Shackleford on "Compromise."

Yeah, Rusty. Your mouth says yes:

Just remember, politics isn't religion. Voting for someone other than Reagan or Jesus doesn't make one dirty or a sinner. The alternative to having candidates who don't perfectly reflect our preferences is a multi-party parliamentary system. And if you want that, move to France.

But your eyes say no:

So, go support Mitt before it's too late.

Not Johnny Mac. Mitt. If McCain turns out to be the nominee, Rusty . . . we can talk then. I understand about laws, Chief Executives, and sausages . . . but I can only eat so many insect parts.

Yeah. I Don't Know Why You Guys Are Always Attacking Ann Coulter.

I mean, the woman tells it like it is:

Via Allahpundit, who also comes in for horrible, unjust criticism from our side. (Yeah, yeah: he disagrees with Coulter—but he ran the clip.)

Hackbarth on Romney, Part 2

I do wish we could all just shut up about the GOP frontrunners' real and imaginary shortcomings—at least until after we get trounced this coming fall. I mean, can't this all be done in post-mortem?

And don't give me that truth = beauty crap, either. Keats just had that one wrong. Truth is a thing one must face every now and then. Beauty is the snowfall along the Angeles Crest Mountains, and/or a PT Cruiser with fake-wood siding.

Sean:

Even if his conservative conversion is genuine, Romney still hasn’t had the time to develop that core, that conservative instinct. He may think and believe conservatism is the right set of ideas, but one must soaked in it to get to the point of defending it in a Presidential campaign. Mitt’s not there yet.

I'm not so sure about this. Sean's thesis has to do with Romney not having read enough "books, magazines and weblogs" to really grasp the principles of the "conservative movement. (Whatever that is; am I a part of that? Can someone advise me, here?)

But if Romney's experiences in business and as governor of Massachusetts brought him to a genuine turnaround, based on solid experience, that's a great deal more important than any theoretical grounding or wonky intellect.

When I think about which is more important to me—having a reader in the White House, or an executive—I would have to go with the executive. The do-er.

Let Romney's advisors read books, and brief him. Let him get his own Cheney—some smart, hands-on VP (um . . . Fred? You listening?).

I do not want theory from my President. I want practice. I want someone who will take decisive action.

And I do not—do not, do not, do not—want John McCain. Unless at some point I become convinced that he has been converted to the cause of conservatism.

Excuse me: I need to go laugh bitterly into my mug of red table wine.

"Why Do Conservatives Hate the Constitution?"

Well, HipNerd, I'm not sure why the rest of 'em do. I hate the Constitution for two very good reasons:

1) it's a tool of Teh Patriarchy;

2) the Founding Fathers' penmanship.

More later!

Those Freakazoid DVDs

. . . got the commentary recorded yesterday. More details on the session—which included Paul Rugg (the voice of Freakazoid), Tom Ruegger (the executive producer), and John P. McCann (the voice of Douglas Douglas, Dexter's father)—here.

Interesting tidbits: the character Cosgrove isn't just drawn to look like Ed Asner: it actually is Ed Asner. And the guy who looks and sounds like Ricardo Montalban really is him. Ditto Jonathan Harris, from Lost in Space.

Too bad the show was so short-lived: I always thought there was an anti-Freakazoid insurgency going somewhere in Warner Brothers at the time, and that's why the show started to get scheduled at odd times, began to lose resources, and was eventually killed.

So, you know: that time, "the terrorists won."

And then the WB network people moved in. And AOL took over. And soon enough, quality animation shows at Warner Brothers were a thing of the past. But if Paul, Tom, John and the rest of 'em from the 1990s—those who worked on the funny shows like Tiny Toons, Animaniacs, and Freakazoid!, as well as the serious ones like Batman Beyond—were to put all their Emmies into one room, they'd need a specially reinforced building just to hold 'em all.

And someday, another animation house will decide it wants to start making kick-ass television shows again. And these are the people they'll want to call: the veterans of the "golden age." (N.B.: not out-of-work sitcom writers. Animation writers. People who know the form.)

UPDATE: Post edited to reflect the fact that there was, indeed, a final episode. I should have remembered that: it cost Warner Brothers a fortune to use "We'll Meet Again."

And, you know—I guess they did meet again. Yesterday. Though I kind of wish they'd gotten paid for it.

See you later; I'm going out for a mint.

Okay, So This Has Been Bothering Me.

WTF is a "breakfast cookie"?

I mean, I know what a "breakfast bar" is. I know about protein bars, and energy bars, and snack bars, and granola bars.

And I understand that there is no material difference between a bar, and that round thing that you call a "cookie."

But why emphasize the ugly truth we all know?—that the best breakfasts include not just protein, but also plenty of fat, carbs, and sugar? Do we have to be so vulgar as to call it a "cookie" in front of God and everyone?

I'm really upset about this, and I'm not going to be jollied out of it.

Intra-Family Dialogue

Joy:

Dad,

Please don't shorten people's names, particularly in your business correspondence. Also, be careful about whom you cc: your email to, especially when it's marked "private." You can always forward email to people separately, or use the blind-copy function.

Joy:

Dad,

I didn't mean to sound bitchy, there. I'm just in a hurry . . .

—J

Joy's Father:

My Baby,

Gosh—I never met a bitchy person.

Love,

Dad

Other than the three he married, and the one he produced. Whoops; did I say that out loud?

(My brother and my half-sister are nice people. I'm the black sheep.)

Dreamboat Green

. . . has been drunkblogging the GOP debate. A couple of the money quotes:

6:20pm You know what rocks about the 21st Century? I can drunkblog and order a pizza on the internet all at the same time. Of course, I have to rely on somewhat more primitive technology to get the pizza to me from the front door to the bedroom — but Melissa is used to that by now.

6:41pm They’re letting Huck talk again. Isn’t that cute?

7:19pm It’s the martinis talking, I know. But what I want is the Frankenstein Candidate — half Paul, to cover the domestic stuff, and half Nixon to bomb the crap out of anyone who needs it.

Works for me.

Via Insty, who remarks, "he's going to need a new liver before this election is over."

Kenneth Blackwell on FISA

The case for re-authorizing.

Okay, Boys and Girls.

Sober up and do your duty.

Advance Cause has a couple of candidate comparison charts. Unfortunately, they are broken down by party, which makes it less user-friendly if we end up with a choice between Hillary Clinton and John McCain.

Goldstein's talking about writing in "the ashes of Hunter S. Thompson" (or, alternatively, "the good part of Hunter S. Thompson's remains"). Personally, I'm going to write in Goldstein—and Burge, of course.

Jeff Is Back, Baby.

If you need me, I'll be at Protein Wisdom. I love his co-bloggers, but it just ain't the same.

Today, we have Goldstein's spirited response to those—including his own Craig C. who are willing to suck it up and vote for Johnny Mac:

Allow me to make the following suggestion to those whose entire political worldview is based around this amorphous (and purposely non-specific) desire for change: try crystal meth, or bang a tranny prostitute, or go pee-pee from an unfamiliar launching point. But please, please, don’t chose your president based on the promise of something different.

That’s what gave us Jimmy Carter. And we’re still living with that nightmare — even if a certain giant river bunny who took a presidential oar to the skull may not be.

And he's probably right.

I'm still a National Security voter above all else. But I'm not convinced that Hillary would be any worse than McCain in that regard, despite the rhetorical differences between them. Hillary might, after all, have something to prove as the first female President. And that's what I want in the White House: a man or woman whom the Iranians, et al. don't exactly know what to make of. Someone whose actions they cannot necessarily predict.

White-haired bully, crazed female. All the same to me. I want our enemies (yes, we do have enemies) quaking in their boots. Once that's happening, I'm willing to move on to matters domestic.

The exception being speech: speech and guns. Without those two, the entire country loses itself. Johnny Mac's record on those first two Amendments remains troubling.

I may check around to see if I can simply have myself frozen until 2012. It's the most practical option.

Yeah, Concealed Carry Doesn't Mix with Alcohol.

Everyone knows that you ditch all your guns if you're going to a bar for more than, say, a single drink. Yes: even your church gun. All of 'em.

But going out to party is different than going out to dinner, no?

Actually, I love those cafes in Arizona that ask that "no weapons" be brought inside. What the hell do they expect me to do?—leave it in my fucking glove box? Now that's safe. Why don't I just leave 'em in the lost and found by the hostess' post, so they can be claimed by the local criminals?

I've got to get out shooting, soon. And remember: women need twice as much target practice as men do. It isn't an eye-hand coordination thing. It's the fact that we have to do the same drills wearing both flats and heels. More of a challenge. (I love shooting in heels; everyone asks if I'm a cop, and I get to act all excited, like, "oh, they've waived the height requirements, have they?" Men are so transparent; they might as well say, "I've seen you at this range before . . .")

Via Desert Cat . . .

a guide to survival.

My system:

1) Wait for an earthquake, windstorm, riot, or terrorist attack.

2) Take another First Aid course. Put together emergency kits for car, desk at the office, home. Mentally given yourself a Merit Badge for preparedness.

3) Get bored. Get tired of lugging a backpack around in the car, and having to move hiking boots around under the desk at work. Begin to take stuff back home, stash it into the back of a closet, and forget where it is.

4) Misplace even the main flashlight that lives on each story at home. Eat the canned soup in the 72-hour kit, and fail to replace it. Throw away those little cans of Vienna sausage in a fit of pique.

5) Wait for next earthquake, windstorm, riot, or terrorist attack. Get annoyed at self when flashlight is nowhere to be found and the matches are miles away from the candles. Stare dolefully at the old gallon-sized plastic bottles of supermarket water in the garage, and wish they hadn't sprunk leaks and somehow achieved an interesting sort of rust-color on the inside. Wonder how thirsty one would have to be to actually drink that.

6) Repeat.

Who knew that those Cat Eyes had such great focus?

Who Knew that Glenn's Mac

. . . was a sexual predator?

Eh.

Politics, schmolitics. Don't harsh my mellow.

I mean, it isn't like I had a hard-on for Romney anyway. (Pardon the genderfuck: I've never been able to find a good female analogy to that particular expression. "Romney never made me wet"?—sounds a bit slutty, no?)

It might be just as well for the Democratic establishment—Obama, Mrs. Clinton, McCain—to get aboard with the War on Terror anyway.

Congratulations, Mary Katherine!

Olberman's "worst person," based on his simplistic reading of a completely legitimate point she made about former President Bill Clinton's relationship with the mainstream media, back in the 1990s.

One of my readers has suggested that female beauty makes a lot of males into intellectual basket-cases; I can certainly see why this might be the case with MKH—one of the loveliest and most talented women I've ever met.

Good work, Keith! And congrats again, Mary Katherine.

Who looks worst in this picture? Not Mary Katherine! I believe it's okay of Fausta, and marginal of MKH—but I feel I'm the "worst" one here. Paging Keith Olbermann!

Darleen

. . . ain't drinking the Obama Kool-Aid. And she'll tell you why.

Personally, I want to concentrate on the real enemy: the Judean People's Front! I mean, the Republicans I disagree with . . .

And Yet More Rape by the Patriarchal Democratic Establishment.

Oy gevalt.

See, when I wrote this, I sort of thought I was, you know—joking.

But now that I've thought it through, I think there's a serious point to be made. Not the ridiculous notion that a failure to endorse Hillary Rodham Clinton as the Democratic nominee in 2008 is a form of rape—but the irrefutable fact that not sending me money and/or expensive gifts is a form of rape.

I've only had a few responses so far to my CPAC fundraising appeal. You don't want to be thought of as a misogynist, do you? Or a cheapskate? Or a cheapskate misogynist? Please look into your heart: is your desire to keep me—a woman—out of the nation's capital based on an unconscious desire to perpetuate the "old boys' club" of traditional politics? Yes. Yes, it is. But there is a way to make up for it—my tip jar!

h/t for the Hot Air link: Ace, who—if he actually read my site—would be rolling his eyes around now . . .

Yeah.

I’m a driver, I’m a winner; things are gonna change. I can feel it.

—Beck, "Loser"

Of course, the twelve-steppers are fond of pointing out that "a feeling is a feeling, not a fact."

So why don't you kill me?

All Smart People . . .

are idiots.

No exceptions.

Don't Try and Make Me Real

Make me of clay, make me of steel,
But whatever you do don't try and make me real.
Make me your dream, a secretive deal,
But don't ever scheme to try and make me real.

Stop trying to make me real;
I haven't got the kind of heart a lover can steal.
Stop crying, I just can't feel
Any sympathy for someone trying to make me real.

Make me of shit in a two-teenier deal;
Make me of pornography—a pedophile wheel
Whatever I do, whatever I feel,
By your double standard I will never be real.

Stop trying to make me real;
I haven't got the kind of heart a lover can steal.
Stop crying, I just can't feel
Any sympathy for someone trying to make me real.

Why can't you settle for a fantasy?
You're so convinced that I'm the man to see.
I can't live up to
What you give up to
I fail to see the perfect man in me.

Make me from your magazine a listed ideal;
Dress me in the doll's house your knickers conceal.
Make me your brother-lover beau-ideal,
But you will soon discover lover can't be real.

Stop trying to make me real;
I haven't got the kind of heart a lover can steal.
Stop crying, I just can't feel
Any sympathy for someone trying to make me real.

Pete Townshend, Darrell, my husband, Sean Connery. It's really quite a short list.

And here's Jane Bond, from "I Made Love to a Communist":

Personally, however, I prefer Cubans. They seem so—well—experienced.

Turns Out, All Men Really Are Rapists.

They rape us with their minds, their dicks, checkbooks, their endorsements.

I mean—(wo)manslaughter is one thing. But getting behind Obama? I'm pretty crushed. I'll be in bed with a bottle of mediocre gin, if you need me.

Via Insty, who calls Kennedy's betrayal "an act of political infidelity." Clever euphemism for rape; heh.

Joyner on the Clinton Machine:

While it’s unlikely Super Tuesday will be decisive in a mathematical sense, the nomination will likely be all but Hillary’s by day’s end. Obama is both the candidate most appealing to the Democratic base and the one best positioned to win in the general election; a rare combination, indeed. He’s unlikely to be the nominee despite that, though, owing to the compressed schedule and Clinton’s superior support network.

Emphasis mine; fortunately for the Dems, our candidates are even lamer than theirs, so even if they put Mrs. C up, they aren't in terrible shape. Unless we get someone feisty like Rudy involved, which we won't.

Read the whole thing.

So. Progressives and the Clintons.

Looks like there'strouble in paradise.

It turns out that sometimes the Clintons don't tell the truth. Who knew?

Via Janette.

The McCain Reform Institute Scandalette

I think this is a problem for Mr. "Free Speech Except When I Don't Like It." And I hope it's a big one.

Ace:

Of course campaign staffers do not work a couple of months every two or four years. They have jobs in the interim—usually as lobbyists.

The problem here is that the Reform Institute seems especially connected to McCain, and especially interested in promoting his agenda. And staffers seem to move fluidly between McCain's staff and the Reform Institute. And, of course, McCain served on its Advisory Board in the past. He seems to have resigned to avoid questions of conflicts of interest, or to avoid jeopardizing its tax-exempt status.

For a guy who campaigned on closing campaign donation loopholes and limiting how much money could flow from special interests to candidates, he seems to be exploiting a pretty big loophole.

And it's connected to Soros. Pretty distasteful.

Here's Depressing for You

Stephen Green:

It just occurred to me that one of these jokers — Clinton, McCain, Obama or Romney — is going to be the next President. It’s almost enough to make one pine for the old days of Bush v Gore.

Almost.

Via Insty.

Drink up, now.

Overheard, 15

This one is from the Montana Cafe:

Redhead: So I ask him, "Oh, for crying out loud: must you be such a guy? How about some details?—your girlfriend's name, which part of the state you're living in, what kinds of projects you're taking these days, what your aspirations are for the future, how the pieces of your life fit together, how much ass-sex you're getting, stuff like that . . ."

Blonde: But he is a guy.

Redhead: Exactly. And I kind of get that. But must a girl dig for everything?

Blonde: With that type of man—with most men—yes.

Redhead: That's what he told me. It's like, "If we were having coffee, or if you'd start giving up the goods, I'd have no problem in talking about my life. I avoid, however, doing that via e-mail. I really don't mean to be such 'a guy,' but that is, after all, what I am. And of course I'm not getting enough ass-sex for my tastes."

Blonde: For a macho guy, that's a lot of disclosure.

Redhead: Doesn't count. It's about sex. They're allowed to talk about that.

Blonde: You should consider playing for the other team.

Redhead: Again? Anyway, I can't stand women. They talk too much.

Blonde: Then it's time to jump the species bar.

Redhead: I hear dolphins are smart. Hm. How much do they talk?

And I thought I was messed up.

The Annual CPAC Fundraising Appeal

It's time to send a starving blogger to CPAC! You can speak up for independent journalism/mindless, aimless verbosity by hitting Joy's PayPal button on the sidebar or below.

Remember: other bloggers put the content out there, and you can read it if you like. Around here, you have to prove you're interested, or I get depressed and go away.

I'd especially encourage you to contribute to this worthy cause—me me me me me—if:

1) You're a modern-day liberal. Money brings out the Marxist in me: that whole Hollywood-Manhattan-San Francisco mindset lurks somewhere in my consciousness, wanting only some dough-re-mi to bring it out;

2) You're a conservative. Never mind what I wrote just above—that's for my high-school friends. Just between us girls, I get more and more conservative when there's money in the bank. It makes me feel grown-up, so I start getting all moral and shit. Next thing you know, I'm watching Lou Dobbs on TV and stuff. I get either all protectionist, or very free market-ey. Take your pick; send me your vote via e-mail, along with the amount of your donation, as I go through this process of rank prostitution economic soul-searching.

3) You're a libertarian. Forget (1) and (2): that's for suck . . . other people. Someone of your discernment should be able to see right past that and understand that in order to fight from the inside, one has to fight from the outside, and the best way to protect the smallest minority from intimidation by the State is with some cold, hard cash. This will lead either to lots of private enterprise, or maybe enhanced property rights. And possibly the smoking of marijuana. And I have guns. Yay!

4) You're not Darrell, who sends me lots of wonderful stuff already. Non-Darrell readers should consider joining the "Gold Circle" of LMA patrons, which confers lot of benefits upon the reader—such as the special, vulgarity-laced Attila Report, chock-full of insightful political analysis, references to heritage rock acts, household hints, and pictures of my body parts.*

Sponsorship Levels, Little Miss Attila:

The Attila Girl Gold Circle—Just send me all your money, and don't stop until I tell you to. If you have disposable income, I have great news!—I know how to dispose of it! Just ask my husband.
The Attila Foundation Corporate Program—A generous contribution of $100 will pay for a single night's stay at CPAC, while I ferret out the truth about which speakers are least boring, and where the best parties are;
The Scimitar of Sensuality—A single contribution of $75 will allow me to actually eat while I'm at CPAC, which will dull the effects of the alcohol but allow me to pace myself while bar-hopping/providing superb coverage of this pivotal election year. Remember: If my blood-alcohol level drops too low, the jihadis have won!;
The Gay Boyfriend Special— For a mere $50, you too can find out why it is that gay men manage to get so close to straight women! Also, I can buy several ham and cheese sandwiches at Beltway prices, thereby supplementing my usual travel diet of lemon-flavored Luna Bars. Not that there's anything wrong with Luna Bars, mind you. They happen to constitute 50% of my caloric intake these days.
The Martini Patron—Thousands of times a year, bloggers are forced to nurse lite beers, looking lovingly over the bar at the bottles of premium gin lined up behind the bartender, and muttering Shakespeare's 29th Sonnet quietly to themselves. You can prevent your favorite blogger from falling prey to the dreadful melancholy that comes from mediocre beer, with your generous contribution of $25.

Make the world a better place. Support citizen journalism. Send me every dollar you can scrape up! Don't you have some old jewelry of your grandmother's tucked into a drawer somewhere that you can sell? Don't be a cheapskate; no one likes cheapskates.

* I'm making that up, but it's okay—after all, I'm making the whole thing up. Unless you people really want some sort of special newsletter, in which case $50 annually could buy you a hell of a lot. But the only body parts you see will be thrilling only to the jihadists among us: a bit of wrist here, an ankle there. Maybe a touch of shoulder on special occasions.

I'm afraid I'm not really a cost-effective source of pr0n. But dang—am I charming!

Oh, Yeah.

Album art, writ large. And, I mean: large.

I've always felt sorry for my nieces and nephews, what with those itty bitty CD jewel cases . . . where's the art in that?

They are deprived. That's what it is: deprived. I shall make it up to them with alcohol, weed, pron, birth control (if they are certain they might need it), and lashings of classic rock and rolll from the 50s/60s/70s/80s. Also: alibis, trips to art galleries, work references, Los Angeles-based couch-surfing on my side of the study ("get up before your uncle starts tapping away . . . please,) in case of SoCal college/work interviews, great cheap recipes for college/early 20s dishes, and assistance in burying any bodies (or finishing off ones that were inexpertly dispatched.).

H/t: Beth of MVRWC who has, as I understand it, morals. So this post is my own responsibility. Scary, scary!

Overheard, 14

"Relentless analysis and overthinking are sexy. And, as for me, I like to be the least intelligent person in the room. It alleviates the need to think."

"Has that ever happened to you, Buddy? Just askin'. And, by the way: how fucking easy do you think I am?"

Why do girls at the 17th St. Cafe ask questions like this? Surely they don't really want to know the answers . . .

So, I Have Two Stories

. . . about Boogie Nights.

One is the one about how it's my husband's fault that I never saw it, because men are relentless channel-surfers, and will not go upstairs to announce that an interesting movie is about to start in fifteen minutes, so grab your driving glasses, some gin/water/both and a lap blanket, and come on down. And I promise not to change the channel in the middle of the movie, because I value my . . .

. . . where the fuck was I?

Ah, yes. Here's my good story about Boogie Nights. When it was in the second-run theatres my mom was still living in the hoity-toity part of Santa Monica, California, for fairly arcane legal reasons. She had an elderly, shiftless roommate at the time. This gal was in her 70s at that point, whereas Mom was only in her 60s. But the movie was playing on Montana Avenue at the Aero Theater on Montana Avenue one afternoon, and these two old ladies drove down a few blocks to see it one day.

My mother handed their tickets to the young man in the lobby with the pierced (nearly) everything, who asked them quite soberly, "should I be letting you in her e to see this?"

"Yes," my mother assured him. "It's fine."

After all, she is a scientist. And her friend is a doctor.

Apparently, it was fine. Thank G-d for science.

So, My Cousin-in-Law and I . . .

are having a perfectly normal, wholesome conversation about how many dead bodies get ditched in the area around the Rose Bowl every year, when my sister-in-law calls in from the other room to suggest that if we're going to talk late at night, we might pick a less-lurid topic.

Ah—the sacrifices one makes for family.

Your One-Stop Shopping for World Music . . .

is here at AOL World Music, where Mary McCann—aka The Bone Mama—is programming five of the categories therein: Klesmer music, Celtic Music, African, World, World Beat, and Hawaiian.

I Don't Want To Sound Like a Sexist

But men aren't, as a rule, too bright, are they?

I meant that in the good way, of course.

Hackbarth on Romney.

He's endorsing no one, yet, but has some thoughts:

Since I saw Romney at the 2007 CPAC he’s struck me as looking the part of a President. He has an executive background, was a governor, and accomplished a few things. Mitt’s problem is his conversion to conservatism. Supporting Romney is about how much you think his conversion is real.

Less so for me, of course. After all, I had a thing for Giuliani early on, and Rudy's no conservative. He's still my favorite candidate, and I'd love to see him win his current delegate gamble. I'm fairly certain he will not, however, which leaves me in the position of "settling" for Romney, or "settling" for McCain, or leaving the tent for the Dems or the Libs—or writing in Burge-Goldstein, which I would relish doing.

Ah, Seattle.

I missed this place.

Hanging out with the Irish. I duck a lot when they fight.

Ace on the Westboro Cult,

which will be picketing the Heath Ledger funeral, motherfuckers that they are.

No; we never did see eye-to-eye on Fred. But when Ace is good, he's very good. He sums up the Westboro Baptist Church:

Hmm... Marines, soldiers, Hollywood prettyboys... the Westboro Cult seems drawn to male beauty like a moth to a flame.

A flaming flame. A flamboyantly flaming flame which is en fuego.

Yup. I'm not one of those people who thinks every person out there who has reservations about homosexuality is a closet case. But the Westboro Baptists seem to harbor a lot of passion.

So. Whom Do You

. . . hate the least?

Karl at Protein Wisdom surveys the post-Fred landscape.

Sure; It's Freezing Here.

But it's not like, cold-cold.

That honor is reserved for Southwestern homes wherein one only turns on the heat if one really cannot stand it, in the dead of winter, after putting on all the clothing one owns.

And one only turns on the a/c in the summer when one is about to pass out.

Frost on the ground? Yawn. I'm pretty bundled up when we go outside, and I sort of stomp around a lot and clap my gloved hands together when I have to.

It isn't anything to write home about. After all, it ain't like my sister-in-law's place in Phoenix around Christmastime: here, the house is heated 24/7 with an ultra-efficient fireplace.

Though I must admit that it was odd, the way people talked all over town about winter sunshine, and how wonderful it is. One might almost be tempted to think that it's rare in Washington State.

Almost.

Sun deck. Yeah, the ferry had a sun deck. And I went up there to do battle with the wind and the cold. A snippet of sun floated out from over the water, taunting me for my weakness and reminding me that this wasn't like skiing—there was nothing I could do,exactly, to make things feel warmer. So I took pictures, hatless. (I hadn't wanted to lose my favorite, and warmest, hat, should it be blown off of my stupid head and into Puget Sound.) I shivered.

And I hustled inside the ferry room again to warm up, amusing myself by reading real estate listings from the suburbs of Seattle, wherein one can buy large single-family dwellings for about $10 apiece.

The disadvantage being that one has to live in Washington State. Where, you know . . . it's brisk. Chilly, even.

Ah, Yes. Here's Ace . . .

on Fred Thompson:

I hate to be a dick about this, but a politician should have a basic competence at politics, for crying out loud.

That attitude bought us eight years of Clinton. But, you know: have fun, AoS.

You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,
But that's the way I like it baby,
I don't wanna live for ever,
And don't forget the joker!

No. I shan't. Thanks for the heads up.

Okay, Fred.

I don't really care for being pimped out to Mitt-Fucking-Romney, but you do what you have to do.

I'll do what I have to do.

And if we find each other, it's beautiful politics.

Yeah, Fred. Love you. But fuck you—long, slow, painful. Am I getting through to you?

"This will not be over quickly; nor will you enjoy it."

And, you know . . . I'm not angry any more.

My friend Binker, however, is furious.

My Spies in the Thompson Campaign

. . . tell me the big meeting will be tomorrow, and the party bus leaves in the afternoon.

Most of 'em don't expect to be conscious until sometime Friday night.

Oh!—those young people! they get sucker-punched like that, and they're willing to become conscious again at some point. The idealism just floors me.

Okay. A Little Sleep,

and then I'm off to the suburbs of Seattle to see the many Irish in-laws. (There are a lot of them, and they circulate.)

I'll check in from the Great Northwest at some point soon. I haven't been there in nearly 11 years. Not since my honeymoon.

Don't do anything silly while I'm in the air, okay?

Three Years Later . . .

and I still get hits from Jeff P's post doubting my assertion that women do not, as a rule, lovingly soap their breasts in the shower.

It's so tough for men to come to terms with these things . . . especially gay men.

Dang, I miss Jeff. Next time I'm in the Bay Area I'm going to tie him down and . . . lather up.

Our Friend, the Saudis

. . . may begin "allowing" women to do something I've been doing since the age of 17. (No, not that. We're talking about that skill that takes decades to get really good at, and is generally thought of in the West as "the right to travel," and A Good Thing for commerce.)

There's even talk of letting adult females register in hotels without male "guardians."

There are moments in the middle of the night that I just want to, um, ventilate the entire Muslim male population of the entire Middle East.

Then I take a valium, and I'm good for another 24 hours.

Please send more tranquilizers—or more Winchester Silver Tips. Either way.

Addressing the Scourge of MSM Violence

Iowahawk has the goods: (1) a non-profit foundation, and (2) posters!

Mainstream reporters: Help us help you. Please.

Bidinotto

points out the silver lining in the South Carolina results:

Those who worry about the emerging (let alone imminent) threat of a right-wing "theocracy" arising from the Republican Party are smoking funny stuff. There is NO constituency for a wedding of Church and State in America, not even in the Bible Belt. To the contrary, ALL the Republican candidates, save one, have been competing for GOP voters with speeches and position papers filled with the rhetoric of limited government, pro-free-markets, tax-and-spending cuts, and fewer regulations on our individual lives.

The exception, Mike Huckabee, was the only Republican trying to peddle an interventionist program of economic populism and religious involvement in law and politics—and now his campaign has been stopped dead in its tracks . . . by evangelical Christian conservatives.

Something to remember. I think they call it "the saving grace." Now read the whole thing.

Lanterns and Lances

I cannot stop thinking about the interplay between death and humor, probably due to Rosina's departure from this dimension, and the fact that I know her via the Warner Brothers crowd.

Death is, by the way, the only thing that really sobers comedy writers up. I was at the funeral of a little girl once—attended by veterans of Warner Brothers, Acme Comedy Theater, and the Groundlings—when M.D. Sweeney (still in the comedy/improv business at that time) looked around at the maybe 100 very silent actors and comics present. "Well, this shut them up."

He didn't mean it in a good way. It was just an observation.

Of course, even Mr. Death doesn't always win; he doesn't have the final word. As we paid our respects to the greiving father, my husband—who has a superb rapport with this man—made an outrageous suggestion that he ought to loan us money—a few dollars so we could go out to lunch—and it was just the right kind of black humor. The guy threw back his head and laughed, seemingly for the first time in weeks. He needed it, too.

It was one of the husband's shining moments: knowing someone well enough to find something on that line—funny, when it could easily have been sick.

I love these people: I'd never really experienced gourmet humor before I fell in with this crowd. And they aren't snobby about it at all; they'll still make puns and the like, if they're relaxed enough. And they aren't afraid to laugh; they aren't parsimonious with their laughter.

Best of all, they aren't mean. When funny people can manage not to be mean, it's the best thing in the whole world. And it's out there!

Goodbye, Rosina.

Pedro seems to suggest that you were as beautiful on the inside as you were on the outside.

Which, of course, is an amazing idea.

I don't think I ever saw Rosina without a smile on her face. My favorite Rosina moment? When one of the wives of the Warner Brothers Boys (from the Golden Age of the 1990s, of course) was complaining about some minor bit of assholism on the part of her husband (yes: sometimes we are the butts of their jokes; don't tell). Rosina dryly remarked, in her beautiful accent, "aren't you glad to have married such a funny guy?"

And we all laughed, because of course we were glad to have married funny guys, notwithstanding the price we all paid every now and then.

The world is a darker place without you, Rosina. You'll be missed, but your light endures.

Goldstein . . .

sez, over at Protein Wisdom:

I will not, will not, vote for John McCain.

I will not, will not, vote for Mike Huckabee.

I will not, will not, vote for Ron Paul — unless he runs for Fuhrer. In which case, he’s got my full support.

I might hold my nose and vote for Mitt Romney, but to be perfectly honest, I have no confidence in him, and my vote would be moot, anyway: there’s no way he wins a national election. Because let’s face it: the average US voter is simply not ready to give the White House to a guy named after a first baseman’s glove.

Which means that if Fred Thompson drops out of the race (aside: I have no idea what Republican primary voters are thinking — other than that they are no longer interested in conservatism, and have become every bit as statist as their progressive counterparts), I’m resigning myself to a Democratic presidency in 2008 — and to the years of pain that will follow should the Dems maintain control of both the Executive and Legislative branches of government. Who knows? Maybe they even get the courts, too.

In other words, Hello “progressivism”! Which, as Ezra Levant and Mark Steyn can tell you, is simply another word for tyranny of bureaucracy under the auspices of an anti-individualistic, centralized coalition government — and is about as “American” (in the strictest, foundational sense) as caviar or goulash or the Yugo. Decline and fall.

So, what to do? Well, my first thought is to buy some remote land in Idaho and try to hole up for the next decade or so, learning to sustain myself with nothing but a bowie knife and some animal pelts. And maybe Dish Network and a HD DVR receiver.

Well, that won't sound too bad if Awesome Thompson drops out and Rudy doesn't win his Forida gamble (a possibility Jeff doesn't address).

The difference is, I may be able to vote for McCain, through sheer force of will, by reminding myself that "I'm voting on national defense, I'm voting on national defense, I'm voting on national defense; om om om; hail, Mary, full of grace."

And I could definitely vote for Rudy with the same attitude, too—adding "at least he cross-dresses and didn't sponsor McCain-Feingold" to my mantra.

Because at the end of the day, the War Against Islamo-Fascism trumps everything.

But it will be a sad moment, no?

"Shine, perishing Republic."

Boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught—they say—
God, when he walked on earth.

Yeah, yeah: Jeffers' theology is shaky. But the dude had a way with words, and sometimes I'm a sucker for that.

He died, by the way, the same year I was born.

Into Your Hands

. . . I commend my spirit.

I got nothin', Folks. Seriously.

I'm just hoping Fred sticks it out till Super-Duper Tuesday.

Noel . . .

gives me a reason to set my alarm.

South Carolina: don't let me down.

Okay. I'm Going To Sleep.

Wake me up when Fred shakes up South Carolina. Remember: I want to see Huckabee bloodied up a bit, and Fred waving a bunch of evangelical votes over his head, doing a little victory dance, still in the race.

Otherwise, don't wake me up at all.

"Look. She's Not That Unstable."

"Are you fucking kidding me? She took an overdose of Klonopin* after having a mildly disturbing conversation with her ex-boyfriend."

"Well, she had a prescription for that."

"She took the whole bottle! And it wasn't the first time she's attempted her life, or pretended to!"

"Well, it wasn't the best way to handle the situation, I guess."

"She should either get health insurance, or finish the job next time!"

Men. You can't live with 'em, and you can't bury them all in your backyard.

* Spelling fixed; thanks, Hog. I committed the Sin Against Editorial Standards of using Google to spell-check. And, of course, every spelling under the sun is out there, somewhere, for every word. Lost my phone, so I couldn't find my personal pharmacist/father.

Also, there were four of them, and the sun was in my eyes, and they were fighting dirty.

Ah, The Clintons Are Back.

And it's so bracing.

Dan Collins over at Protein Wisdom chronicles the current round of dirty tricks, and observes:

Those who’ve never understood Clinton hatred, but who back Obama, are about to learn a thing or two.

Yup. Actually, I don't hate the Clintons, but Bill is a pretty slimy guy; I respect his genius as a politician, but not who he is as an individual. Back when he was President, one of my liberal friends was fond of remarking "come on. Wouldn't you like to party with Clinton?"

"No," I was able to reply, quite honestly. "Because as some point he would try to stick his dick in my mouth; knowing that makes it hard to relax around someone."

UPDATE: What is it about Arkansas, anyway? More dirty tricks from the Huckster.

I wish that state would secede from the Union. Out, damned spot!

Super-Teen Extraordinaire!

Freakazoid! will soon be out on DVD! Apparently, there will be real-time commentary by John P. McCann, Paul Rugg, and Tom Ruegger on the final product.

Here's a taste:

The highlight of this compilation is the scene wherein Steven Spielberg is talking to Freakazoid's writers and producers about a script. They are arguing that they should just "end the episode early, and show more Animaniacs." If you look closely, the writers/producers shown are cartoons of the actual people, including cool gal-around-town Jean MacCurdy and the infamously hard-to-caricature Paul Rugg.

Though my favorite is the episode wherein the day is saved by Paul Rugg and John P. McCann's real-life assistant, Greg—perfectly animated, of course. Unfortunately, that isn't on this particular digest, so I'll have to go get the DVD when it comes out.

Via Write Enough, who promises more details soon from the actual taping.

Sure, Sean.

He'd fire it. If there were a home invader present and the closest gun at hand were the wife's Hello Kitty rifle, he'd use it to defend his family. (Though I recommend the Hello Kitty 20-gauge for that application.)

And I'm usually hesitant to get into the arena of "what do real men do?" I'm a chick, and I hate to issue directives to the complicated sex.

But in a heteranormative context, the real question is, Would a real man own a pink gun? No. Maybe one with cherry stocks. Hot pink, however, with a Hello Kitty logo on it? No.

Hell—I don't think I'd own one, despite the fun you all have regarding my hot-pink iPod and my flower-tattooed Motorola phone. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

The International Marine Conspiracy . . .

Semper Fi.

How to Write a Novel

. . . in two months; Jeff VanderMeer tells all.

Via Tom Nissley and Insty, who both point out that VanderMeer continued to blog during that high-productivity crunch. Personally, I find blogging to be so different from "real writing" that I rarely experience a conflict between the two.

Of course, I can also read after a day of writing, which my husband cannot: he's more likely to watch television. (Now he will tell you that I never spend the entire day writing, but that isn't true. I'm always writing. I'm just not necessarily getting it all down on paper. There's a distinction to be drawn there. Fruthermore, I can read to unwind after a day of proofreading, even while my eyes and my upper back ache from hunching over the same copy all day long, scouring eight-point type for boo-boos. I suspect this makes me a reprobate written-word-junkie, but I don't want to discuss it.)

What I cannot do when I'm infected with a piece of fiction is read much fiction, unless it's a short story here or there, or a quick re-read of something I've already read. If I'm fully immersed in my own world I have little desire to enter someone else's, so it has to be politics, pop culture, historical nonsense, theology, or philosophical whatnot. Something without a narrative arc, if you please.

Anyway, it's pretty fascinating stuff. It almost makes me want to print my work out and . . . send it around. Almost. But next thing you know, I'd be getting paid for it. That would make me feel dirty.

The Dancer and the Dance . . .

So, which is it? Are the kinds of people who are attracted to careers in the mainstream media more criminal to begin with, or is it that they become inured to deviant behavior from rubbing elbows with other producers and reporters?

Iowahawk delves into the twisted culture of the MSM.

UPDATE: In a fit of pique, I fixed the link.

When Is a Real Theme Too Real?

Here's an interesting little think piece by Ace on Stallone's reasoning for not having Rambo take on Bin Laden in the latest Rambo movie. It would be, Stallone tells us, "insulting" to the real-world heroes who are out there hunting UBL down.

Yup. And yet Ace is skeptical about whether Stallone could have used that subject matter even if he'd wanted to.

I know that one of the issues Jason Apuzzo of Libertas (and The Liberty Film Festival) has had with Hollywood is its reluctance to use Islamist terrorists as real villains in feature movies. And I personally would like to see it done—but it has to be done with some delicacy. Not, as Ace puts it, made into a "comic book" based on a real (and contemporary) struggle.

The fact that Bruce Willis hasn't been able to get a movie made based on Michael Yon's writing about Deuce Four is tremendously frustrating to me, because that is a real story—there would be no question of whether it was respectful to do it. It would be an homage. But the problem may have to do with Willis looking to traditional fundraising sources. Had Mel Gibson waited around for that sort of money, Passion of the Christ might never have been made.

The film industry has issues, and its willingness to throw huge amounts of money down the drain on anti-war propaganda that people don't want to see—and forego a fortune from making movies that people might want to—is pretty illustrative of its political neuroses. But. So what? There is a market out there, and we all know it. All that's necessary is to get the talent and the financing into the same room at the same time, and to come up with creative distribution channels.

The bottom line? We need more independent filmmakers. Truly independent filmmakers, who are willing to secure alternate financing for their work, have it shown at center-right/libertarian film festivals, and rely on DVD sales to create the necessary buzz. In the final analysis, movie theaters will let films be shown that are going to bring money in. We need a parallel structure to the existing Hollywood machine.

And we need it now. This is, as a famous lady once put it, "no time to go wobbly."

Please Send Your Prayers Out

. . . to Rosina and her family.

It looks like the trip will be over soon. Tomorrow, maybe.

Chalk one more up for cancer, in its battle on the human race. One more life over way too soon. I get so angry about it—and yet there are important people in my life who wouldn't be here at all if medical science weren't getting better at recognizing and treating these things.

I used to envy this beautiful woman more than I can say, and that shocks me now. It's so easy to get caught up in the petty concerns of day-to-day life. We lose track of what's important so quickly.

"Well, that's envy. There's some of that in the best of us, m'Dear. And don't you think that's a bit too bad?" (Jimmy Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd in Harvey. Will someone spot me on the exact wording? No time for fact-checking.)

Yes. Yes, I do. But I'm glad I know Rosina. Glad I invited her to my wedding. Glad that I could see her sunny smile, and experience her wicked sense of humor. (When the wives of comedy writers talk . . . )

And I am more pissed than usual at Mr. Cancer, whom I've never forgiven for the loss of Dave Arnold, the last true gentleman left on the planet—and sorely missed.

Via Write Enough.

UPDATE: I've fixed the "Edmund" thing. I'm not sure where that came from; I've certainly seen Harvey enough times to know better, as my cohabitant has pointed out. On the other hand, I do know how to spell "margarine." Nonetheless, I keep buying "margerine" week after week, without correcting the list on the refrigerator, nor complaining out loud. I rather thought I'd bought myself some slack in that department. Maybe not . . .

Overheard, 13

"By the way, please don't be jealous. After all, you already got your song. And the one I'm recording now is for a hooker."

"Fair enough."

More From Brooklyn

"So," he asked me. "Do you drink these days?"

"Like a fish."

"So then you aren't still a gun-nut racist, are you?"

I knew what he meant by that. "Yes," I replied. "Yes, I am."

Silly old rabbit. As Joel Surnow puts it, "if you want to drink, smoke and eat meat these days, you have to hang out with Republicans."

I've Been Asked . . .

for more posts about kinky sex, more hot cars, and more hot women.

I shall try. Here's a hot girl, who probably ranks as the second most important woman in my life (well, third—I'm pretty self-centered):

And here's a picture from Siggraph this past summer, which led me to believe I shouldn't drink too much at those conventions if I want to find my car at night:

I've Always Felt So Sorry for Monica Lewinsky.

She was so young. So silly. And her face became the face of a national mess that never should have happened, because the most powerful man in the world wanted to deny Paula Jones her day in court.

The London Times has a roundup of the major players in the scandal(s) that led to the impeachment of William Jefferson Clinton.

Ace chimes in:

This is the ten-year anniversary, to me, of the superheating and supercharging of American politics. People became radicalized. I know I did. Until the Impeachment Wars I didn't mind Clinton so much—I didn't particularly like him by that point, mind you, and I preferred the Republican Congress' policies in the main—but I didn't hate him.

But what followed was a year of being lied to, absurdly lied to, by both Clinton and his myriad defenders. Meanwhile those telling the truth about the affair were torn down and slandered by the Clinton Machine and its willing accomplices in the media.

. . . . . . . . . .

Toxic times, and we're all still living with the aftereffects. All because Clinton couldn't—perhaps on the demand of his wife—simply pay Paula Jones a $25,000 nuisance go-away settlement and apologize vaguely for any harm he "may" have caused.

No, he had to "win," and winning meant lying, and lying meant perjury, and perjury meant putting the country through a year of screaming and distraction.

Obamarama! And That Middle Name Thing.

Actually, I'm with Moe on this one.

Also, I'd like to point out that my sister is half-Syrian, and has a scary-sounding Middle Eastern middle name. So by all means, go ahead and make that an issue. I'll just be here, um, field-stripping my Glock and humming.

What Is the Sound . . .

of one penis clashing?

Home Again.

After my mother picked me up at the airport, I petted Mandy one more time, and got into my car. My precious. Then I drove home from Westchester, avoiding subways and strangers and confusingly labeled streets.

The wind blew through the hills, almost blowing the car out of its lane at a certain point, but I used to take a VW bug up and down the Grapevine, so I can handle that.

Elvis Costello in the CD player; Gatorade in the drink cup. Just me, inside a lovable chunk of glass and steel, accelerating through the curving freeways and winding roads in East L.A. on a dark Wednesday night.

I may never leave Los Angeles again.

Mrs. C. vs. Real Smart Women.

We learn from our mistakes.

Also, we have better legs. No—it's true.

I've Got a Cool Business Meeting Coming Up.

However, it's with people I see on, like, a weekly basis. A suit would be a bit much.

Also, it's in California—where it's easy to overdo it.

Any thoughts?

And let's not it mixed up with this thread.

Lying as "Protected Speech"

Oh, yeah.

An elected official charged with falsely claiming he earned the military's highest honor has filed a motion to dismiss the federal case against him on free speech grounds. The motion argues that the Stolen Valor Act of 2005, under which water board member Xavier Alvarez was charged, is incompatible with the First Amendment because it restricts free speech by criminalizing false claims of military honors.

Via Dan Collins at Protein Wisdom.

And Now a Little Interlude

. . . from Brian May:

Oh, rock of ages, do not crumble, love is breathing still;
Oh, lady moon, shine down—a little people magic, if you will.

The Male Heterosexual Kink Scale.

So. What are the most common male heterosexual fantasies?

How would you rank these on the pedestrian-to-kinky scale?

a) touching a female breast;
b) touching and otherwise interacting with female genitalia;
c) being in one bed with two women at the same time;
d) fishnet stockings;
e) knee-high boots;
f) watching a woman pleasure herself;
g) sucking from the nipple of a lactating woman;
h) being tied up or otherwise dominated by a woman;
i) watching a woman pee;
j) fucking a girl in the ass;
k) a great manicure on pretty feet—to be examined up close, or possibly with your tongue;
l) the idea of being with a woman because she is very overweight;
m) being with a woman because she has had children, or because she is in her forties and fifties;
n) being with a women because she is past retirement age;
o) stimulation of the male prostate gland.

UPDATE: I've had a request that participants in this very scientifical survey actually use the names of the acts, rather than the letters I've assigned. This will (1) allow discussion of such matters as penetration of the male anus by a woman (using whatever works)—which I forgot to list [now added: see o]—and (2) participation in the discussion by non-engineers.

UPDATE 2: Martin sends the following feedback regarding what's "normal" versus "kinky":

Just one of countless false dichotomies we face every day. Indeed, one could ask a few thousand randomly chosen people to rank acts on a some arbitrary numerical scale, and somehow average the responses.

But the bigger question is wondering what possible use could come from that data.

Which brings us to Martin's third rule of measurement: Do not gather data until after you have decided how you are going to use it.

I can see why that would work for a mathematician—after all, those guys tend to travel light. I'm not sure it would be the correct attitude for a scientist, though, since it would pretty much knock out all basic research in one fell swoop.

Rusty . . .

asks,

No, you really can't. Is there a word that describes something which is both disgusting and hilarious at the same time?

Um. Jihadi?

I'm So Sick of Politics.

And . . . it's early in the day.

And, Now . . .

Iowahawk, Treacher and a few others have started a new blog.

No politics. As I understand it, they are sticking with breasts, boobs, and mammary glands. Oh, and—hot cars, cool guns, bitchin' tatts, premium whiskey, cigars. You know: the "rogue gentleman" niche. I should resent it, being a big fan of cigars, guns, tatts and cars myself—but it's not like the guys ever complain when I crash their parties.

They're calling the site bolus, which I kind of like: my recollection from high school physiology class is that the word refers both to a bite of food and a single [presumably theeoretical] unit of shit in the lower intestines.

I Dunno.

I think one has to trust one's first instincts in these situations.

Goldstein should stick with The Sophist Slayer.

The Word from Val . . .

whose Republican relatives&mostly in Wyoming—do not appear to be representative:

Will the Republican establishment repudiate the content published in [the Ron Paul] newsletters? How about the other Republican candidates? Shades of Strom Thurmond and Trent Lott. David Gergen, the only critic named in this story, is hardly representative of the party. We all know a large minority and probably even a majority of Republicans happen to share these very same views. I know this from personal experience. Most of my family back in Wyoming are Republicans and they refer to African- Americans as "porch monkeys" and yes, they employ the dreaded N-word liberally (juxtaposition intended).

I remember seeing some of my family members in blackface as part of the cast in minstrel shows held in the Cody school auditorium in the late 60s, and I know they continued to hold them well into the 70s. To this day Cody folk brag about how few black people there are in the state.

Furthermore its accepted political science that the Democratic party "lost" the white vote in the South when the Kennedy & Johnson administrations passed the landmark civil rights laws of the 60s. White Southerners have voted Republican almost without exception ever since. Ronald Reagan based his campaigns in large part on thinly veiled racism and every Republican has many Republicans have copied the tactic ever since.

Therefore: How are the views in question so out of step with the Republican Party? Joy, I have no reason to believe you personally agree with them as I have no reason to believe Paul is a racist—maybe a lousy editor—but I do believe the Republican party is generally a racist party. It is also generally homophobic and sexist, with very strong theocratic tendencies.

Some people make the comparison that the Dems are the "mommy" party and the Republicans are the "daddy" party. If that's the case I submit this particular daddy is abusive, and the electorate needs to have him arrested and thrown in the hoosegow.

Yeah. I had a few responses to that. What are yours?

Memo to New York

It might be time to work on your signage.

And your subway maps.

BTW, whose idea was it to use numbers for both the streets and the avenues? Sounds like something my mom would come up with—like, as a mnemonic device. (You'll recall that my mother is a math teacher.)

Bad Michigan Voters.

No patriotism, up there in the Midwest.

This Might Just Be . . .

my favorite Grateful Dead song:

My time coming, any day,
Don't worry about me, no
Been so long I felt this way,
I'm in no hurry, no
Rainbows and down that highway
Where ocean breezes blow
My time coming, voices saying,
They tell me where to go.

Don't worry about me, nah nah nah, don't worry about me, no
And I'm in no hurry, nah nah nah, I know where to go.

California, preaching on the burning shore
California, I'll be knocking on the golden door
Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light
Rising up to paradise, I know I'm gonna shine.

My time coming, anyday, don't worry about me, no
It's gonna be just like they say, them voices tell me so
Seems so long I felt this way and time sure passin' slow
Still I know I lead the way, they tell me where I go.

Don't worry about me, no no no, don't worry about me, no
And I'm in no hurry, no no no, I know where to go.

California, a prophet on the burning shore
California, I'll be knocking on the golden door
Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light
Rising up to paradise, I know I'm gonna shine.

You've all been asleep, you would not believe me
Them voices tellin' me, you will soon receive me
Standin' on the beach, the sea will part before me
Fire wheel burning in the air!

You will follow me and we will ride to glory—
Way up, the middle of the air!

And I'll call down thunder and speak the same
And my work fills the
Sky with flame
And might and glory gonna be my name
And men gonna light my way.

My time coming, any day,
Don't worry about me, no
It's gonna be just like they say,
Them voices tell me so
Seems so long I felt this way
And time sure passin' slow
My time coming, any day,
Don't worry about me, no.

Don't worry about me, no no no, don't worry about me, no
And I'm in no hurry, no no no, don't worry about me, no.

And, no—YouTube still crashes Safari on this machine, so I can't post the video. Someone else can link it in the comments, if they like.

UPDATE: I've heard the original of this referred to as "reggae," but I'm not sure that's how I see it. Nor did it sound that way to me when I've heard it performed live. But most of the remakes have been in that genre. The one by Burning Spear certainly was.

So, What Is It That Scares Investors Most?

The answer isn't surprising: it's a Democrat in the White House:

The fourth-quarter edition of the Brinker Barometer, which polled 236 advisers in December, found that 22% indicated that a "Democrat in the White House" worried them more than all other economic or geopolitical concerns.

Rounding out the list of concerns was "global unrest" (15%), "U.S. economic growth" (15%), "a terrorist attack" (13%) and "a recession" (13%).

When asked what their greatest tax concern would be under a Democratic administration, 81% of advisers cited a potential increase in the capital gains tax, an income tax increase and heavier taxes on dividends.

I am impressed, however, that the fear of a Democratic President beat out the fear of a recession or a terrorist attack.

Goodbye, Vampira.

You were the first, and the best.

Hat tip to Linguist Guy.

Please Send Your Prayers Out

. . . on Tim Blair's behalf; he's got cancer.

I'm Terrified . . .

to talk to my friends' teenagers. Mostly because the first twenty things that are likely to come out of my mouth are stipid remarks like "you are older now than your parents were when I met them," and "the last time I saw you, you were this tall" (with appropriate hand gestures).

And partly because I can't stop staring at them; they're so good-looking. "Wow. Even nicer-looking than you two are," I tell their parents—both of whom I dated, back in the day.

Finally, I ask the teens what they do and don't like about their parents. The older boy smiles at me. When I ask him what he doesn't like about his dad, his father prompts him, "starts with an a . . . ." And when I ask the same thing about his mom, his dad jumps in again with "starts with a b . . . "

When I pull out my camera, the younger, fiercer one says, "that ain't gonna happen," which I take as the same sort of challenge it is when my younger nephew dodges the camera.

"Yeah, well," I follow him around his house, snapping occasional frames as he ducks and weaves.

"Really. Why are you doing this?" he asks me with the tired sophistication one sees in the young.

I could reply that someday he might actually want a picture of himself at this strange, awkward almost-a-man stage, but it would be too easy. Instead, I just say, "well, I'm a friend of your dad's, and I'm just as much of an asshole as he is."

Which seems to satisfy him.

Where Does One Start?

I'm in New York City—specifically, Brooklyn. It's beautiful here, and the air is crisp. It even snowed last night. A little. Enough to put a little magic in the air.

My friends' faces are starting to look a bit like those of their parents when I first met them. They all look like they're in their forties, for reasons that remain obscure to me.

They are, to a woman/man, thrilled that I'm drinking again, although when I hang out with the Scottish side of the family I drink good black tea.

Everyone's taking great care of me, and I'm spending very little of my own money. Though this city is hard to get around in, and getting lost is a different experience without a car to provide a protective bubble.

But I'm not sure I'd want to live here. Why would you want to live somewhere that looks like a movie set? I'm sure it would get tiresome.

The little red pickup that can?

Looks like Fred got that jump he needed. The NY Times is finally interested in him as a candidate, and the other candidates are starting to insult him.

Yep, it's finally getting serious.

h/t Adler

-CTG

I am such a bad blogger

So Attila Chick asked me to step in and post a few things while she's away, and well, I plumb forgot. So, better late than never, right?

CTG

I Want to Sleep. Really.

But first I have to prowl the internet, and . . . there's nothing on.

I'm like a child, really: "there's nothing to dooooooooo."

(Actually, I want to watch a video, but Safari and YouTube are not getting along right now. So I guess I get to learn about that delayed gratifithingie.)

A Friend of Mine . . .

had three glazed doughnuts and half a glass of red wine for dinner.

She's very excited about the antioxidants in grapes, but she left sugary residue all over my keyboard.

When is someone going to talk some sense into this person?

Reason and Ron Paul.

Postrel soundsdisappointed; Ace sounds . . . almost tense.

Captain Ed wonders where all the PaulBots went, but notes that they are back. Only . . . they're apparently more sluggish now.

Via Insty.

Look, We Know What's at Stake . . .

WRT this voter ID issue: Americans hate to show their I.D.

And Americans hate to be fucked with when they are voting.

Personally, I find the idea that hotels ask for my I.D.—even when I'm paying with cash—to be rather oppressive. And the idea of living in, um, a country like Europe, wherein the cops could stop one on the street and ask for "papers," fills me with loathing.

But voting is a solemn thing; it's at the core of democracy. And voter fraud is intolerable. We've got to allow states to put safeguards in place. Yeah, yeah: Chicago will be especially hard hit if voter fraud goes out of fashion. But somehow I think the Windy City—and the rest of us—will soldier on.

"What Did Ron Paul Know, And When Did He Know It?"

Aw, come on. The man was busy: he had a medical practice to attend to, for crying out loud.

These passages bring back great memories. My husband and I spent some time on the outer extreme of anti-PC dialogue back in the 90s. We started with gun activists and other mainstream libertarians, and ended up hanging out with survivalists and State Citizen types. We found some of our dearest values, such as a belief in a small government and a desire for self-sufficiency, brought us into contact with people we could only describe to each other as "characters."

I'm not sure when, exactly, it was that we began to see all this as rich material for our respective writing. I only know that we immersed ourselves in it and found a lot to laugh at in some of the "black helicoptor" thinking—all the while agreeing that skepticism about media and government is an important virtue, as long as one takes one's meds.

We didn't personally know any racists or anti-Semites, but we were aware that they were out there, and their literature was even easier to find at State Citizen events than it was at gun fairs. One of our comrades-in-survivalism was black. I remember asking him how he felt about the fact that there were racists involved in the militia movement.

He shrugged, and pointed out that he and his wife were some of the best shots he knew. That seemed fair enough. I suppose they were betting against a race war within the survivalist fringe.

But, oh—if you ever get a chance to see a Linda Thompson video, do it. There's some great stuff there.

UPDATE: Turns out there a lot of this political identity theft going around.

Joyner . . .

shares his New Hampshire predictions, and has a mini-roundup of other 'sphere luminaries doing same.

I've been trying to avoid a lot of the negativity out there, but it's hard to counteract the mindset that "even if we win, we'll probably still lose."

Of course, I am still PMSing, so you might take that with a grain of salt—and keep your distance.

Thomas Sowell

endorses McCain!

Oh, wait: that's not what he's saying, is it?

So. Which Is Nicer?

The fact that Fred doesn't pander, or the fact that Chris Muir sometimes does?

(Congratulations, Chris! You've earned it.)

Arugula Pesto!

Now that's a great idea for winter.

Any other greens we should try? I've always thought baby mustard greens were lovely in salads, but I'm not sure I could eat as much of them in one sitting as I could arugula. Cilantro might present the same problem—plus, it's as much of a summer herb as basil itself is.

As I recall, Molly Katzen had a great desperation-time "winter pesto" that was made with a small amount of dried basil. I believe it was in The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. I must admit that during my vegetarian years I kept one basil plant growing indoors at all times, for after the outdoor one went to seed.

That God Thing.

I finished D'Souza's What's So Great About Christianity? several days ago, so I'm now reading Christopher Hitchens' God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything.

I love both these guys. On the whole, I think Hitchens may be the better thinker, but on this topic he has it wrong—D'Souza gets it right. Of course, the two men had slightly different missions. Hitchens wrote a polemic against all religions, which is, I believe, easier to pull off. After all, no faith is devoid of its superstitious moments, and with the world awash in radical Islam right now, it's easy to point out that "religion" has poisoned quite a lot. D'Souza chose the harder task by focusing on one faith—his very own—and writing a spirited defense of it and its place in the intellectual tradition that brought us good things like science, the American Revolution, and dark beer.

Of course, D'Souza isn't carrying socialism around with him everywhere he goes, so in general he probably has it easier. (He has other ridiculous ideas lodged in his cranium instead.)

It's sure a pleasure to read both of these guys. In an interesting way, they make nice companion pieces to Jonathan Rauch's Kindly Inquisitors. In addition to having coined the term "apatheistic" (to which D'Souza makes one or two snide allusions in passing; sigh), Rauch provides a nice history of the framework of free inquiry that we need to preserve, above all else, if Western traditions are going to endure.

Rauch makes the very best case as to why we might not want to spend a lot of time squabbling over religion, for what that is worth.

Even Hitchens claims that all he really wants his religious friends to do is to "leave him alone," and stop confusing his politeness on matters of faith with openness to witness. Both Hitchens and Rauch were clearly shaken—as they had every freaking reason to be—by the fatwa against Salmon Rushdie, and the ghost of that event flits across the pages of both Not Great and Kindly Inquisitors.

When I went to see Salmon Rushdie speak at a book fair one year I had a few pangs of fear. I knew we'd probably have to pass through metal detectors, but I wasn't sure whether or not the building we were in might somehow be detonated from outside. And I was also acutely aware that the fear I was feeling that afternoon was a part of Rushdie's existence 365 days a year, merely because he wrote a silly little piece of religious satire some time back.

"Aw, what the hell," I told my friends. "We have to die from something." And we headed down the hill to hear the man out.

Religion isn't invariably toxic. But, used incorrectly, it can certainly cause a lot of damage. Just like love, which Joni Mitchell once called "the strongest posion and medicine of all."

The problem lies with human nature. Whether this has to do with overdeveloped adrenal glands, as Hitchen maintains, or original sin is not altogether clear to me. But I know it doesn't quite work.

So: people of faith, agnostics, and athiests—let's be careful out there. Be kind to your fellow humans. Promote public inquiry and criticism. And, you know: try not to kill anybody in the name of God.

They Tell Me That The CES Show . . .

is no longer the haven for amateur pornographers that it used to be. I'm sure there are those who feel pretty wistful about that.

And perhaps it depends upon whom one knows.

As one might expect, Reynolds and his trusty blender are on the case (jumpt to his main page, and keep on scrolling for more). The main Popular Mechanics site has a fair amount about it, too. And here is the Consumer Electronics Show's own blog.

Of course, the SHOT Show isn't until next month (February 2-5), and I probably ain't going, since I must make it to CPAC this year (February 7-9), and I like to be home part of the time. (I did once go straight from Las Vegas to the East Coast, though it was a bit of a shock to the system. That was back when I was still working evil staff jobs in Old Media. Early mornings! Sixty/seventy-hour weeks! Low pay! Yippee!)

Still Depressed.

I'm headed out to South Central, to see if I can score some estrogen.

Back later.

Fred Thompson's Fundraising Drive for South Carolina . . .

seems to be cooking right along. At more than $100,000 a day, they aren't doing too badly.

Oh, I know what you're thinking: "A hundred grand is nothing in the scheme of a national campaign."

But $100K here, $100K there: sooner or later (as they say), it all adds up to real money. Particularly when it's coming in at the rate of every 24 hours.

Unfortunately, I have to wait until my next client pays up to send anything more in; the billing cycle is one of the worst things about freelancing, and I don't want to have to dig through my desk for change to gas up the car later on this month.

But it's nice to know that things are healthy over at Fred HQ. I know his numbers appear low in New Hampshire, but everyone's are low at this point. The numbers are deceptive because the field is still so wide-open. Nothing has gelled yet. I wouldn't presume anything until one or two people get knocked out of the GOP side of the race.

More on the Big "O"—

Obama, that is:

Joyner talks about Obama's crossover appeal to the GOP, and discusses the fact that a lot of conservatives have said they'll vote for Obama over Huckabee. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm waiting to be convinced. Of course, Joyner doesn't think either Huck or Obama will get their respective parties' nominations, though it would be interesting to watch from a "sociological" point of view if they did. (Obama, sure. Huck?—I'll be at my local Hemlock Bar.)

It’s also noteworthy that none of the Republican candidates last night did a particularly good job last night answering the question why, if Obama were to get the Democratic nomination, voters should pick them over him. Simply shouting “Liberal!” isn’t going to work after seven years during which elected Republicans demonstrated a combination of incompetence, disregard for civil liberties and the Constitution, and lost any claim to fiscal responsibility.

Well, yes. There's that. I'd call it the elephant in the room, but it's really a sort vacuum-like Black Hole where an elephant ought to have been.

And the Anchoress muses on how difficult it is to consider the potential candidacies of Mrs. Clinton and Obama without wrestling with the ghosts of biogotries past in this country:

Back in 2004, I felt like the press was blocking my view of John Kerry, asking me to hire someone without really letting me interview him or take his full measure. I’m wondering if the press will allow us to really see either one of these candidates fully, or if all this hype is just prep for an eventual Hillary/Obama ticket that no person would dream of voting against for fear of being called a sexist or a racist. If politics is reduced to nothing but labels and name-calling, then such a ticket would be perfect, right? It’s the “noble-person’s choice!”

I do hope we're past that. But I'm not positive that we're all the way there.

The candidacies of Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are going to force—and hopefully help—the country to finally confront bigotries old and new. If the nation can start to really dialogue about racism and sexism honestly and openly, unconstrained by political correctness or by the knee-jerk fingerpointing and labeling that has managed to muddy up and obfuscate any real discussion on those issues for a few decades, that will be a very good thing, for all of us.

I wonder if we’re ready. I ask that knowing full well that I will probably be called every sort of variation of “racist” for daring to even suggest that racism or white guilt or bigotry plays any part in the current media circus. And, of course, for suggesting that Barack Obama’s thin resume demands that we learn more.

Okay, call me anything you like. But when you’re done calling me names, how about we start really talking?

I'm ambivalent, of course. Sometimes I think we need to talk more about these things, and sometimes I think we need to just STFU.

Nonetheless, read the whole thing, which has a lot of thoughtful facets to it that I can't summarize here. As a bonus, it includes TA's commentary on the Dick Meyers remark that Barack Obama is a sort of "Rorschach test," which I thought was interesting at the time.

And in Wyoming . . .

It's Romney, with eight delegates. Thompson got one, and Duncan Hunter got one . . . just to be make things a bit interesting. Details here.

So . . . on to New Hampshire, if you like. Or go directly to South Carolina. Do not pass "Go." Do not collect $200.

I'm still interested in what might happen in New Hampshire. But South Carolina will be very, very important. I hear that in a single day, Fred's campaign raised $150,000—more than a quarter of what it needs for its South Carolina media buy. So it seems like they're on the way.

I kind of hope that the Huckaschmucks have stopped smoking whatever it is that they're on before South Carolina: I'd like to see whom people will be supporting in the clear, cold light of day.

So . . . Eminent Domain.

Totally sucks green monkey dicks. I mean, the way it's abused in this country.

Drew Carey asks whether Los Angeles has something to learn from [choke] Anaheim. Let me repeat: Ana-fucking-heim.

In the past, I've been against emulating what they do behind the orange curtain. Just on principle.

Yet they got this one right.

Scumbag Iowahawk*

Gives us the blow-by-blow:

7:42 PM: As if things couldn't get any worse, now the Democrats are coming upstairs to use the hall toilet because of the problem in the basement. The environmentalist only use one square of paper, and the others steal entire rolls. None of them wash their hands. I'm headed out on the deck to smoke another doob with the Thompson people, who seem to be the only sane ones here.

7:58 PM: Jeeeeshh. About 5 minutes ago a big black Lincoln stretch pulled up on the lawn and out pops Hillary, along with 15 or 20 of her closest flunkies and footmen. They barge right into the house, without ringing the bell, without so much as a "hey Dave," and head straight down to the basement. Apparently with the plugged up toilet and all the vote was not going real good for her, so she was here for a little last-minute canvasing. Some of the people in her entourage started instructing the caucus people in the basement to vote for her, but they pretty much ignore them. Then Hillary starts screaming at her main flunky, "goddamn it, I told you to make them vote for me!" Normally I'd probably feel bad for the guy, but I'm pretty drunk right now so I kinda laughed. But I laughed harder when Tammy pushed by the security people and grabbed Hillary by the hair and booted her ass out the front door into the driveway snowbank. I probably won't laugh as hard when Tammy does that to me later tonight.

* The guy who opens his comments up once or twice a year, without telling me in advance,and then closes them before I can make it over to his site. This is typical Patriarchal behavior.

Another nice sequence from crush/nemesis/oppressor Dave:

8:31 PM: Shit, talk about a buzzkill. Down in the living room Huckabee has won the GOP caucus and his salvation freakshow is pouring all my beer down the sink (even the good stuff like MGD), shouting"Praise Jesus!" I yell at them to stop, but they crank some godawful Creed song on the stereo and tell me they're going to perform an exorcism on me. The Democrats are screaming in the basement, apparently because they can't decide on a candidate and how to divy up the shit they stole from my garage and liquor cabinet. I'm too high to figure out what to do.

9:11 PM: All my friends know about Tammy's mean streak, and some of them wonder how I can risk staying around her. Well, sometimes that mean streak comes in handy. Like tonight when she grabbed her .410 and shot it off into the living room ceiling. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here," she yelled. "I will thank you to now get the hell off my property."

There was a lot of mumbles and grumbles, but they did all shuffle towards the door. Some Guiliani guy mumbled something about "sensible gun regulations," but Tammy cracked him on the back of the head with the stock of the .410. I laughed pretty hard at that, but then she turned and glared at me. "What are you laughing at, Party Boy? You get the hell out like the rest of them."

Long story short, I'm at Super 8 for the night and my laptop battery's almost dead. So no matter what the pundits and newspapers tell you, the real winner in Iowa tonight just locked me out of the house.

Well, That Wasn't So Bad.

Among the actual GOP/semi-GOP candidates, Romney came in first, followed by Thompson, and then McCain. I can totally live with that.

So once people see that the evangelical doesn't have any clothes, the situation should fall right into place.

I do want to be clear, though: any ticket that includes the Huckster on any portion of the ballot will not get my vote, and will probably get voted against. So no sneaking Huckabee in as a VP possibility, okay? A heartbeat away from the White House is too freakin' close.

Oh, Iowa Shmiowa.

Like I said: 49 more where that came from.

Happy Caucus Day.

And, no: Fred won't be taking his dollies and going home if he doesn't do well today. But his numbers have been going up the past several days, so I suspect it'll be a good day for him.

Also: there are 49 other states. Let's keep that tiny little datum in mind.

Via Insty.

One of My New Years Resolutions

. . . is to start watching more television this year.

Expecially the stuff on the History Channel, but also—gasp!—network shows.

I've got it figured out how I can get back into the habit of seeing Boston Legal. But what else do people like? What's worth watching—or was until the writer's strike upset the applecart?

John Moe Pwns Joni Mitchell

. . . over at McSweeney's.

Don't it always seem to go . . .?

The News From Kenya

. . . still isn't good. But I have hope.

Please keep them in your prayers.

BTW, Baldilocks is back in the blogging business, and will be paying close attention to events in Kenya. It's a sad thing to see a country falter when it had seemed to be a full democracy.

Let's keep our eyes open, and our petitions before . . . well, Whomever/The Universe/YMMV . . . that the violence will stop.

h/t: Dan at Protein Wisdom, who reminded me that I was going to link dear Juliette a few days ago, but forgot to because someone held something shiny up in front of my face. (Probably a stray Christmas ornament, calling out to me that it did not want to be put back in its box to be stored in the garage.)

Mrs. Du Toit

. . . is getting emotional again, and Desert Cat is there to explain why we don't do things that way in this country. Why we shouldn't. Why we can't.

In the past I've often gotten it into my mind that all Western countries have similar intellectual frameworks, but the older I get the more I realize our particular system is unique: we have a system of government that includes a Bill of Rights, and our Constitution has a "by the way" clause in it that points out whatever ain't spelled out in here is not something the government can do. Of course it doesn't work out that way completely in real life, but that language does keep the state from overreaching to the degree that it does in Western Europe, and in some other English-speaking countries.

As for anyone who thinks we can marginalize and "shoot on sight" members of any group that is well-armed represents a minority point of view . . . I've got one word for you: Waco.

The Anchoress on Hillary.

The blogger suggests that Mrs. C. might end up crying in public, but I don't thinnk she'll go that far to "humanize" herself, or steal her husband's favorite trick in such a fashion. (And, of course, if she bit her lower lip she might get lipstick on her teeth, so that's too risky.)

And yet, despite how disgusting this whole spectacle is—Hillary getting Pakistan wrong, and the media giving her a pass on it—I could still see voting for Clinton if the GOP nominates someone who's even worse, such as Huckabee.

I'll do it, too: don't make me pull that trigger.

On That Case of the Marine Whose Car Got Keyed (Badly) in Chicago

. . . by a scumbag anti-military attorney. You'll recall that the Marine was told that the crime wouldn't be prosecuted as a felony, despite the fact that the damage exceeded the monetary amount to bump the charges up to felony level.

There's now a new update on the case at Blackfive, and it looks like (1) the case will indeed be prosecuted at the felony level, (2) the attorney/vandal involved is not making his situation any better, (3) the Marine had some civilian and military supporters there in the courtroom due to blogosphere attention, and (3) bloggers have really pushed this case to the top of the priority list for the local DA's office.

So I guess it won't be left up to the Chicago PD to dog this guy and watch how he handles stop signs.

In a way, that makes me sort of wistful . . .

Via Craig at Protein Wisdom.

Last-Minute Gift Ideas

Yeah, I know. I'm linking 'em a bit late for Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Year's. But they're still useful for Kwanzaa—not to mention your friends who had the temerity to be born in the first week of January!

Okay. It's Been 2008 for Half an Hour So Far.

And it's nothing like what they promised me. For instance, my house is still a mess.

These things don't ever quite live up to the advertising, do they?

Happy new year, everyone.

Note: Due to another spam attack, I'm closing comments down on this post. It's probably safer to respond on another thread—though if you want to comment on this one, just email me what you have to say, and I'll see what I can do.