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Designer/Coder, who can turn Four Color Hell into a work of navigational art. Or something like that. Like part blog/part zine. Must be fluent in Moveable Type and be at least slightly familiar with the world of comics, so you can understand the feel we are going for.
Also, must be able to withstand my mood swings and fickleness.
Contact me if you are interested.
Ok, here's the deal. Meryl, Lair and I want to raise enough money to buy an ambulance for Magen David Adom.
Rather than write a few paragraphs on how you can help, I'll just steal Meryl's words:
We've also found a way to track your contributions so that if we raise $60,000, we can literally donate an ambulance to Israel. For another twenty grand, we can get a Mobile Intensive Care Unit.It sounds like a lot of money, but I think we can do it. What we will need, however, is more than just a pledge and contribution from you. I'm going to ask my rabbi to announce the Magen David Adom pledge drive in synagogue, and send out a synagogue-wide email as well. I know members of two other Richmond synagogues, and will ask them to do the same. If only a few of our readers do the same, we can raise the money for an ambulance, easy. And you know, my non-Jewish readers can do the same in their churches. One thing you can say about Magen David Adom: It is an organization that does nothing but help, and it doesn't matter what your nationality is: If you're hurt, they help. There are no sides to take in this fund drive.
There's a way we can track your donations to the cause. If you use a credit card and the MDA online form, there's a comment box. Type "Blogathon" into the comment box, and MDA can track how much money we've raised. If you forget, your contribution won't be counted. I'll be pounding that into your brain over the next few weeks. We really would like to raise enough to contribute an ambulance. They'll inscribe the doors for us. Like Lair said last year when he blogged for the same cause: Give until it doesn't hurt any more.
I know between the three of us we can do this. We need your help. If this is a cause you feel comfortable getting behind, you can take Meryl's suggestions above. You can link to our Blogathon posts. You can ask your own readers (if you're not Blogathonning yourself) to support us. You can sponsor us.
Sponsor me over here. Make us proud. And perhaps the men and women of Magen David Adom will be saving lives with an ambulance that has your name printed on its door. MDA in Israel answers about 1,000 calls a day. That's 1,000. And with a real truce nowhere in site, you can only imagine those numbers will rise. MDA also participates worldwide relief efforts. Here's ten more reasons to sponsor this cause on July 26.
First Words: A quiz on the first words of famous novels.
I got 10/13 and I am feeling quite proud of myself. I guess those Lit classes in college finally paid off.
My wonderful friend Nancy a/k/a Jill Matrix and my old East/West pal Philo have created the site QueerDay.com.
About Queer Day:
Here at Queer Day we have witnessed the mainstreaming of queer culture, finding it most amusing to watch the mainstream press begin reporting our stories in greater depth and with more accuracy than "our press" does. Comprehensive news coverage seemed to be an idea of the past in a sea of poorly designed sites with annoying pop-up advertising. While rainbow flag waving is metaphorically important, we were more interested in rainbows of literal diversity. And we'd grown weary of watching what passes today for community degenerating into mere arenas for sexual hookups, not that we see anything the least bit wrong with hooking up mind you....Except for our original content, we give you a slice of what to expect and a link for you to go get more if you're interested. We're here to untangle the web for you and invite you to join us in the process
The site just launched yesterday and already they have some very interesting links up with diverse topics such as infertility common in lesbians, gay rights in Israel and ex-baseball player Billy Bean.
Nancy and Philo have done a fabulous job with this site. Please go check it out and if it's something that interests you, then make it a daily stop.
Love you, Nancy!
The Trebuchet Set
I love you and I'll say
it using Trebuchet
I'll make my feelings clear
if they don't disappear
because with Trebuchet
that's what you're gonna get
and my style sheet
is replete
with Trebuchet
I'm not a big success
with CSS
I limp along
pronounce it wrong
and make a mess
but if you come with me
aboard my Trebucheee
we can sail away
to Trebuchet,
just you and me
--------------------
Maybe if you all pen an ode to your favorite font, Dr. Frank will make a cd of font songs. Fontastic songs?
Judging from some comments and most of my mail, it might be better if I decided to forego any posts about politics, news, baseball or anything controversial, and went instead with writing about bunny rabbits and rainbows and cooking and birthing babies because that's what us women know best.
As if.
If anything, the misogynist fools haven given me all the more reason to write on those "manly man" subjects even more.
I do have a question, though. If someone, especially a troll, doesn't like what a woman blogger has to say, he will invariably call her a hussy or a whore or the like. So what do trolls call guys they hate with just as much passion? Man-whore? That's just so clunky.
Anyhow, maybe I'll post about carpentry or football later just to piss them off.
Umm..right after I finish this post I'm writing about The Golden Girls.
Ok, everyone. The time is nigh.
Loosen up those purse strings and head over to this Blogathon page to sponsor me [see post here for details].
If Laurence, Meryl and I pool our pledges, we may raise enough money for Magen David Adom to buy a well-equipped ambulance.
You can pledge by the hour, or a flat rate for the 24 hours. You can pledge big or small. Every little bit counts. And anyone who sponsors me gets a post sometime during that 24 hours devoted to them on the subject of their choice. You will also be listed prominently in my sidebar as a person of distinguishing taste and amazing generosity.
I promise it will be a fun night of mayhem and madness, considering some of the people that will be doing the 24 hour thing along with me. I'm hoping to carry on with the tradition started last year of nearly incoherent instant messaging.
Let's hear those bills unfolding, change rattling and credit cards making whatever noise credit cards in action make. Sponsor me and I'll be your humble servant for 24 hours on July 26th. Make me proud, guys.
[I'm still taking suggestions on what to blog about that night. I think I will do whatever anyone asks of me in the comments here, within reason, taste and flexibility of my limbs, but sponsors get first dibs on bossing me around for that evening]
UPDATE Thanks so far to:
Anonymous#1
Anonymous #2
John
Ratty
Anonymous #3
Ith
Kathleen
Anonymous #4
(If any of you want me to write about something particular that night, just email me.)
Many years ago, I worked in a community college library as a ciruclation supervisor.
One day a mother of a student came in to speak to me. She explained that she was sure there was something wrong with her daughter, that the daughter was hiding something terrible from her. If she could just look at the books her child had taken out recently (as she knew her daughter spent a lot of time in the library), perhaps she could discern what the problem was.
I had no idea what the rules and regulations for this sort of thing were; I hadn't been prepared something like this. I had a feeling there would be some kind of privacy law regarding this thing, so I talked out of my ass for a few minutes, citing statutes and laws that prohibit the divulging of such personal information. Besides, I told the mother, we were not yet computerized like some of the bigger libraries. Everything was done by hand and it would be near impossible to figure out what her daughter had been reading.
The woman then went over my head to one of the directors of the library. He took pity on her and said he would see what he could do. As (the mother's) luck would have it, her daughter had several overdue books, so her name and the cards for those books were on file.
It seems she had been taking out books on both abortion and adoption. To further fuel the mother's suspicions, the director also discovered that the daughter had photocopied several articles on the emotional effects of abortion, and on giving up a child for adoption.
I don't know what happened between that mother and child after that. For all anyone knows, the girl was doing research for a project. Perhaps our director unwittingly started a family argument where none should have taken place. Perhaps he gave the mother reason to distrust her daughter.
That story is just part of the reason why I am strongly against Section 215 of the Patriot Act.
Section 215: Access to Records Under Foreign Intelligence Security Act (FISA)Allows an FBI agent to obtain a search warrant for “any tangible thing,” which can include books, records, papers, floppy disks, data tapes, and computers with hard drives.
Permits the FBI to compel production of library circulation records, Internet use records, and registration information stored in any medium.
Does not require the agent to demonstrate “probable cause,” the existence of specific facts to support the belief that a crime has been committed or that the items sought are evidence of a crime. Instead, the agent only needs to claim that he believes that the records he wants may be related to an ongoing investigation related to terrorism or intelligence activities, a very low legal standard.
Libraries or librarians served with a search warrant issued under FISA rules may not disclose, under of penalty of law, the existence of the warrant or the fact that records were produced as a result of the warrant. A patron cannot be told that his or her records were given to the FBI or that he or she is the subject of an FBI investigation.
Overrides state library confidentiality laws protecting library records.
While at first glance it may seem that this part of the Patriot Act is used merely to combat terrorism, you can imagine that the powers-that-be can find loophole upon loophole to to use this act to extract information that has nothing to do with terrorism at all.
The thought that there is even the slightest chance that what we do is being watched by those above us is enough to make me wary about what books I check out or buy.
What would a government agency make of the list of reading material you have purchased or took out from the library lately? Granted, they should have a cause for caring about your reading habits but one never knows what might make the men in black decide that you need to be watched. Could be someone called 1-800-TIPS and told them about all of your anti-Bush rumblings on your website? Maybe your neighbor fears that mound of fertilizer in your back yard because she heard that it could be used to make bombs, so she dials 911 and says she has a potential terrorist living next door to her. Have you shown up at any kind of protest lately? Belong to an anarachist group? Condemned the Patriot Act on a message board? Sent a joking email to a friend who works in a government building that you wanted to kill your boss?
Don't kid yourself. You are being watched. If not by the government then by your neighbors, your teachers, the traffic light with a camera installed inside.
It will only take one instance of an expired registration on your car or a bumper sticker that says "Repeal the Patriot Act" or purchasing a book about terrorism that will give them cause to ask your library to turn over an entire printout of books you have read since the fifth grade.
Look, she took out "How to Eat Fried Worms" four times last year!
Isn't fried worms a delicacy in Pakistan?
You're right! Seize her!
The one thing we can do is not be afraid. Go ahead and take out that book on semi-automatic guns. Buy that Soldier of Fortune magazine. Look up articles on Hitler on the library's computer. We have nothing to fear but the fear police themselves. And when they come to get us, we can beat them down with the heavy weighted copies of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, we'll be dragged away for practicing witchcraft then, and they'll claim you turned one of the agents into a newt while they tried to arrest you.
Celebrate your Freedom to Read. Really, if you can't check out Goodnight Moon without some spying fool going off on a wide tangent and assuming you are about to Nuke the Moon, then the terrorists have one.
Culled, in no particular order and completely at random, from my blogrolls, links list and favorites. All guaranteed safe for work. No porn, no naked chicks, no evil monkeys. Go on, click a few.
And you thought I was too sensitive and self-absorbed?
So I'm shutting down Scripting News now, to give me some time to think, and to give you all a demo of what it would be like if it weren't here.
Let me guess, Winer. The sun will still rise and set, the laws of gravity will still exist and I'll still have to go to work in the morning.
The world does not revolve around you, hon, despite what the evil monkey in your closet tells you.
It's that time of year, boys and girls. Time to torture myself with everlasting awakeness all in the name of charity and boobs.
Yes, the Blogathon is upon us once again on July 26th.
Last year, I raised a nice amount of money for the Daniel Pearl Foundation, thanks to blogging help from Melly. Yes, it turned into a boob-fest, but that's besides the point. And don't come looking for that this year, it ain't happening.
I've decided on my charity already. I will be, along with Laurence, blogging for Magen David Adom in the 2003 Blogathon.
What is Magen David Adom? Here's what Laurence posted:
Magen David Adom (MDA) was organized in 1930 in Tel Aviv as a volunteer "shoestring" operation by a group of seven Israeli doctors, as a one-room emergency medical service. A second MDA group formed in Haifa in 1931 and a third in Jerusalem in 1934. In 1935, a national organization was formed to provide medical services to the public and the Hagana. MDA Ambulance Its founding members were physicians, members of the Hagana and private citizens. During the 1936-39 Arab Riots, MDA gave first-aid training to the Hagana and the auxiliary police and medical aid to the wounded. During World War II, MDA worked within the general framework of Israel's Civil Defense Organization, as an arm of the Jewish Legion of the British Forces. In July of 1950, the Knesset (Israel's Parliament) ratified the Magen David Adom Law, which charged MDA with responsibility for:
- Providing auxiliary service to Israel's Army Medical Corps in wartime,
- including providing emergency medical care for the wounded and war refugees.
- Providing civilian emergency and medical and first-aid services and temporary shelter in emergency situations.
- Maintaining a blood bank for civilian use. Subsequently, MDA has played a major role in providing vital lifesaving services during each of Israel's wars, skirmishes and terrorist attacks; as well as in times of peace.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what to do for those 48 hours. I think I'd like a clearer definition of what I'm going to post about than I did last year.
So, music? Comics? Books? Fiction? Essays? Posts on my favorite things to do while drunk? Stories about my deranged family? Cute pictures of my kids? (kidding). Photos? Politics? Nah.
If you were going to read this blog for 24 hours straight (which I'm not really expecting anyone to do, but you'll go into the Small Victory Hall of Fame if you do) what would you want to see here?
The above button was made by Joni for the Blogathon folks. I'm thinking of asking her to make one with Lenore on it for me
I'm calling an immediate truce with anyone and any life form I may have offended, fought with or pissed upon during my blogging career.
Unlike some terrorist organizations operating in the Middle East, I know how to keep a truce. I won't go and say nasty things about you two minutes after you've shaken my hand.
I'm just in one of those moods today where I'm realizing that I am mortal, time is fleeting, etc., etc., etc. Get it while it's good.
Sorry for the lack of posting today, I was busy finishing up the new Harry Potter.
Without giving anything away, I can say that it was part Star Wars, part Homeland Security and part [insert coming of age book here]. And I discovered that I really don't like Harry at all. He's the kind of kid I despised in school. Sure, he has a lot going on in that head of his, but he's still to self-absorbed and petulant for my taste. And I definitely liked the way Neville matured in this book.
Even though the foreshadowing was too obvious and even though I saw some of the plot twists coming a mile away and even though the dialogue was tedious at some points, I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the book in spite of these things. So much so that - like with any decent book - I was very sorry that it came to an end.
Now, onto the next part of Transmetropolitan, as well as The Language Police.
Well, not right away. I've got a day's worth of blogging to catch up on.
It is quite rude to begin doing construction work on your house at 7am on a Sunday morning. It is even ruder than mowing your lawn at 8am on Saturday.
I have a good mind to go over there and rip out every single nail that was noisily hammered into boards today.
My sleep was already disrupted by dreams that kept me busy and breathless. Running to catch buses that had already come, trying to save small children from a fire, and dodging low flying planes.
Then the birds, always the birds, and my neighbor's car alarm singing its blaring siren song over and over until she finally came out and turned it off.
I fell back asleep near 6:30 and then the hammering started. Occasionally the pounding noise was joined by the buzz of one power tool or another.
Now it is my head that is pounding and I have the urge to make the offending neighbor pay for his sins.
I'll wait until he's lazing in his hammock this afternoon, beer and newspaper in hand. I'll sit and wait some more until he is comfortable enough that his eyelids start drooping and he lapses into what he believes is a well-deserved nap.
And then, I'll go outside and wash my car. I'll turn the radio on as I do so.
Slayer, turned to maximum volume.
That ought to do it.
I have found a way to deal with my enemies. I have a master plan.
First, I will hop on my jet-propelled pogo stick (my rocket-powered roller skates are in the shop) and I will head straight to the Wig Shop, and then to the Theaterical Hat Co., so I can disguise myself from those I am stalking.
I'll call the Building and Wrecking Company and have them produce a large structure, perhaps a shopping center, which I will use to lure my enemies into my trap.
Of course, in order to complete my plan, I will need plenty of anvils, some nitroglycerin, a detonator, and some blasting powder.
To lure them into the mall, I'll use a billboard to advertise a sale on high-speed tonic. Oh, and the girl. There's got to be a voluptuous girl standing at the door to the mall beckoning the "customers" to come in.
They will walk into the mall, unaware that the floor has been covered in grease. They'll slip and slide into my giant wall of glue and as they hang there, flailing and crying, I will pull back my giant rubber band, drop the indestructo steel ball in the end of it, and let loose.
As the steel ball knocks them all into a final, fatal slumber, I will don my super outfit, call up the paving company, and have them flatten and pave over the fake shopping center. My enemies will never be seen again.
No, I don't worry about the police or the government or anyone who might want to do harm to me. That's what my time-space gun is for.
[thank you, mefi]
Here's an interesting thought.
Remember Rachel Corrie? Remember how I "danced on her grave," so to speak?
Not one single person on the right who is villifying me now for saying good riddance to Strom Thurmond ever said one word about my speaking ill of the dead or being a nasty person when I wrote Rachel Corrie.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Also, if you are going to trudge through other people's comments making disparining remarks about me, have at it. However, by calling me a leftist you only prove that you are a fool who does not know of what you speak. Do your homework before you call people names, mmmkay?
I always wanted super powers. However, the power to alienate those I like wasn't quite what I had hoped for.
[click for evil villian size - courtesy of hero maker]
I suppose that makes more of a villian, eh?
What makes me smile - unintentionally, I suppose - is wisecracks like this:
Alright, you're a stupid woman. Quit talking about things over your head, like politics and go make me some pie. [in the comments here]
You just wish you could have some of my pie, don't you, Daniel?
To those who have sent me emails with headers like "Your family should die next," please note that I have my Charlie Brown Filter set on high, so any emails from idiots like you come out as nothing but wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.
Thank you and have an enjoyable evening. I'll be over here making enemies out of everyone and anyone.
Thanks to the luscious Joe McNally, my hit movie Ninja Turtles from Space: The Musical, now has a trailer.
Another thing I'll spend my valuable time on.
It's delinking/drinking time again.
You can't please everyone. And sometimes, you can't please anyone.
Last November, I went through a battle with liberals who were horrified at my transformation into a slightly-to-the-right thinker. Much delinking and and controversy followed.
And now, I'm getting it from ...conservatives:
another self-professing conservative and blogger - A Small Victory - trashes Thurmond and in the process gets her link yanked from our list.
And then he says something about sawdust leaking from my brain.
Well, of course. If one doesn't agree with you, they must be stupid, right? And oh, the horror, Oliver Willis, a left-of-center blogger, came to my defense so surely that must mean I should be cut off from all conservative bloggers!
Firstly, I am not, nor have I ever professed to be, a conservative. As an atheist who supports gay rights and hates Ann Coulter, I hardly fit into the mold.
Then again, when the liberals hounded me for deserting them, I had to explain that I was never really a full-fledged liberal. I mean, what kind of liberal drives an SUV and denounces multi-culturalism?
So here I am, in the middle of two extremes and loathed by both of them. And I find myself being delinked once again.
Take a look at my blogroll.
I'd say a good portion of those people, if not all of them, have, at one time or another, written something I totally disagree with. Yet, there they are, still starring on my links list.
Why? Because opposing views and differences in opinions is what makes this world a fascinating place. Suppose everyone thought exactly like you did. What would become of debate and discussion? Every conversation you had with anyone would be like making love to yourself.
The world is not vanilla flavored and I, for one, am glad of that. Even if a large number of the population is thickheaded, closed-minded and prone to bouts of hysteria when people don't agree with them, that's ok. It makes the world all the more interesting.
Sure, I spoke ill of the dead. Hell, I do it all the time. Plenty of people do. I have a feeling that Mr. Quinton's anger at me has less to do with my speaking badly about a dead person than with speaking ill about someone he viewed as a hero. How dare I have an opinion in direct contrast with him? Off with my head, then!
This is what the two exteremes - on the right and the left- have in common. Dissent from your their own world view is akin to commiting a crime. They are self-centered, opinionated ignoramuses (ignorami?) who would sooner cut off their own ears than listen to someone who doesn't praise their own ideology.
I am not sad that you delinked me, Mr. Quinton, as I didn't even know you had me linked in the first place. I am, however, saddened by the fact that you decided to publicly deride me rather than take the time to send me an email and ask me where my views came from and why I felt the need to hang the spirit of Strom Thurmond in public view. Par for the course, I suppose.
Now, if any of you from either side of the fence are also planning on taking me off of your esteemed blogrolls because I offended your sensibilities with my mean posts about Strom, Savage, Coulter, Indymedia, Arafat, Al Gore, PETA, homophobia, racism, anti semitism, Michael Moore, etc., please let me know so I can come on over and watch the ass-kissing that takes place when one of you brain cell deprived narrow thinkers tosses a dissenter off the boat.
Bottom's up!
It's official. Ninja Monkeys From Space: The Musical is a hit.
[click for ninja size image]
[via my new obsession, the box office oracle]
And the new comment policy comes into play already. I does say in the comment box that I am free to rip you a new one if you leave an idiotic comment, and so I will.
On the Strom post:
I used to read you every day but ever since you said crap about Mike Savage I stopped. I know you probably don't care, but you're wrong. I even linked you at Free Republic you had fans from there going here.Today I was looking up stuff about Mark Morford whom I hate, so I found you again. And you say unkindly things about Strom!
BTW, if you think I'm some Southern Trash you're wrong. I'm Jewish and live in San Francisco and have been through all the hip/boho crap you have (but you still hang onto it).
Maybe it's your "persona" to act mean even to our own side (Repub) but I don't appreciate it.
Posted by: Former Fan of Yours on June 27, 2003 01:35 PM
It's always the negative ones who refuse to leave a real name or email address.
Personally, FFoY, I don't really care if you are still reading or not. The thing is, I have this policy where I don't subjugate myself to the ideologies of my readers. If I offended you, well, so be it. It's not like I read your comment and thought, Oh my! Perhaps I shouldn't say bad things about the raging homophobe Michael Savage anymore! Or, Oh no! I should never, ever say bad things about a Republican again!
See, I don't believe in sides or labels. I am not "one of you," nor will I ever be. In fact, I would be downright appalled if I was ever thought to be a Freeper. Freepers are the equivalent of the people at Democratic Underground, people who refuse to see two sides of an issue, people whose main form of debating is to really not debate at all, but to call the opposition ugly names and make ad hominem attacks.
I may be a registerd Republican, and I may fall on the right side of the fence, but that does not make me a full-fledged wingnut. I am not one of you. So the fact that you're going to run to the message boards and tell your Freeper friends to abandon ship and never read me again because I dirtied the memory of your beloved, racist Strom Thurmond has about as much meaning to me as if Ted Rall said he hated me. That is to say, none.
If my "mean" persona insults you, then run away, fast. There's more where that came from. Did you see my post on Ann Coulter the other day? I'm sure that will make you break out in hives.
As for hanging on to my hippie/boho sensibilities, that's not entirely true. What I hang onto is my belief that racism and homophobia are ugly, vile things, as are the people who embrace those things.
That would be you, hon.
Now go put on your white hood and burn some crosses like a good wingnut.
Here's the thing about getting a group of 13 year olds together: The age the kids will act is in direct inverse proportion to the number of kids in the group.
They played and swam with the reckless abandon and joyfullness of three year olds. And it was good.
I have to say, Natalie's friends are well-behaved and polite, even if they dress like street people and swear like, umm....me.
Some of the kids even sat down with me and we had real, live conversations! We discussed Harry Potter and the state of punk music and Roger Clemens. My own daughter didn't give me so much as a glance during the whole party, but her friends were a captive audience when I told them about the early days of punk rock.
I'm completely exhausted. Not just from watching the pool every ten minutes to make sure there wasn't an overlooked drowned person laying on the bottom, and not just because I had to keep running over to the outside television (playing a constant stream of digital music radio stations) and turning the station when some profanity-laden song came on, but damn was it hot out. My sister and I (thanks for all your help, Jo!) were like two servants, sweating and huffing and puffing and feeling very, very old in the face of all this youthful exuberance.
Not too tired to get a few more posts in before I pass out, however.
There will be no further posting until this evening. I have taken my sanity for granted by allowing Natalie to have 30 or so 13 year olds over for a very belated (as in, it was supposed to be in February) birthday/pool party. Should you never hear from me again, you know the reason why.
Look for some very drunken blogging later on tonight.
Oh, you have to read this: Whoops, I bought a Mustang!
It's an interesting juxtaposition reading both the new Harry Potter and The Kindly Ones at the same time.
When I was younger I wrote many stories of other worlds; worlds we can't see but yet have an impact on our world. In some of my stories, characters flitted back and forth between both worlds, much like Harry Potter. In some stories, the other world consisted of beings that controlled part of our lives, as in The Kindly Ones.
I prefer the writing of Gaiman to the writing of Rowling. Gaiman writes with a flourish and with a style that bespeaks of the world in which his charaters live. Rowling, at least in the latest book, writes almost as if in a hurry - basic use of style that exists just to move the story on.
The quaintness of the first book has all but vanished; it slowly diminished with each successive title. That's not to say I'm not enjoying the book, I am. Not because it is a great literary read, no. My enjoyment has more to do with the expectations and anticipation that comes from reading the four books before this one, from just wanting to know where the characters end up.
With Gaiman's dream world, I am taken to a place that makes me feel the pull of the magic; I want to be there. I want to eavesdrop on Death or Destiny or visit that great library. With Potter, that feeling has diminished. I no longer feel the pull of the Great Hall or a Quidditch match. I am reading as a means to an end, to find out what happens. In the world of Gaiman v. Rowling, it's storytelling v. plot mechanisms.
They both deal with extraordinary powers and the supernatural and I suppose that's where the similarities end. Yet I find myself ultimately comparing the two, and I come up with the end result that Gaiman can, in just a few panels, tell a far more fascinating, complex and moving story than Rowling can in over 500 pages. Gaiman is story teller. Rowling is a story mover.
When all is said and done and I finally read the last word of Potter, I'm sure I will be satisfied that the hours I spent reading the book were hours well spent. After reading four books before it, you have the desire to plunge on through the new pages to find out what happens to your friends - and of course they are your friends if you've followed along this far. However, it's not re-readable. I'll put it on the shelf when I'm done, with the four that came before it, but I won't just pick it up again some day to start over again.
I'd read The Kindly Ones, and anything by Gaiman for that matter (and especially Stardust) again and again because so much lies underneath the words, as if there are stories buried under the stories. Gaiman's words are at once beautiful and frightening and that's what separates him from those who have not learned that the crafts of story telliing and writing are two entirely different things.
I am going to be doing this all night.
Thanks to the Box Office Oracle, I was finally able to create my film masterpiece, if only to see how it would do in real life.
Night of the Loving Dead, Starring Steve Buscemi and Fairuza Balk:
click for readable image
Now, to see how my musical extravaganza featuring midget ninjas would work out.
Strom kicks the bucket. I bet even the worms in his coffin find him distasteful. Good riddance to 100 year old racist rubbish.
What? You expected a nice obituary from me?
Kids are flushing their fish down the toilet in an attempt to set them free ala Finding Nemo.
Unfortunately, life does not imitate animation. I wonder how many of these parents will hire lawyers and sue Disney/Pixar for causing mental anguish by making kids believe that fish can survive a trip down the pipe.
My kids are just as gulllible. DJ thought if he climbed into the sewer could find the Ninja Turtles. I dared him to go. He didn't.
I am no stranger to flushing fish, either. I once had a 20 gallon fish tank. We had an assortment of goldfish that we won at a local fair; Darth, Skywalker, Greedo and Boba Fett. The first three bit the dust after a month or so, but Boba hung on, probably happy that he had this spacious home all to himself.
I got tired of having the tank take up valuable counter space. I waited for Boba to die. And waited. And waited. And then, I could wait no longer. One morning, before the kids woke, I scooped up Boba and sent him on his merry way into the sewer system of Long Island.
If only Finding Nemo had come out then instead of now, I could have blamed my fishocide on the movie and remained guilt free. But no, the image of Boba, eyes wide and frightened, traveling at high speed toward the Atlantic Ocean, haunts me to this day. I feel like I should pay penance for that deathly flush.
And now that I know what happens when something goes down the toilet - it gets grinded into bits - I feel even worse.
Probably not as bad as Justin felt the time he stepped on his mother's toy poodle, who was sleeping under a pile of clothes - and killed him.
But that's another story.
The government's National Do Not Call Registry goes into effect the end of July.
Do you hear that Jack of Jack Price Sports? DO. NOT. CALL. Ever again. I don't want to know what teams to bet on. I don't want your service. I hate your salesman's voice. I hate the way I can't disconnect from your message. I hate you, Jack Price. And starting the end of July, you CANNOT CALL ME because I don't want you to.
This also applies to Slomin's Home Security, Verizon, Century 21 Real Estate, Newsday, The New York Times and any company who thinks they can convince me I won a free trip to Florida for four when in fact I won a seat at a five hour seminar on buying land.
Thank you.
Let it be known hereforth that I am not a squasher of dissent.
Here's the thing about having open comments: Don't have them if [and this applies only to people that have comments but complain about them, not those that have comments disabled] you are a) thin-skinned, b) have a problem with people disagreeing with you or c) have an ego the size of Bill O'Reilly's. It's just not going to work out for you. You're better off with an email form so we don't have to be witness to your deleting comments or throwing a hissy fit when someone doesn't think you're the best thing to happen to blogs since...since...whenever.
Regarding this phenomenon of people deleting comments and playing revisionist historian on their sites, I have changed the wording in my own comments to fit what I believe is the true spirit of having an open forum embedded on your personal wesbite.
Then again, my skin is pretty thick, so it works out for me.
Ann Coulter. Where do I begin?
Let's begin by saying that people should realize that just because I swing to the right, and just because I support Bush's war on Iraq does not mean I am part and parcel of the whole conservative cabal.
Which is to say that I hate Ann Coulter.
I have never heard anything come out of her mouth that isn't sarcastic, mean-spirited or venom-filled. She's a shrill voice in the conservative wilderness. And it's funny how most of her venom is directed at Hillary Clinton these days. After all, Hillary is Ann's counter-image.
I go way back with Ann, my refusal to accept her as the Goddess of the Right goes way back. And no love was lost between us when I had this dream:
The waves are lapping closer to us. The bombs are falling nearer to us. I tell Natalie that this is it, there's no stopping it now. She is not afraid. She stands on a log, arms outstretched, face tilted towards the fire in the sky, and starts belting out Skid Row songs. She turns her face towards me, hair flying in the firey wind, eyes lit by the glowing trails of bombs, and right before my eyes she turns into Ann Coulter.
Which then led to visions of Ann Coulter singing 18 and Life or, in Ann's world Right Wing for Life:
Annie is a young girl, She has a heart of stone.
Thinks she’s an author, writes her fingers to the bone.
Seems like a know-it-all, comes from the Right side of town.
So John Hawkins, the interviewer premiere of the blogosphere, landed a talk with Ms. Coulter. I read it, read it again and shook my head at the fact that the woman cannot come up with a vaguely serious answer to anything. Her words all reek of "I know you are but what am I," and her playground, cat-fight attitude is wearing very, very thin.
Ok, so there was this one line:
Ann Coulter: Communism is like vegetarianism in that it's actually not very healthy for most people but leftists continue to defend it because it seems like the thing to do.
She might have been better off as a stand-up comedian.
Yea, yea, I know. She has thousands of fans and she's bitching up a storm all the way to the bank.
Kind of like Eminem, you know?
No more pencils
No more books
No more teacher's dirty looks
School's out for summer...
Yes, the day has finally arrived, the day I both loathe and love. The last day of school.
The kids both go in for an hour today. An hour. I suppose the state requires a certain amount of teaching days to fill the calendar year, but an hour isn't really a day, is it? They get their report cards, find out who their teachers are next year and run around like chimps let loose from the experiment lab.
Natalie is done with seventh grade. In a few short months, she'll be an eighth grader, the top dog in the middle school.
Eighth grade. It's hard for me to reconcile these two things. Natalie:Eighth Grade. One year shy of high school. Man, do I feel old today.
DJ moves on to fifth grade, also becoming the top dog in the elementary school. Then he'll move on to the middle school which Natalie will be evacuating a year from now.
But that's a year from now, let's not rush too far into the future.
For the here and now, I become the nervous parent of a teenage daughter. As if I wasn't that already. But eighth grade...I've seen those eighth grade girls. I watched them carefully, trying to discern what my daughter was on the cusp of becoming. It frightens me.
Some time between seventh and eighth grade, a metamorphis takes place. Gone are the newly adolescent girls who giggle at boys and swoon over American Idol stars. At some point during their last middle school year, they are replaced by surly teenagers, the ones with the punk rock fascination and little black books with the phone numbers of every hot boy in their grade. The posters of pop idols come down, replaced with pictures of tattooed and body-pierced men with sneers on their faces.
The obscenities creep into their language. I hear them. They curse more than me, and that's saying something. They use the lingo of crude pirates as if it were a second language.
Out come the cigarettes and at some of the parties a 40 oz of the finest lite beer on the market gets passed around. Holding hands was "yucky" in seventh grade; I've seen the eighth grade girls press their boyfriends up against the school wall and kiss them full on, tongue and all.
That's not saying every eighth grade girl is like that. But there are enough of them around to make an impression on the girls who are still clinging to 13 like a well-used teddy bear. Those of us who hope against hope that our daughters will be the goody-two-shoes we never were are faced with a formidable foe. Popularity is of utmost importance at this age. What will one do to be popular? Hike your skirt up a little more? Steal your dad's Marlboros and hand them out to friends behind the gym?
I know what I was doing in eighth grade. Let's just say I chose to run around with the wrong crowd. Well, that's not exactly right. They were the only crowd around here. Everyone belonged to it. You were either with them or you didn't exist. And hell, they were my next door neighbors and the kids across the street. I haven't forgotten what it's like to be an eighth grader and dying to gain a foothold in the upper echelon of the in crowd before we headed to high school, where having been at the bottom of the eighth grade ladder meant you started high school as nothing more than a fungus on someone's sneaker. Who wants to be a fungus? It was much more fun and daring to be the sneaker.
I think having that kind of background and experience has made it easier for me to help Natalie survive the pitfalls of the social games that exist in her world. Yes, she is Pitfall Harry, swinging over drugs and alcohol and landing safely in the arms of the photography club.
It's going to be an interesting summer, starting tomorrow when she has thirty of her best friends over for a pool party. I know, sounds like I love pain and torture. But I know what I'm doing. I'll be scouting out her classmates, figuring out which ones are headed toward the path that says "Sluts and Crack Dealers Enter Here" and which ones are headed toward the path of Mathletes and Debate Club.
And then I'll gently, almost subliminally turn her towards the right path. Why don't you call that nice Alison girl instead of Claire?
Oh, god no. That will steer her right into the arms of Claire.
Well, I really can't pick her friends for her. Nor can I keep her from making mistakes and choosing the wrong options. I can only hope that I've laid the right groundwork, that I've given her the right ammuntion she needs to make the right choices. I'll let her walk the path on her own. It's about time I let the cord go a little.
But at night, when she's sound asleep, I'll sneak into her room and whisper into her ear, Alison, Alison, Alison, Alison.
I've got nothing (except a sinus headache) tonight, so I'll just leave you with this, and you work your magic in the comments.
The CIA has in its hands the critical parts of a key piece of Iraqi nuclear technology -- parts needed to develop a bomb program -- that were dug up in a back yard in Baghdad, CNN has learned.The parts were unearthed by Iraqi scientist Mahdi Obeidi who had hidden them in his back yard under a rose bush 12 years ago under orders from Qusay Hussein and Saddam Hussein's then son-in-law, Hussein Kamel.
Lets see how the moonbats play this one out. My guess: They'll call it fake, say it was planted or dismiss it as a lie.
Obeidi told CNN the parts of a gas centrifuge system for enriching uranium were part of a highly sophisticated system he was ordered to hide so as to be ready to rebuild the bomb program at some time in the future. [emphasis mine]
That future will not exist, thanks to our invasion of Iraq. I won't hold my breath waiting for anyone left of center to say anything of the sort, though.
Sorry for the dearth of posting today. I spent most of the day unpacking boxes and moving law books that weigh about 50 lbs. each because we got a new rug in our office.
Ok, so I spent part of the day finding links about semen and digging up James Lileks conspiracy theories. All in a day's work, I suppose.
Now, I am going to strip naked, set the fan on full blast (it's about 95 degrees out right now) and lock myself in the bedroom with Harry Potter.
The book. THE BOOK!
Meanwhile, we need your input over at Four Color Hell.
In keeping with the sperm theme today (well, there was a sperm theme
