jaws can lead to confusion—especially for those of us with weird, angular jawlines (it looks good on my father—on me, not so much).

Let's Blog Those Stories, Boys.

Of course, they're all getting to 'em faster than I am, because I'm female and oppressed and shit.

We all took slightly different quotes away from the meeting with Sarnow. My recollection, contra Rusty's, was that Sarnow said he owned the Mad Magazine satire of 24 personally—not that he had sent the artwork to Parker/Stone as a gift. But I could be wrong, and I know Klein has the entire meeting on tape, so we can check on that if we like. (Or we could simply decide what we want the facts to be, and report it that way, as the MSM does.)

I do remember him saying that "you know you've made it when Mad Magazine does a parody of you."

Don't trust my memories, though: I had left my writing pad and computer back in the banquet room, and was busy taking pictures and attempting not to freeze to death.

But I did like Sarnow.

I know people have been asking whether the blogosphere is simply a circle jerk, and I feel that the final answer is "yes." We are blogging about a meeting we had with a producer on the basis of our having blogs. Then we are blogging on each other's coverage.

So: the same thing the MSM does, but with more wit and verve.

Ace covered much of the Sarnow speech, along with our private meeting and the public Q&A, here. Stacy McCain's account is here.

Goldstein shares some tidbits about that meeting here.

Former Attorney General

. . . John Ashcroft was everywhere Saturday night. I kept bumping into him. I think he and his wife were stalking me.

(Actually, he was speaking at the YAF Conference, getting an award at the Reagan Center in Old Town Santa Barbara, promoting his book in a relatively low-key way. But that doesn't sound quite as good, does it?)

Yeah, Well.

The real reporters among us went ahead to file stories about how Joel Surnow endorses Rudy Guiliani. Others of us wondered how Surnow could not know that there really are talented writers out there who cannot get their work looked at by studio executives, due to the fact that most executives are not as smart as he. Then we endured his (probably correct) speculation that the Writers' Strike will drag on for months, and could end up breaking the Guild.

"Who is the real winner in this situation?" he asked us. I sat there like an extra, and he chided us for not realizing the answer. Bloggers, he asserted, should know this stuff.

"Who, then?" I asked.

"Nikke Finke."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

I spent most of the interview admiring the partnership between Surnow and his charming, intelligent wife, and attempting to frame tricky shots in the luscious winter light.

Joel Surnow talking to the usual suspects: Philip Klein of The AmSpec Blog, Ace of Ace of Spades HQ, Rusty Shackleford of The Jawa Report, Jeff Goldstein of Protein Wisdom, Stacy McCain, and Jim of Gateway Pundit.

Talking 'Bout Last Night.

I struggled with a bad case of exhaustion last night, because I had forgotten to take some of my nighttime meds the evening before. (Yes: my pill case rivals that of your average recently released psychiatric inpatient, NTTAWWT.)

But despite it all, I went down to the hotel bar and joined Rusty, Ace, the Goldsteins, Philip Klein (to whom I was rude last winter—and I still haven't apologized, because I'm hoping he'll just forget) Stacy McCain, and our benefactor at YAF (the Media Wrangler Who Can Handle Bloggers) for one last drink.

And it was all good. Even Rusty decided to come down to the bar for one more, although he was getting up very, very early to get on his plane the next day, and fly to . . . wherever it is that Rusty lives. I've always assumed, myself, that it's in Area 54.

It was kind of like being at Count Linguist's house after a party on a Saturday night. You've got a crowd of ridiculously smart people who are all exhausted and/or impaired by caffeine/alcohol/THC/overstimulation of their tender wittle brains, and the definition of "funny" changes accordingly. On Saturday night Mrs. Goldstein and I lounged on a loveseat while the guys threw out lines, seeing if we might laugh. I always did, because I could see that some of 'em were in "comedic brute force" mode, and the earlier we laughed, the better it would go for us.

I've been sworn to secrecy, but I can divulge that many of those present had somewhat. . . um . . . mixed emotions about Andrew Sullivan.

The subject of torture came up, and I opined that my having to wait more than 10 minutes for a second bloody Mary was a coercive questioning technique that should be banned internationally. So Goldstein came back with more tomatoey, vodka-infused goodness.

You heard it here first! This is hard-hitting news, boys and girls!—with a few notable exceptions, bloggers like the drinkey.

The Funny Thing About This . . .

is that my nephews wouldn't get it at all. Kinda like L.A. Story, but completely different.

Via Bidinotto.

Jeff Goldstein was

. . . in rare form last night. He doesn't get out to many of these events, so he had to compress a lot of showmanship into one evening. He brought the funny, but it was also rather wearing, trying to keep up with him.

At one point I whispered to his extraordinarily beautiful wife, who knew how many drinks he'd had—rather a large number, I suspect—"is there an 'off' switch?"

"Absolutely not," she told me serenely.

"Um, how about a 'low' setting, so we can all pace ourselves?"

"Not at this point." And she smiled.

Up in Santa Barbara.

Last night's keynote at the YAF conference was by Dinesh D'Souza, who gave a summary of his arguments against what we might call the "Hitchens critique." His speech also hit—very effectively—some of the points outlined in his book, which was available on the media table. (Of course, I couldn't find the media table, but I really liked the college students I sat with through dinner. And sure enough, my copy of D'Souza's book was waiting for me there at the blogging nexus after dinner, along with Rusty Shackleford, Ace o' Spades and Jeff Goldstein; the latter's lovely wife joined us for a couple of drinks in the hotel bar, until she and I both got too tired and cold to keep up with the guys, who had moved the conversation onto the cold beachside bar veranda to accommodate the smokers.)

I'm getting old, but I'm not wearing the bottoms of my trousers rolled, so I guess it's okay.

The Polls Are Closed.

. . . and thanks to everyone who helped me to attain a respectable showing.

King Crimson

. . . just re-issued its first album, totally remastered.

The first guy I lived with—the architectural designer—used to go to sleep to that album. At that time, nothing would relax me enough to help me sleep,* but I still liked the music, and have fond memories of lying in a dark room listening to "The Court of the Crimson King."

Val bought the remastered CD recently for Beatty, and I got to hear it again. I'm trying to work on Beatty, to get him to loan it to me so I can rip it to iTunes. Though I might just break down and buy it. (That sort of thing has been happening with shocking regularity lately.)

* That was before I discovered meditative techniques and Ambien.

Attention, Denizens of Cleveland!

Direct from the Moving Picture Institute's press release:

The Moving Picture Institute is proud to announce that The Cleveland Institute of Art Cinematheque will screen Indoctrinate U on Sunday, November 18th at 4:00 pm.

Screening Location:
Cleveland Institute of Art Cinematheque
11141 East Boulevard in University Circle
Cleveland, Ohio 44106
216-421-7450

Tickets will be $8 and available at the door or in advance by calling 216-421-7450. Free parking is available in the Institute lot.

Featured on Hannity's America and in the New York Times, Maloney's pathbreaking documentary has caused a sensation among journalists and higher education leaders. "This film hits you in the gut" wrote Stanley Kurtz in National Review Online, while Carol Iannone, editor of the journal Academic Questions, has called the film "shocking -- even to someone who knows a lot about political coercion on today's campuses."

Indoctrinate U's Washington premier at the Kennedy Center during the American Film Renaissance Film Festival was filled to capacity with 500 people, who gave the film a standing ovation. Almost 30,000 people across the country have signed up at www.IndoctrinateU.com to see the film -- and in response, MPI is arranging screenings in a number of major U.S. cities. Details will be announced as the events are scheduled.

I've seen several different versions of this movie, since it's been in-process for a few years, and there's always a new segment to be viewed at the Liberty Film Festival. Evan Coyne Maloney is one of a kind: he doesn't necessarily make the Academy look that good.

Write Enough . . .

on the writer's strike. Keep scrolling; just because a person is a libertarian, doesn't mean he doesn't believe in collective bargaining.

At least one of the entertainment-industry locals—the makeup union—has informed its members that the Writers' Guild is not a real union; it's only a guild. So its members are required to ignore the strike, cross the picket lines, and go to work.

This has led a lot of industry folk into a "damned if I do, damned if I don't" mindset.

Ideally, however, I'd like to see creative people—those who actually come up with ideas that enrich our lives, whether they are writers or musicians, sculptors or painters—get better and more consistent rewards for what they do.

As things stand, being in any creative field remains a hell of a way to make a living (or, in many cases, not). Despite what People magazine would have you believe about the lifestyles of the rich and frivolous . . .

Insecure on Sartorial Matters?

Let the army of Davids help you pick an outfit for that special occasion.

In my particular case, I prepared for the Public Utility job by borrowing my husband's valet stand, and taking pictures of every business outfit I had (short of a suit, which would have been a bit much). I still have 'em all in a file, and I take 'em out for scrutiny whenever I get that "I don't have enough clothing!" feeling.

Beautiful Atrocities is Back!

And as wonderful as ever.

(This has led to some catfights in The Cotillion over "whose gay boyfriend" Jeff really is. I've suggested that we determine this like ladies: paper targets, 25 feet, sidearms-of-choice. I'll shoot off-hand, to make it more sporting for the others.)

And the Ron Paul People Wonder . . .

why they are gaining a reputation for internet-based hijinx?

Via The Accidental Mind/Blog, which has some great stuff on its front page. Keep scrolling!

Hm.

Crab Orchard Review is accepting work through the end of the month that focuses on the experience of adolescence. There's a piece I should submit, if I can remember for sure that they haven't already rejected it. I know they turned one of my stories/essays down, but I can't recall which it was, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I went all ADD and mis-filed the rejection letter.

Of course, if I re-submit the one they rejected, they'll know I'm persistent. That I care. That I'm a space cadette.

I'm . . .

speechless.

Go. Now.

Nepotism Rears Its Ugly Head.

I know it's childish of me, but I kind of dig all the interrelationships within the 'sphere—like, the fact that Glenn got both his wife and his mom into blogging (who wants to bet that the Instadaughter already has a blog, but hasn't "come out" to her dad, yet?).

And then there are the prominent bloggers I'm not supposed to talk about who were dating for a while, and now dislike each other intensely. And the cousins who blog. And the drinking buddies. And the real estate partners. And the venture capitalists and their favorite startups. Etc.

But my favorite blogging family is actually this one:

Beth at Blue Star Chronicles, who is up for a Weblog Award in the "Top 250" Category, is the sister of

Carol, The Median Sib, who is up for a Weblog Award in the "Diarist" Category, and is the daughter of

Ruth of Ruthlace, who is also up for a Weblog Award in the "Diarist" Category, and is furthermore (stay with me, here)

oddly enough, the mother of Beth at Blue Star Chronicles.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

On Fred Thompson's Commitment to Federalism

So far, so good.

Via Insty, Volokh discusses how "refreshing" it is to see someone running for President who takes the Constitution seriously:

"I think people ought to be free at state and local levels to make decisions that even Fred Thompson disagrees with. That’s what freedom is all about. And I think the diversity we have among the states, the system of federalism we have where power is divided between the state and the federal government is, is, is—serves us very, very well."

Many politicians say such things. President Bush, for one, spoke quite a bit about the need for state flexibility when he was a Governor and a candidate, but seems to have forgotten about such things over the past six years. It appears Thompson actually means it, however, as he stuck to his federalist guns even when confronted with issues where many "conservatives" abandon federalism and embrace federal power. He even endorsed state autonomy where such a position meant rejecting policy positions favored by significant portions of the GOP base.

On abortion, for example, Thompson said that he believes that life begins at conception, and that Roe v. Wade was wrongly decided and should be overturned. Yet he further stated that he opposes a constitutional amendment prohibiting abortion and the language endorsing a federal prohibition in the 2004 GOP Platform.

Similarly, on gay marriage, Thompson said that he believes "marriage is between a man and a woman," but stops short of endorsing a constitutional amendment to prohibit gay marriage. Rather, Thompson said he supports an amendment to prevent the imposition of gay marriage by the judiciary, but that state legislatures should be free to recognize gay marriage if such a policy is supported by the people of a given state. As I understand it, Thompson's position is essentially that outlined by Michael Greve, and which would provide a constitutional backstop to the Defense of Marriage Act, but would not prevent states from making their own choices about gay marriage.

I keep looking for something about Thompson I can really dislike, but I'm not finding too much just yet. He seems to have the highest level of charisma among the GOP contenders, and the strongest principles. I also think he may have fewer skeletons in his closet than just about any of the candidates—from both parties.

UPDATE: More on Federalism (and Fred Thompson) at The Jawa Report.

"Look, I Have To Hand It to You,"

my father tells me. "Given your genetic heritage, and the fact that you're prone to depression, it's just amazing that you aren't overweight."

"I'm not sure it's to my credit," I tell him.

"But look at your relatives!"

"I've seen them," I respond. "But when I get depressed, the last thing I want to do is eat."

I was hearing this crap from my stepfather when I was 15 years old. As if there were some fat monster out there, just waiting to pounce on me.

Grammar Wear

Richard Manitoba points to this T-shirt as appropriate attire for those of us who are . . . well, a bit unyielding on issues of punctuation and language structure. (Except for the split infinitive thing, on which I'm extremely liberal: I figure English is a Germanic language, and the rhythm of a sentence is often superior when we T-bone that infinitive. Also, some infinitives really want to be split, deep down.)

But the "sic" pun leaves me cold. I like this hoodie, however. And this issue has been a linguistic pet peeve for decades.

But this one here says it all.

Look.

I'm not saying that I'm going to run a topless pic of myself if I win the Weblogs Award in my category.

I'm only pointing out that I will not do so if I don't win. That's all.

Bottled Water as Sin

Eric on the reinvention of morality.

My mother and I squabble over this all the time. She tends to drink tap water, but I feel that (depending on the municipality I'm in at any given time) it tends to improve my water-consumption to drink bottled. Sometimes I drink tap stuff for the fluoride and extra minerals, or for conservation reasons, or to save money.

But plastic bottles are lighter than anything else out there, and the water doesn't spill out of them in a car as it does from water tumblers/glasses. Furthermore, ordinary bottles can be thrown away at airports and the like, when one is prohibited from bringing liquids into any given area. Finally, the smallest water bottles ("vendable" versions, and those marketed to kids) can fit in one's purse, so one can always have water around.

And regular bottles are supremely recyclable. So I just don't see the problem.

Growing up in a parsimonious family, I'm well aware that just about any move any person can possibly make can be considered "wasteful." Any consumption of resources whatsoever can be made into a source of shame.

But what, exactly, is the point to that? We have to make rational cost-benefit analyses on these issues.

At least, I have to.

No; I'm Not Going to the BlogWorld Expo in Las Vegas.

Though I might drive up to Santa Barbara for a day or two of the YAF conference.

BlogWorld Expo is, of course, concurrent with the YAF's West Coast Leadership Conference, and it occurs to me that a person could conceivably become a full-time blogging gadfly, jumping from event to event, talking about—and covering—the emergence of New Media.

Which, silly as it sounds, would beat workin'.

And Yet More on the Weblog Awards!

The American Mind is up for "Best 501-1000."

And The Anchoress is up for "Best Individual Blogger"—had I mentioned that?

Furthermore, Jane (Armies of Liberation) and I are up for "Best 1751-2500"

And you can only vote once each 24 hours, so set an alarm or something.

More on the Weblog Awards

It turns out that Hooah Wife and I are not the only Cotillionites who have been nominated. So here's a handy-dandy cheat sheet of Cotillion candidates and their friends/allies:

Best Religious Blog
GodDivas

Best Diarist
Ruthlace
The Median Sib

Best Video Blog
HamNation
(Mary Katharine Ham)

Video of the Year
HamNation—Sopranos DC Edition (MKH)

TTLB ECOSYSTEM CATEGORIES

Best of the Top 250 Blogs
My Pet Jawa (Jane Novak, Guest Blogger)
MY Vast Right Wing Conspiracy
Blue Star Chronicles

Best of the Top 251 - 500 Blogs
Knowledge is Power (SondraK)
Baldilocks (Juliette—on hiatus, but still going great guns)
Fausta (Fausta, the premier blogger on issues Latin American)
PC Free Zone

Best of the Top 1001 - 1750 Blogs
Agent Bedhead
Merri Musings

Best of the Top 1751 - 2500 Blogs

Armies of Liberation (Jane)
Hooah Wife
Little Miss Attila (Joy)

Best of the Rest of the Blogs (8751+)
Kiss My Gumbo
Photos by Seawitch

Remember: voting for Cotillion candidates is a blow to the patriarchy. And it might get you laid. Plus, it wards off skin ailments.*

[Special thanks to Janette for compiling this list!]

* Promises not guaranteed, but deemed accurate.

The 2007 Weblog Awards

Apparently, I'm up for an award among the "Blogs Hardly Anyone Reads" (ranked 1751-2500), and I must choose among 1) my egomania, 2) my respect for Hooah Wife, and 3) my conviction that Jane at Armies of Liberation is the very best in this particular group.

Is there, uh, a financial prize if I win? Just askin'.

Well, you can vote every 24 hours up until 11/8. And it is cheaper than hitting our tip jars.

I Must Say,

I love Chris Muir's use of the title "Your Inevitableness" for Mrs. Clinton.

Aceapalooza West

Attila the Hub and I dropped by for a time last night. It was fun to see Ace again, even though he's cut his hair too short. (I did get to point out that he looks better on this coast versus the other, because he's got a healthy California glow going. He must have accidentally gotten some sun at some point, which is always a stunning achievement for any internet nerd/writer, including me.)

Baldilocks was there, enjoying her blog-hiatus. It was also great to see Patterico. It had been a while. And, of course, a lot of the Ace o' Spades regulars were present, though I probably don't know them all as well as I should.

I got to meet Clark Baker, who was a lot of fun to talk to. I got his card for my "LAPD-related" Rolodex (a crime novelist can never do too much research, even if she's not writing actual police procedurals—and even if Baker didn't do detective work while he was with the LAPD). Once Baker mentioned the USMC, however, I went off to get fresh drinks, figuring my husband (who also studied police science for a while, and was in the MP when he was with the Marines) would have plenty to talk to him about.

Also, they were close to the same height. I felt that my presence would give them cricks in their necks if I stuck around.

Bars aren't really necessarily my thing. But the Santa Monica Promenade is a great place to be on a weekend—albeit slightly crowded—and it's always nice to get back to my second hometown, no matter the excuse.

We were three blocks from the cliffs overlooking the ocean; how could it get better than that?

That's What I'm

. . . talking about.

Drew Carey

. . . on medical marijuana, and why the Feds should chill in Cali.

Me—I'm finishing a Cohiba. A real, Cuban Cohiba. (Hey: why is Cuba any different from China? Give 'em enough rope—er, hemp, whatever—and they'll build something useful with it.)

I bought my mother a senior steak with the salad bar option at the Sizzler right outside Inglewood. Our personal Sizzler. We talked about Nebraska, of course. Afterward we went back and chatted until the dog calmed down. I showed the mom how to use her new digital camera, and then proceeded to head on home. I wanted a smoke, however, on the way back to the Pasadena area.

"So, where's your cigar cutter?" I asked.

"My what?

I lopped off the end of the Cohiba with one of her kitchen knives, and smoked it on the way back. I kept relighting it, but you know how cigars are. The last couple of inches get wet and weird and difficult to re-light. So I'm going to bed, hoping the drapes and my clothes and my car don't stink too much when I wake up in the morning.

I mean, it all good fun, until I have to do that extra load of laundry to exorcise that wet, doglike, smokey smell out of all my clothes.

It was worth it, though.

And, unlike the case with medical marijuana, it would have been easy to talk my way out of it if I'd been stopped.

Maybe.

I Adore Stephen Colbert.

I mean, I know he was rude to the President once, but this is America: if you can't be rude to the President, whom can you be rude to?

And I really dug his work on Strangers with Candy. South Carolina is taking itself way too seriously. We should call for an investigation!

Also, there are only two other people on the planet who can do this sort of thing with their eyebrows:

Namely, Jack Black, and the Scanmaster, David Coons. As a matter of fact, Colbert looks like a sort of brunette—and, well, slightly younger—David Coons. I wonder if I have any pictures of Dave that are good, and feature him wearing clothing.

Here's a crappy pic of Coonsie:

But at least he is fixing his friend's pool while wearing swim trunks. This is a major concession, coming from the guy who inspired the title of Po Bronson's book The Nudist on the Late Shift.

Next Project:

Master playlists. I do not like it when my iPod plays "Boogie Fever," and then follows it up with "Box of Rain."

And of course the scrolling system on the Nano is posessed by the devil.

I'm sure that whatever my forebears listened to on the farms in Nebraska was more user-friendly. This undoubtedly made it more fun to use outhouses in the middle of the night in the dead of winter.

In point of fact, life really has me down right now. I may go smoke a cigar to calm my nerves.

Why Is This Night Unlike Any Other Night?

Well, let's see.

I went to the mail drop. Then I went to the bank. Then I filled the car with gasoline (a full tank, mind you—not $5 or $7 or $10 in quarters).

Then I stopped by the jewelers and got a ring.

I priced a few digital cameras. Then I paid a bill.

Then I picked up a bottle of Junipero gin and a couple of Brazilian cigars.

Nope. Can't figure it out at all. Everything's normal; but isn't it a beautiful day? Blue skies (blueish-gray—whatever). Deer running around. The best peanut butter sandwich I've had in a good long time, washed down with 2% milk, and followed by a fish-oil capsule and a multivitamin.

Life is good. Really freakin' good.