December 26, 2005

The War of Information

There's a nice entry over at OTB that discusses the public information aspect of the War in Iraq. Of course, what needs to be spelled out is that the struggle over here is just as pivotal as the the struggle over there.

Of course, the point is made that the mainstream media over here has authorized itself to label any spin on Iraq other than its own "propaganda," or "misinformation."

This hurts its credibility not at all. Keep it up, guys. Enjoy yourselves.

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The Media Report

. . . that the claims of left-wing bias in academia are just as overwrought as those hackneyed claims of liberal bias among mainstream news outlets.

Whew.


(Via Insty.)

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How to Make Christmas Fun as an Adult

An eccentric guide.

1) Don't set a timetable—or if you do, don't take it too seriously. If your husband were that determined to have dinner at 4:00, after all, he would have put the turkey in the oven himself. If all else fails, offer him a tuna sandwich.

2) Just because an object resides in the boxes marked "Christmas Decorations" does not mean it has to be displayed this year. Maybe it can go up next year instead. Rotate the Christmas knicknacks. Think about giving some away.

3) The house doesn't have to be any cleaner on Christmas Day than it is on any other day. If people wanted to be in a clean house, they'd be at your stepmother's place.

4) When in doubt, make a joke of it. Self flagellation isn't funny: the persistent temptation to engage in it is, however, hilarious.

5) Anything that goes wrong should be blamed on your nonexistent cook and household staff. Explain very earnestly that they've been spoken to harshly, and/or sacked.

6) Skip the nice china: it sets the wrong tone. Set out those cheerful Christmas plates your mother got you eight years ago: the ones with the bright colors and trees and reindeer that you regarded as a criminal waste at the time. China and silver that have to be washed by hand are only to be used when absolutely necessary, or when the world will end the next day via nuclear annihilation, and therefore all the dishes (every single last one of them) can be left in the sink.

7) When contemplating any aspect of holiday celebration, ask yourself, "do I feel like doing this?" This guideline will never steer you wrong.

Delegate tasks to your husband and mother. Have kids so that they can be given assignments in a decade or so, and—with any luck—take over the primary responsibility entirely in another 25 years. It's the only way to transition into the coveted "support" role your own mom enjoys.

9) There are 364 days a year to make yourself and everyone around you miserable. It doesn't have to be this day.

10) Buy most gifts at the ABC stores in Hawaii, so they'll be super-affordable and you won't go broke. Make it a point to still have money on December 26th.

Madeleine L'Engle: "We want nothing from you that you do without grace. And that you do without understanding." [From memory: A Wrinkle in Time. Feel free to fact-check my ass.]

11) If you're still subscribing to Martha Stewart Living, cut that out. She's a con, for crying out loud. Get Radar instead. Or something pornographic.

12) Make sure to get some of your Christmas decorations in the Hanukkah section at the store. That blue and silver stuff is much prettier than the garbage they foist off on the Anglo-Saxons. What are the Jews going to do to you, anyway?—kill Christ all over again? Relax.

13) The most important dose of Prozac all year is the one you take on Christmas Eve.

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December 24, 2005

Wow. A Blog Like a Sugar Bowl.

It's just . . . well, it's adorable.


Via Photon Courier.

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Look Out, Pajamas Media!

Annika's rubbing your face in the dirt. Already.

Shockingly, I got this one from Dennis the Peasant.


[Editor's Note: I'm agnostic on whether Pajamas Media will succeed or not: I kind of hope it does, if you want to know the truth. But I find Dennis' passion about it compelling. I still don't know what drives it, but the sheer intensity of his contempt makes for fascinating reading, at the same time I really respect a lot of the work put out by the individual PM blogs, and I hope they keep getting those checks. Truly, boys and girls: anyone who can make money off of blogging earns my respect. Except Wonkette, of course. Oh, and the current incarnation of Sully.]


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Steyn Maintains

. . . that the Arab/Muslim King isn't wearing any racism. Or something like that.

Via Beautiful Atrocities.

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Merry, Merry.

Just a shout out to my readers. It blows me away that I have "readers." How cool.

Thanks for stopping by over the past year. It's nice to know that some people are following new media—even at the boutique level, where I live—and this has been great fun over the past two years and change (actually, it'll be three years this March; tempus fugit).


Now [this is beginning to sound downright polite, and I don't want to blow my image] please start saving up to buy my crime novel in a year or so. Thanks.

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I Tend to Assume

. . . that my readers are simply a subset of Goldstein's, but for both of you who didn't follow me over from Protein Wisdom, I want to point out that his coverage of the NSA/wiretapping non-scandal is simply nonpareil (that means I like it). He may have done more digging on this than anyone out there.

Just go to his main page, and scroll.

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And the Best Single-Line Link Goes To . . .

Insty!

IN THE "WAR ON CHRISTMAS," CHRISTMAS HAS OPENED a second front.

Love him or hate him. But every now and then the man does get a good line off. More here.

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It's a Sad World

. . . wherein you have to wear feathers to make a point like this. May she forever be a thorn in her family's side. And may her racy pictures torment her uncle for the rest of his short life.

As for her own safety, I've thought for years that feminism needs its own Mossad. Wouldn't it be terrible if those who participated in honor killings were themselves offed?

Terrible. Horrible. I'll be organizing a training camp in the Eastern Sierras for the spring of 2006. Included: firearms and edged weapons, evasive tactics, linguistic skills, disguise, survival ability, and Manuevers for Screwing with Sexists' Morale.

E-mail me if you're interested. We'll be a bit more lethal than Bambi and Thumper—but just as buff. And we'll be protecting Ms. Dufour.

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Physical Work

. . . can be very satisfying. Two days in a row of it knocked me out, though. Who knew that cleaning and paint prep both involve lots of deep-knee bends?

The paint-prep work also means getting up early, but it's a full day, so it ends up being more lucrative. I charge $40 to clean in the Pasadena area, and $50-60 to clean in West Los Angeles/Santa Monica. Paint prep work in Manhattan Beach netted me $123 for a full day at the bottom rung as an unskilled laborer. (That is, if I learn to do stencils and specialty finishes it'll be more.)

Of course, copyediting/proofreading/fact-checking pays $25-35 an hour, but requires top-notch communication from clients in terms of what level of checking they want. Oddly enough, many publishing houses just don't know. They think they do, but they don't.

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War of the Worlds—with Spoilers!

We finally got around to watching it tonight, and I'll just set down a few impressions before I'm tempted to peek at the reviews that came out when it was released. (I try to avoid movie buzz whenever possible before I see the films in question. Sometimes that means holding out for an extended period, as in this case, because I'm cheap cheap cheap and often prefer to see 'em on DVD. So sue me.)

1) I have the advantage of being a sort of space alien myself. At least, the previous versions of War of the Worlds all fall into one of the little lacunae in my pop culture knowledge, so I was able to go in fairly innocent: I mean, I know the premise, and I'm aware of the events surrounding the first radio broadcast. But I didn't have many details.

2) I knew I'd dig the special effects. No disappointments there. My inner 17-year-old boy was pleased. Thank you, Industrial Light and Magic. Don't ever leave me; it's a cold, cruel world.

3) I had several quarrels with the plot. One is obvious, and probably unavoidable: the original story has the aliens running afoul of Earth's native micro-organisms, rather than being overcome by our protagonist. As I understand it, that was in Wells' original, and so it probably needed to remain. But I certainly experienced a consquent letdown at the end of the movie. The screenwriters at least give us Tom Cruise besting one of the metallic monsters, so the damage to the narrative arc is limited. But it's there: an intrinsic weakness.

I als saw some apparently inexplicable actions, such as Dakota Fanning running outside just in time to be captured by space aliens, after sitting tight in the basement through many tense encounters.

(Attila the Hub: asn't it a bit odd to watch her scream as the tripod comes for her, and yet stay in one place?

Joy: At least it's a child acting in this fashion. If it were the 1960s, we'd be watching full-grown women behaving just as inteptly for no other reason than the screenwriter needed 'em to.)

It would have been nice for her to have a compelling reason to flee at this specific time. I didn't buy the one I was offered. Fact is, something prosaic like a snake in the corner of the basement might have worked better than yet more alien-related effects.

I also would have appreciated it if we'd been given a cursory explanation of how Justin Chatwin's character—the son—survives his hours offstage. Or how, despite his apparant devotion to his young sister, he has the impulse to abandon her to a biological father he doesn't really quite trust.

Nice little display of how a fatherless girl can end up looking up to her big brother. I think I'd have been happier to see him bully her just once, though. Because in real life, boys do that. They abuse this power. You can trust me on this. No complaints, but human nature—you know—rarely changes.

4) I'm aware that young Miss Fanning is getting most of the press attention, and she did a fine job, here. But the Justin Chatwin was amazing, and IMHO underappreciated. Those youngsters can both act. (Yes. A twenty-three-year-old is a "youngster." Cruise should have had himself arrested after wrestling with the kid.)

5) Is there any discernable difference between this movie and Signs? It isn't just Attila the Hub's complaint that this movie all took place in Tim Robbins' basement, just as Signs was unduly limited to Mel Gibson's farmhouse. There was the overall claustrophobic feel to it, and the neurotic little girl at its center. (Not that I have problems with nuerotic little girls: some claim I am one myself.)

As with Signs, it would have been nice to get a sense of the invasion's scope.

And I'd like to know why the casting director decided to have Tim Robbins reprise his Mystic River role here? Is there a shortage of actors? Do we need to recycle them? Can we get more of 'em from Alaska?

It was a nice little piece of eye candy. But I yearned for it to be more, and I felt like it could have really been something special with only a bit of tweaking.

But they never listen to me, do they? And now it's tragically too late.

Thanks for the visual callbacks, however, that the framing of pictures through broken glass. Joy likes. And the tripod creatures reflected by their tripod technology.

Steven, call me before the next movie. I'm a smart girl, and I can help you. It doesn't have to be this way.

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December 23, 2005

Oh, Man.

Tired like backpacking tired. Minus the clean air. But when I finally sleep, it's going to be nice.

And I earned enough to get us a small tree, and a few gifts. So I'm stringing up lights tomorrow and buying a turkey. Yeah—Attila the Hub likes turkey for both holidays, even though they're only a month apart. And turkeys are so cheap and easy it's not like I can argue.

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I Go Off Today

. . . to learn a useful skill. Maybe. Wish me luck.

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December 22, 2005

This Sonofabitch

. . . truly makes me want to give up blogging now and again. Thank God I don't try for humor—at least, not most of the time.

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Why Blogging Will Destroy the Universe

Hubris explains it all, over at In DC Journal.

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It's Official! (Holiday Blegging)

I've been approved for Blogger's Alley at CPAC this coming February 9-11.

So I'll be going to Washington, D.C. in seven weeks or whatever. I'll be renewing my contacts at Americans for Rice while I'm in town, as well as meeting with a few of the Cotillion blogstresses to plot our strategy for world domination.

Where will I be getting the dough to pay for my cheap redeye to the East Coast, my usual travel diet of protein bars, and one overpriced gin and tonic, you enquire?

Well, that's where you come in: I'll be trying to get one big media or corporate sponsorship, but at least half of it will come from you people, in $10, $20, and $30 increments. If you support the idea of citizen journalism, speak to me in that language I love: the mother tongue of your disposable income.

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Okay. I'm There.

I'm officially In the Holiday Mood. Cranky, obsessive, petulant. Parsimonious, unyielding, hostile. The hair-trigger lady: jealous of my time, possessive of my dough. Suspicious that all the merriment around me is some kind of trick.

Merry fucking Christmas.

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The World Ended Today

Congratulations, Elton.

Now everyone's going to be upset at me. But when I think of all the stupid energy that poor man put into pretending to be straight in the 70s, it really frosts me. Virginia Woolf: "Opinions that one now pastes in a book labelled cock–a–doodledum and keeps for reading to select audiences on summer nights once drew tears, I can assure you."

My nieces and nephews don't remember this, but there was a time when it was assumed that a man had to be straight to produce world-class rock 'n' roll. It all seems so far away, but I remember it. All the "debate" about Elton, and about Freddie Mercury too, for that matter.

What a waste.

Best wishes, Buddy. I remember when rock was young . . .

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Is This a Great Country, or What?

Here's yet another thing I've never heard of before, and yet somehow "need." Topless sandals.

You know: so I won't have those unattractive tan lines from my existing flip-flops.

(Via Lair.)

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