Steve, the oft-imitated but never duplicated, Vodka Pundit has helpfully supplied rules for your own home game version. Hey, he's a giver!
So, in return, give his liver a rest and give yours a workout.
Me, I'm watching reruns.
Speaking of which, why can't the U.S. networks go out and buy some Brit comedies for us to watch? Probably cheaper than paying our lackluster screen writers.
I need a job.
Oh, we come up with all sorts of ways to measure the weather at its extremes.
Just click here.
I know. After that last post...
Still, you'll want to see this Battle of the Sexes commercial:
h/t: haha.nu
Via the Hoodlum at Scribal Terror, this medical marvel is just too good not to blog.
It's a grand idea, turning the sperm-spigot off and on at will by remote control.
The silicone-polymer valve can be flipped between open and closed positions with a pulse of radio waves. A set of conducting "fingers" on the valve act as antennae and convert the signal's energy into sound waves that travel through the polymer and create stresses inside the device.
To secure the device against accidental activation, the device works in a similar way to a car's remote key-fob. Each valve responds only to a radio-frequency signal with a unique code.
For the benefit of the Irish wankers who wander over here after a few Guinness, I'm going to humor one, Nonny-- of Teddy Bear Undies fame over there on the Rack o' Slacks; (you should see how many times that gets outclicked) --who had the brass boobs to tag me to a stupid blog meme. She rightly guessed my reaction but she labeled me as, "cool" so I guess I'll have to cut her some Primordial Slack, so to speak. Plus, she's the laziest blogger around. Plus, she's s slightly psychotic, which quality being a plus for blogging.
Mostly, she only blogs when drunk, resulting in the most hilarious malapropisms I've ever witnessed. But she really is as sweet as a lamb... in her sleep.
Herewith, her frickin' meme:
"The People have spoken. I suck."
[Not a real quote, Slackers. I'm just honing my speech writing skills. Being all helpful, like.]
If Obama wins and names Edwards as AG, however, I expect what little dignity remaining within the Republican leadership to block such a nomination.
Of course, when was the last time you saw a Republican leader?
Show your extreme Slackitude by asserting your place on the food chain, and get less-evolved critters to do your work for you. Then go have a civilized cup of tea.
Don't you just want a steaming hot cup of tea made from leaves that have been hand-picked by monkeys?
Picked by the same paws that fling poo, I imagine.
[h/t: Uncrate. Who else?]
It's a great time to be watching the political upheaval of the Democratic Party. Long overdue, as well. They dems should all be ashamed, even if it's a bit late, of how they pretend to only just now see who and what the Clintons are. No matter. I applaud their newfound good manners and moral rectitude. If that's the least that Obama does for his party, it will redound to the good of the entire political spectrum.
Really. Obama's got Sharpton toeing the line, and that's no small feat of leadership.
Sharpton, taking a page from Spains's smackdown of Chavez a few months ago, has basically told Bill to shut up.
We'll only know if Obama's leadership is effective if he can get Al to STFU as well.
Pass the popcorn and turn up the volume. It's gonna be a wild ride to the finish!
Writers' Strike? Who cares!?
We've got Iowahawk and Scrappleface for political petard-hoisting, but Suzette! is showing her mettle with two brilliant send-ups of the Kennedy endorsements.
And she makes it rhyme. And she probably is wearing to-die-for shoes while serving up her political insights with a nice Chianti.
Go read, already.
On the cusp of the Florida ballot, I suppose I must declare my intentions toward my country as honorable.
Wanting nothing more from my political relationships but law, order, and strategic military advantage, I intend to work hard, pay just taxes, abide by the laws (I think that covers illegal immigrants), and submit to orderly society of a reasonable and moral sort--that includes guns for law-abiding citizens as a means of sport or self-defense.
If only my politicians would promise the same.
So, um. No. Not John "Twitch" McCain. He's more narcissistic than Bill. (I call him "Twitch" because he's just so close to the edge. -ed) Not Hillary or Obama. Not Mitt (Once you've had Taxachussettes, you never want to go back to self-sustenance). Not Ron Paul. Not Guiliani.
I'm writing in for Fred Thompson. He's the only candidate not offering to buy my vote. He can take all the time he needs to tend to his mother. I'll campaign for him with my write-in. It's the only thing I can do with a halfway clear conscience.
...to counter the Advice Goddess. I mean, she's got it goin' on, right? She's got the hair, the 'tude, the hot links from Insty. And most of the time, I'm down with her rap, man.
But, circumcision, dude? I really should step aside. Angels fear to tread, and all that. If my son is reading this, please, Heather, send him out of the room. I mean it!
To call it, "penisectomy" as Ms. Alkon does, is a bit much. And incorrect. Even the Jolly Roger agrees with me on that point. That's just emotional and over-the-top drama. To call it purely cosmetic is possibly understating, as well. But there is simply no correlation between circumcision and a clitorodotomy procedure. To assert such is to unwittingly abet those who would impose female genital mutilation, which I'm sure is not Ms. Alkon's intent. [update: for excellent articles and discussion of FGM, click here.]
Let's call things by what they mean. It's ever so helpful. A penisectomy would infer the removal of the penis. No normal person would want that. Nor would a normal person insist on removing a woman's sexual sensitivity. An insecure person might, but... enough about Muslim men.
I'm not sure why it's important to Ms. Alkon to make such an irrational comparison. There's a bunch more to discuss about it. Lots and lots of levels of thought. Let's tackle just one.
To assume that one backward and barbaric culture's insecurities are the reason behind a vibrant and progressive culture's continuance of a shared custom deserves a bit of pondering.
Me, I'm just thinking out loud, and not buying into the "health benefits" argument as the only spiritual vs. visceral correlation of reason for circumcision. To do so is to assume quite a bit. Let's assume, along the lines of, "pork was forbidden by God because Moses was a genius who figured out that undercooked pork was a danger." From there, a generally touted "modern" explanation for a seemingly irrational demand, we jump to: circumcision was instituted for health reasons.
But, you don't know that. And neither do I.
And, as any woman who lives with a "cut" man can tell you, circumcision doesn't seem to slow the old boy down one bit. In fact, to be totally scientific, someone would have to sponsor a study comparing the libidos of uncut and cut men, and record the resulting amount of pleasure and satisfaction for each. Many a "cut" man would volunteer to participate in such a study, I'm sure.
"But! You don't know what you don't experience!!" Well, I can't speak to that, for sure. But I can say this:
Alcohol has done more to defeat a man's pleasure than any circumcision.
No lesser a mortal than Wm. Shakespeare confirms this in stating that alcohol, “provokes the desire but it takes away the performance.” Alcohol interferes in two ways, by keeping the blood vessels open and relaxed, and by inhibiting the nerve-endings. Of both sexes.
Some say that a "sheath-ectomy" exposes nerve endings so as to keep a man in a perpetual state of excitement. Anecdotal testimony may bear that out. ::ahem!:: You know, there may be a "go forth and multiply" factor in the ancient mindset that provoked men to keep the arousal factor up, so to speak, in order to assure a survival of his species. It may not be health, it may not be cosmetic. It may be tribal and primordial, an ancient wisdom or ploy of survival.
Strictly speaking outside of the spiritual reference: It was instituted by men, after all. Not by women. My suspicions lead me to conclude that men know what they are doing for their sons. Cut or uncut. One thing they are not doing is acting on irrational insecurities. They're all about the happy penis.
Nothing is more sacred to a man than his penis. It's his best friend. Tell me I'm wrong, guys.
But no, we got men worrying now, like women, about what they may be missing out on; fretting about the amount of enjoyment they may not be experiencing. Heck. Cut guys may be having more fun, but nobody can measure that, can they? And if it's the opposite? If it takes a guy a bit longer to arrive at his happy moment because of over-exposure, then who benefits most from that?
Maybe circumcision is a pro-feminist agenda.
Oh, and Valentine's Day?
It has nothing to do with the above, (or maybe it does...) it just happens to be another peeve that Ms. Alkon and countless others feel the need to grind up and serve to the blogosphere.
Well, you know what? TOO BAD!! Valentine's Day is not for you, just like Yom Kippur is not for me. It's a day for those who find meaning in it. Insecure people that want to be harried by it? Fine. Ignore it.
But there are millions of romantics who find meaning in the day. So the yammering and sour grapes about Valentine's Day are just that. Bah Humbug!
For the rest of ya'll, you got about two weeks to make your plans for your sweet thing and you to celebrate what you've found.
Everyone else can just bugger off. Or go get your genitals pierced.
Or, to quote my fav news reporter, Don Surber, "Flipper Joins the Sopranos."
In his pithy observation of the Telegraph's article about the dolphin's murderous malevolence studied by the Scottish Association for Marine Science, Surber cynically and correctly points to alarming default for every unexpected act of nature:
I am amused that when something inexplicably bad happens, the first people blamed are the oil industry and the American military.
D.C. to Charleston in 8 hours. No cell phone calls, no books on tape, just CDs or radio talk on NPR or Rush. No meals or munchies. Just bathroom/gasoline stops.
I love the focus and hum of the road! Especially when traffic is moving in an orderly and predictable flow; north to south, headlights to tail lights, looky-lous in the right-hand lane, please. I really do obsess over the mileage and average speed on a long trip and 73mph average over eight hours, and 30mpg is smokin', let me tell you. The Jetta records it all for me, and I am pleased with the end result: that I am back in Charleston by sundown.
The task-oriented, goal-driven side of my brain enjoys the break from social interaction and problem solving dilemmas and even the incredible awesomeness of the world's political Capitol. Just give me road and let me cruise. I have a target destination to acquire by such-and-such an hour and the resources of car, fuel, money, and coffee wherewith to expect meeting such a goal. So damn simple and enjoyable.
The D.I.L. was feeling a bit better by Wednesday morning, so I took my leave of the Newlyweds after lunchtime and scooted back home, where I have vegetated after sleeping almost 12 hours straight. Nothing like one's own bed!
*****
I awoke this morning to a phone call which may or may not be my golden connection to a new job, or a new career entirely. It was a totally casual work-related connection from my prior job. But this was someone, who like me, believes in finding and creating good connectivity in the work marketplace. It's an opportunity to congregate at an unpublicized business meeting with leading IT CEOs and CIOs in the big city north of here, as well as a connection and phone number to a group of some very influential artists even closer to home. It doesn't sound too good to be true, it sounds like a friendly bit of someone believing in me and giving me a gentle shove forward. If all my hard work and creativity makes me deserving, then, yeah, I'm up for that kind of break.
If it requires politically correct savvy and suffering fools gladly, I'm sunk before I start.
I wonder if I should go blonde again...
I swear, I could abide with the traffic exacerbated by over-long traffic lights. I could smile and learn the five other languages necessary for casual communication on any given day. I would gladly resign myself to the fact that our nation's very heart of institutions is run by footlings and their hand-picked family members, to the exclusion of anyone with a brain or sense of professionalism. All this I would cheerfully suffer to be in proximity of The National Gallery of Art.
It must be visited over and over, and much like my visit to London's National Gallery, this one was a quest to see some beloved prizes. Like some game hunter zeroing in on the one magnificent specimen for the trophy wall, I was circling around the other galleries, appreciating the other fine epochs of art, the evolutionary procession of time and technique. All wonderful, all thrilling, and too marvelous to detail just yet.
But I knew I wanted to immerse myself in the world of light and dark, the mastery of shadow and show, the inexpressibly heart-stopping awe of Rembrandt. I know at one point I was gaping at a work purported to a Rembrandt's Workshop (great name for a band!) creation. It was just slightly overdone, a bit too slick, belying the self-conscious attention to detail and perfection of some young apprentice eager for the master's approval. But totally inspiring to see. I know I was gaping because someone came up to me and followed my gaze, and then settled in beside me to admire the piercing eyes gazing back at us from the canvas. Someone from the middle of the 15th century sat in costume for a school of artists, and half a millennia later fixes his gaze upon an unaccompanied woman in a leather coat and velvet scarf who has the temerity to stare boldly back at him with mouth slightly agape in wonder.
I would give body parts to live in that gallery.
How awesome it was to surround myself with the dark and brooding colors of the Dutch painters, and then allow myself to drift over to the French Impressionists. The lighter-than-air Monets, Cezannes, Renoirs! The contrastive Degas, then rounding a corner to be greeted by Gaugain's planes of color and shape, primitive renderings of the primitive peoples.
I was in heaven! My taxes at work, bringing me real value! Awesome!
It was only marred by the security person standing around filing her acrylic nails while posted near the Cezanne, and the incessant noise of the other guard hitting on her that made me go and look for the captain of the guard. Not finding him, I decided to at least fill out a comment card alerting the curators to the damaging acrylic dust particles settling on their priceless art, (more than one guard was filing her acrylic nails next to priceless art. Grrr!) and the obnoxious prating of the male guard. After all, visitors were getting remonstrated for where they stood and how loud they spoke, while the rent-a-cops were whooping it up like it was Friday night at the bar.
I returned with my comment card to find the guards still partying, so I asked the gentleman for his name. He refused, playfully, and walked away. I insisted on reading his name tag, and noted it for my comments. He then became a bit concerned, hoping I was writing something good, pursuing me around the room, trying to read my comments. He was dogging me at one point, to the point of arousing a bit of fear in me. His insistence on reading my card was alarming, and by the time I located the captain of the guard I was shaking. I turned my remarks over to him and left the museum.
Now, I will certainly cop to being less than worthy of some of the people and places I've been privileged to acquaint myself with. I've been known to not appreciate things properly, to my shame and consternation. I know when I am outclassed and out-of-place in certain situations. It's why I won't even pretend to any sort of scholarly exposition on the art I experienced. But, it's just a fact of life that we can't legislate cultural understanding into or out of a society.
In the strictly esoteric and transcendent translation of that moment and the singular beauty to be found in that gallery-- the juxtaposition of the magnificent art and those hired to "protect" it could not have been more pronounced. Our National Gallery apparently lets just anybody pretend to protect its priceless treasures.
And I would give body parts for such a post of honor.
Or so I say. Maybe I'd fall into the familiar contempt bred in constant association with magnificence and become ungrateful, unmindful of my privilege. Maybe I'd take certain abiding truths and freedoms for granted and throw away precious things. I'm capable of it, sad to say. Hopefully, I'm still capable of knowing how wrong it is, too. We don't do what we ought and know to do, but our saving grace is in feeling the weight of it.
Three days and 1200 miles is a bit much, but circumstance has brought me back to Charleston to tend to the Newlyweds. The D.I.L. is recuperating from a bit of seriously bad food poisoning with complications, and my poor son has been baptized in the fearful worry of being unable to do much except worry. Hearing his helpless concern made all my Primordial "Mom" memories kick in. It's a visceral feeling one would have to place at the beginning of Time; scary and powerful to feel after one's bear-cubs are grown. Pitiless and fearless against any threat when one has little ones in the crib.
The run from Mechanicsville up to D.C. was perfect. Holiday traffic was light in the morning. I slipped the Jetta onto 395 and in a few minutes of twisting turns, rises and runs, there to my left was a city that could easily be mistaken as Immortal; with the Washington Monument gleaming the crisp ache of a 12-degree morning. I felt a lump of pride and awe in my throat and pressed onward. Following my instincts only, I exited on 12th street, zoomed down and under a tunnel and came up for air at...Constitution Avenue! Crossed over 4 lanes and grabbed the last of a green light, went a couple of blocks and found...a parking place. So busy was I just driving and hunting that I was truly speechless to find myself smack dab in front of the Monument!
I hiked the mall for a bit, but even in all my layers, I was in pain from the cold as my face became a block of ice and my fashionable gloves bought in Florida were all but useless. Breathing into my scarf I dove back into my car (seat warmers! yes!) and cruised a bit, looking for a parking place near the Flight museum. It took a while because the city was now being inundated with a bunch of travelers and buses, priests from Spain, monks in what seemed to be very insufficient insulation-- robes topped with parkas, college kids, cars with slogans, the mall was being prepared. I made a mental note to cut my day a bit short and find lodging well before nightfall. Then I found a space at last, right in front of the museum.
Ladybug Luck was still with me.
Can I just say--OMG? I took a bunch of lousy pics, I'm sure, but the up-close reality of rivets and duct tape that founded and keep our flight and space programs alive is a marvel. Yes, I loved Amelia's Lockheed Vega in my favorite shade of red. I loved the Wright Flyer's painstakingly perfect details and simplicity. But I found myself taking pics of turbines and twelve-bangers and instrument panels, radio assemblies and the spinner shroud of the Spirit of St. Louis.
We are so removed from seat-of-the-pants reliability and engineering. We sit in perfectly upholstered chairs in carpeted cabins and never suspect that somewhere within the mysterious underbelly of the craft, our flight-fate is resting comfortably under a sticky layer of silver tape. It's thrilling and dismaying all at once.
On to the National Gallery!
My room is host to about a dozen ladybugs!! I think it's a sign.
I mentioned it to the desk clerk, and she offered me another room, but I turned her down. She related to me that in Virginia, it is illegal to exterminate ladybugs.
And so, looking like the artificial shoe-prints on a dance-floor diagram, they move about in some sort of angry tango on my hotel room window pane. They must love the bigness of this gibbous moon, nearly full, as it rises over the ridges of middle Virgina.
Going to be a cold one. Hope the little dotty bugs survive the cold pane plain they've settled on.
How they got to room 317 at the Holiday Inn Express, I'll never know.
Other notes: Pedro's South of the Border complex in South Caroloina is HUGE. The signs leading up to it are surreal: "Virgin Sturgeon and Unused Bagels!"
I safely motored past without stopping. Of course, I haven't figured out North Caroloina's fascination with WIGS! once I crossed the border
The elevation kept rising while the temperature kept falling. The bright winter sun was not going to warm this day; glad I grabbed a cup of coffee and a biscuit before heading out on my "Press On Regardless" Rally.
The Charleston newlyweds are just as silly and happy as you can imagine and my time with them was so much fun. They do have the world by the tail right now. Ya'll remember what that feels like, right?
The D.I.L.'s Jane Austen party was a hit, dotted with some real drama when the tow trucks came to haul the car of her guest, Timna, away for blocking someone's driveway. It's hard to tell on certain streets in Charleston, and she's from Germany so she wasn't understanding too well. I raced outside with cash and cool assurances, and a crisis was averted! Huzzah!
Crossing into North Carolina I see snow everywhere! Snow-covered fields stretching far and away. Bits of snow stubbornly burrowed in on pine boughs, refusing to be budged by the 20 mph cross-winds. Rooftops and cords of firewood all covered in snow. Fencepost tops drifted up to a crescent peaked asymetrical testimony to the night's wintry mayhem. I'm glad it stuck around for me to see it.
::sigh::
I'm about 100 miles south of D.C. and hunkered in to watch the game and some good rest. I told the wonderful Jolly Roger that I'd have some Sailor Jerry rum and drunk-dial him later tonight! Who am I kidding? I'll be fast asleep before the end of the game.
Hopefully, D.C. will be open tomorrow.
If the weather holds, why not keep going north?
I must be crazy, but I'm going to buy some galoshes and head north!
I want to see the Smithsonian, especially the Flight museum, and the National Gallery of Art, not a buncha politicians.
I've never seen snow. What are the odds...
It's very difficult to turn down an invitation from a charming and beautiful young woman that begins like this:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sensible woman in possession of a free evening must be in want of a Jane Austen night.
Or maybe just three guys with two guns, on Omaha Beach with a camera, and four days with nothing better to do.
Ruthlessly stolen from my favorite Archenemy:
I'm thinking it would be fun to have these guys film the next Jawja blogmeet.
IMPORTANT UPDATE to the Moonwalkin' Bird Post!
A must-read!!
Joated, over at Compass Points has found a longer version of the video and the name of the species of the Moonwalkin' little cock-bird. No, I'm not gonna tell you. Go see for yourself.
Plus, there's more of that introverted orinthologist. So, Mark, the Bandit, and the Lizard,you gotta go check it out and see if more is better. Thanks, Joated. Your tireless investigation has brought closure for us all!
Via Baboon Pirates, and countless others, I seem to have contracted a meme.
I'm pretty immune to most memes. Being the pedant that I am, I just take things too seriously and fail to see the fun in trying to be one of the cool kids. It never works out. I'm too...something or other. Fill in the blanks as I know you will.
But the ubiquitous and adaptive nature of this meme just captures my attention and I've been drawn in close enough for positive contact. It's fun and mildly creative, and may just take you somewhere you'd like to go, or show you something you'd like to see, or teach you something you didn't know already, smart ass.
The pirate's post seemed to have the links that actually work, so I'll send you over there for the details as to how you, to, can create your very own House Band CD.
I am so fargin' pissed right now, so let this serve as a warning. This will not be pretty or PC. Not by a long shot. Skip this and go watch a bird moonwalk.
When younger and idealistic, brimming with do-gooder energy, our family would take in the homeless from time to time. We eventually learned not to. It was never a physical danger situation, although that was a concern, but it was a certainly a psychological dilemma, and possibly an invitation to legal jeopardy depending on the habits that led a person to become homeless, i.e., drugs. Those were the good old days. I'll revisit legal jeopardy in a minute or ten.
Good times.
I don't care if you believe in evil or not, I'm not sure I did, either, but I had a demon-possessed woman in my home, once. Scare your ass straight. I never gave such a thing much thought until voices, contorted features, and even an invisible, physical shove coming straight from her mouth made me a believer. Not science-fiction, folks. It was easily remedied, however, by an assertion of authority, "NOT in MY house!" And all the little horrors would leave her for a while. And we would cry and hurt for her, and help her and do all we could.
She was so sweet, and smart, and able to work when she was challenged by us to behave and to assert her own authority and self-control. But, she really needed help, so we helped her. We helped her right to the local homeless shelter after she started sliding back into her familiar familiars. She needed help, but not at the expense of our peaceful home. That is sovereign.
Unwed pregnant homeless idiot? Yeah, we took in that one, too. Didn't tell us she was preggers. Didn't tell us she'd had an abortion, nor did the doctor even tell us days later when we went to the emergency room to see her after she started to bleed profusely while at her job. Only later did we find out. She was perfectly healthy again, but didn't want to work. We were young, we believed the best. But, she wasn't homeless, she was freeloading, saving her boyfriend the trouble of bringing her to his place, gee, I wonder why? How incredulous she was when we packed her belongings and dropped her at the weekly hotel flop-house. Too bad she never told us she was only seventeen years old. Found out later that she had faked her license to show she was twenty-one and had been living on the streets for years, apparently. Sad, but not gonna be my problem after you lie to me and jeopardize my home and your own life.
And then there was a family member... that was the truly dangerous one. Sigh.
And so it went. We worked with a local homeless shelter and met all sorts of folks with one thing in common: rebellious, proud, stupid ideas about the world. Maybe one out of 20 was truly a basket case or sob story--oh hell, they were all sob stories--but the rest were healthy, well-fed, resourceful and smart.
And living just the sort of life they wanted. No strings, play the scam, scam the Christians in the suburbs, and the liberals in the government, hold a sign up at the intersection, do ANYthing but work and take on responsibility.
Able-bodied men would drag some stupid cow of a woman and her kids around the country with him, playing the scam, and living free. You helpfully set him up with a job? He's caught stealing. Caught lying. Called in sick. Don't show. Moved on to the next little town.
If someone needs help, and you ask them where their family or friends are, the story will be so similar as to be common currency among the modern hobo set. They have scripts they memorize. You don't know this, because you've only ever met one or two in your life.
There's a reason they're not on welfare, not seeking government help, drifting. I'd venture that there's more government money for the truly unfortunate than the truly unfortunate could use up. The scammers and "Homeless Vet, God Bless" cardboard sign set sleeping under the overpasses are happier than you know. Well, maybe not happy, but they are satisfied. And they fight for their territory, so lucrative is the gig.
Legal jeopardy, the new price of compassion.
Dear reader, DO NOT take any hazy "homeless" situation as the gospel truth. For every true need out there, you have a hundred pikers standing in line to freeload off of your white middle-class liberal guilt. Or your Christian gullibility. Or the media's incurious sensationalism about their so-called plight. Maybe in some other country, but not here. Not when unemployment is at 4%.
But here's the kicker: if you take them in, they belong to you. Here in Florida, if you try to send them packing, they'll call the cops on you. Then, Good Samaritan, you get to be a captive in your own home, unable to leave for fear of a theft or reprisal for attempting to send them packing. This just happened this morning to someone close to us. They tried to kick out the long-time freeloader of the past several months. The meth-headed druggie refused to leave and called the cops. The cops say, "she stays, or you go to jail for unlawful eviction of a tenant."
She stays, and her benefactor, who never charged her one dime or took one cent from her, has absolutely no right to insist upon her exit. Who voted for that law? Raise your hand and I'm gonna come over there and kick your ass right out of your Sinecure. Heh.
But, somehow, this poor frightened doe of a "tenant," after being made to feel extremely uncomfortable in her happy "home" today, has found friends who would take her in. A couple of gangsta bruthas showed up and hauled her and her shopping bags away. Amazing. Hopefully, that will be the end of it and no retribution will be exacted on her gracious, and now rueful, hosts.
It happens more often than you know. It's a pretty ballsy scheme. You'd think that just accepting a bit of disciplined responsibility would be far easier. It's not, apparently.
Don't give me any anecdotal evidence to the contrary of my experience, because I'll delete it. I'd wager that I've heard more about the plight of the homeless than you've ever heard about the darker truth of the situation, so shut up and let me drive this blog post, thank you.
The obvious exceptions are simply, and unfortunately just that: exceptions to the rule. The truth is that there is an entire underclass of people who live the life they do because they choose it every day when they wake up, free from any care except to wonder from where they can steal, cajole or fool their next meal, and anything above that is fine, as long as they don't have to listen to someone encourage them, or preach at them, or expect anything like gratitude in return.
So, you know, no tears for the professionally homeless. Have pity on them at your peril.
...and Moonwalkin'. One cool bird. Seriously.
IMPORTANT UPDATE!! Joated, over at Compass Points has found a longer version of the video and the name of the species. So, for Mark, the Bandit, and the Lizard, go check it out and see if more is better. Thanks, Joated. Your tireless investigation has brought orinthetic joy to us all!
h/t to Walking the Berkshires
Jimbo, like any good lawyer, loves words. And since I'm sort of on a new word high right now, his post really put me into the mood to join him in his search for new woids to add to his collection.
But for this particular curio-shelf of words, he wants reverse-engineering of new words; reverse anachronisms for the Back to The Future crowd. One of the delights of that movie was hearing the term, "heavy" repeated back with incredulity and curiosity about the nature of gravity in the future. And "Calvin's" ski-vest being mocked as a life jacket. Heh.
Can you imagine taking Rap terms back in time? And not getting slapped? Word. Or just the ubiquitous, non-gendered and unimaginative term, dude? As though everyone in the future was a cowboy...
It's a nice writing exercise, and may make you some money if it can inspire you to write another Peggy Sue Got Married or Pleasantville.
Herewith, my lame offerings:
Texting - it was never a verb, so it would've been the practice of plagiarism, lifting entire text.
404- a watered-down version of 409.
DOS Attack - sounds German. Should be met with extreme force and prejudice.
CSS - what you do when under attack: cuss
RSS Feed - I'd guess it to be military logistics for the forward base-camp's breakfast
Frames - what goes around your glasses or what pictures go into
Bug - has always been around to describe a glitch, or an irritant. Now it just describes features in MSVista.
Moonbat - Dracula or his minions
Cyberspace - Cyclops’ den
Autosave - the garage
TrackBack - Italian tank
Some comments sections have this command: Submit.
I'm not sure how to interpret that.
Must be why I don't comment too many places.
I have found the perfect job for The Slacker who needs an income but doesn't really want to work: Sinecure.
Better than marrying a rich person, even, as advice for financial success-by-proxy. See also: Hillary.
Believe it or not, *ahem,* that was a word on the spelling test I was given during the job interview today. I have no idea how this word has escaped my notice, but I'm like a kid with a new toy. Sinecure! "Without a Care." A true and noble calling for a worthy Slacker! But a hideous aberration in unworthy and political hands.
Wikipedia describes it thusly:
"Sinecure means an office which requires or involves little or no responsibility, labour, or active service."See also: Congressman, Trophy Wife, or DMV employee.I'm sure you've met such a fortunate one. Now you know what to call them.
About my blog name...
MizzE's post reminded me that today is the birthday of Joan of Arc. Joan's my muse, if you will, being raised in faith that venerated those who exemplified certain aspects of faith. Joan was a hell-raiser who didn't know her place, heard voices and wasn't afraid to pick a fight. Oh yeah, I could relate to a saint that kicked ass. At age 12 I claimed her for my own.
Fast forward to waaaayyyy back in the year 2000. I participated in a very large online political forum and I lurked for a good while before I decided to jump into the daunting world of political discourse during an election year. I considered for a good long while as to what my online identity should be, and knew that I'd have to go with my patron saint, Joan of Arc. But I wanted it to have a bit of its own cache, to illustrate my frustration with the political scene. Joan of Argghh! it was.
So I jumped into the blog world during its tender years, but mainly stuck to my forum and branched out from there to others' blogs. I was a commenter and lurker and was even quoted by Allahpundit during the TANG Memo Scandal because of my typesetting expertise.---back when he had a rippin' blog. Now he has an even more awesome gig at HotAir.
At one point, John, of the Castle Argghhh! ran across me at Ace's place, I think. We're cool, but we're not related, not affiliated, and rarely cross paths. Yes, he is more popular and well known and is an excellent milblogger whose site I love. But I'd had this name, named after my Patron Saint and not a Monty Python bit I'd never seen or any other blogger I knew, since 2000.
So, I've kept it because there are bloggers out there who have known this name for the last seven years.
And because it reminds me that not all causes are lost, not all who dissent are crazy, and that just maybe, the voices in my head really aren't mine.
I've refrained from starting any post that way, "wherein," but I'm so sick in the head that three minutes after I turned in my resignation, I saw myself writing the title just that way. I need professional help. And a job.
I know. First rule of survival: never quit a job unless you have another lined up.
Well.
As I remarked to some friends, "Where evah shall I go? What evah shall I do?"
I'm not sure yet, but five minutes after the deed, I received an email from someone that had asked for my resume four months ago. I sent it, and never heard back. Until today. Five minutes after I threw myself out into the void and begged the Unknown to catch me.
If it works out, it'll boost my current salary by 50%.
If it doesn't...I still know how to juggle. There's always that.
So, for those of you still needing shock pens, gold doubloons, pirate eye-patches, grog canteens, or headless chickens, my employee discount ends in about two weeks.
I'm just sayin'.
Happy Sunday. And no I did NOT get pie eyed last night, even though the Jags did beat the Steelers for the second time this season. Woot!
No. I was up at 5:00 a.m. this morning, scouring the Internet for some new thing to amuse you, my eight faithful readers. This should do the trick:
I believe I am tipsy. Not drunk, per se, but unbelievably... light.
Or lit.
Hope my son is not reading this.
Hope the JR gets home soon...
Posting this under, "Art".
Hope he doesn't mind.
Yeah, and I suppose you know I didn't drink at all until after you turned 12...esquincle!
*sigh*
I suppose you all thought I taught myself to cook because it sounded like fun...
Feliz dia de los reyes, mama. Apparentamente te pusieron un poco de ron en tus zapatos...
Frothing at Le Mouse has set up a truly funny scene involving what I regard as the normal Winter Ritual of self-loathing, reassessment, and humiliation. Not really Festivus, not really the lost art of New Year's Resolutions... at most, an harbinger of Lent. Sackcloth and ashes, if you will. Ruing the reality of clutter:
A few months ago I bravely scoured the spicerack and disposed of those items that were talking to me. “Please. Euthanize me. I’m congealed and I hurt. I cannot escape the jar. Kill me now.”
Now! Updated for clarity or further embarrassment. Not sure!
I've had this rambling thought in the "draft" mode since November 21st:
the contempt that congress holds the electorate in. i don't blame them. after a while, how can you respect a populace that votes in Robert Byrd, Trent Lott and Sheila Jackson-Lee year after year? I can well imagine they sit around at local restaurants and say, "watch this, we'll screw 'em like a cheap whore and they'll still re-elect us. We're the only pimps they know."
I had not realised how offensive the plain truth can be to the politically correct, how enraged they can be by its mere expression, and how deeply they detest the values and standards respected 50 years ago and which dinosaurs like me still believe in, God help us.
But the readers' reactions to the book were the exact opposite of critical opinion. I have never received such wholehearted and generous support.
Most of the letters came from the older generation, but by no means all. I was made aware that among the middle-aged and people in their 20s and 30s there is a groundswell of anger and frustration at the damage done to Britain by so-called reformers and dishonest politicians who hardly bother to conceal their contempt for the public's wishes.
Plainly many thought they were alone in some reactionary minority. They had been led to think that they were voices muttering to themselves in the wilderness.
Well, you are not. There are more of you out there than you realise - very many more, perhaps even a majority.
I do quibble a bit with his view that Political Correctness began in the U.S., because my first introduction to its modern roots was in reading C.S. Lewis' observations. Perhaps even as Fraser is exhorting others about their inability to see their own faults, he can be forgiven for living so solidly in the middle of PC evolution as to not notice its creeping rise.
Well, PC grew up and went abroad. When it returned back to the B.I., of course nobody recognized it as the bouncing socialist boy they had nurtured during the lead up to WWII.
Be that as it may, I return to my premise to restate it. We get the government we deserve.
I read today that the DOT and George Bush are defying Congress and the law, and allowing Mexican truckers to move freely across the border. Clearly, there's money in it somewhere and the government-guaranteed perqs of such a relationship are going somewhere where political astuteness is appreciated.
Bend over bitch! Where's my money?
If we elect a Democrat, you have a better relationship with your Presidential pimp-daddy because he promises to take care of you and dress you in style and marry you someday. Free health care, baby! You've earned it. And cheap drugs. And in return, the government will take your money and do really, really good things with it for you and your children, and you don't have to worry or think, just work and hand over the check.
Oh hell! Update:
In my perusing I found something that I thought would be helpful for Velociman, should he ever find himself at the bottom of that bottle of Wild Turkey, looking to establish his survivalist lifestyle. (It's my way of thanking him for the Google search out of the UK that brought someone to my sight looking for "rubber dirndls" before they clicked away to Key's site.)
In fact, the entire Low-tech Magazine site is a thin compendium for survivalists and Luddites and unemployed dreamers. Kind of like "Amish, Lite" for those with a hankering for a simpler and more self-sustained lifestyle. We're not talking about life after the Apocolypse here; just maybe life without Wii and the NFL Channel. A Good Life.
Oh, and even alternative housing options and Earthships made from car tires. Oops. Tyres. Looks like a British site. Guess you won't be finding any innovative ways there to keep the beer cold.
Drudge links to a new study that proves that cell phone users tie up traffic.
Do you need a moment to let that sink in?
Me neither.
When I used to make the 35-mile commute into work, it was through a mind-numbing area of Interstate 95 known as "Death Alley". We'd happily tailgate one another at 80 mph in the left lane until some man (just wait a minute...) would pick up their cell phone. All of a sudden, traffic slows by 10 mph. Now 70 may be safer than 80, but it's the differentials that cause the problems, and nothing will cause more lane changing, cursing, and general apoplexy than some inattentive idiot in the rocket-sled lane, talking on his cell phone, left foot lazily resting on the brake pedal, (which should be a felony driving offense) wondering how in the world he got rear-ended while driving 70 mph.
Traffic seemingly gets better, however, when women pick up the phone, and the article doesn't address that. Well, I won't say it gets better, it just gets faster. Honestly, women pick up the cell phone while driving and their emotional revs go right to their feet. Look in the rear view mirror and you'll see her, talking on the phone, yelling and gesturing and apparently steering with her knees because she needs both hands to orchestrate her commute-drama as she inspects the tailpipe on your car doing 80 mph.
But talking on the phone also makes them hit the brakes more... like every three fargin' seconds. Nature's way of saying, "steer clear."
By contrast, two women talking to each other inside the car will drive slower than anybody, even your local drug dealer. Something about the personal interaction just pings all the social cylinders to the exclusion of the rest of the world's need to get to work on time.
A non-work-related person I know (heh.) is a horribly egotistical driver who has no basis for such an opinion of himself. Even his girlfriend begs me to drive if the two of us are traveling with him. One 2-hour trip with him took four, because he's addicted to the Blackberry and his personal phone, both of which are steadily clamoring to add more drama into his life. He thrives on it. However, he weaves all over the highway, slows waaayyy down, has to put on old reading glasses to see all the emails, (but can't see the road with them on, so it's a constant juggling act) or light a cigarette, and can't understand why every driver around him is flipping him off, cutting him off, or pointing a gun at him.
I find it breathtakingly fatalistic to get out on the highways lately.
Your mileage may vary.
What's wrong with this picture? Besides the smiling sun? Smug sumabitch. At least he's all warm and happy.
Check out the weather advisory for all of us thick-blooded Southerners. We'll have to stock up on some 10-weight just to keep our blood circulating:
A cold Arctic airmass combined with northwest winds of around 10
to 15 mph and gusty will create dangerous wind chill readings of
about 15 to 20 degrees over most areas later tonight and early
Thursday... with northern Duval and eastern Nassau counties
possibly having wind chills of 12 to 15 degrees early Thursday
morning.
That ain't right.
I've been through ice storms here, once, and I have a picture of my place of business, from back in 1950, all covered in snow. Snow in the palms trees is something to see. In pictures.
We had an engine block crack on Christmas when it stayed below freezing for over 36 hours. In Florida. We've had snow two different years on March 1st, but it was gone by 11:00 a.m. and we were in shorts and sweaters by noon.
Totally ripped from Bob, Van's Celtic New Year carries such a sweetness:
I think a bit of Van Morrison goes a long way in making the New Year celebration complete. The Celtic New Year is usually celebrated on November 1st, and that seems much more sensible than cramming all the holidays together in 30 days. Still, the song serves well for the winding down part of January 1, 2008.
It was a beautiful day all around.
The JR proclaimed we would have pancakes--a rarity-- for breakfast and so we had the lightest and fluffiest of pancake recipes, with a few bites of bacon, and elegant Mimosas for breakfast. For the football games, a bit of Hormel Chili w/o beans mixed with melted Velveeta and served with tortilla chips. So WRONG!! Then, of course, a wonderful Roast Beast, braised in a bit of the morning's leftover coffee and few other secret ingredients, its stock reduced down with some mushrooms and Merlot for gravy, a bit of black-eyed peas for good luck, a large pot of sumptuous collard greens, and the Jolly Roger's skillet cornbread--short, crispy, and toothy--finished up the decidedly Southern sensibilities and traditions for the New Year.
Hope the rest of the year is just as delicious, peaceful, and prosperous for you and yours.
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