February 14, 2006

Ace on Why the VP Ain't No Killer

Dead men tell no tales, and Dick Cheney likes having colorful, bloody stories told about him. Usually these stories include the lines, "And then all I did was call 'shotgun' as we were heading back to the car, and Cheney says 'That's not how my Pappy taught me to play shotgun.'"

RTWT.

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February 13, 2006

Wow.

I'm in Prof. Purkinje's guest room, looking at photographs he's taken over the years, and a colorful piece of iguana folk art that my then-partner and I gave him as a wedding present in 1990. There's a picture on the desk of him with another biologist I know quite well. And a tin can is used as a pen holder: he's had it for years, and it alludes to a group joke from our high school days. And I'm pretty sure that another print on the wall is one I gave him 20 years ago.

So naturally, I suspect him of tweaking the decor to make me feel at home. What I don't think he tweaked is the bookcase, which is astonishing to me—not because of the coincidental overlap in our tastes, but because it suddenly hits me how many books I got turned onto through him, when one adds up the high school recommendations to the college ones to those from when we were in our twenties. This isn't even counting my two favorite mystery writers (other than Dorothy L. Sayers, of course), who between them account for a full bookshelf of mine at home, but are not represented here. And then there are the 2-3 books I've actually recommended to him. The overlap is, on the whole, tremendous. Though he has more books, and he's actually read them.

I'm a proofreader. I read slowly. And—let's face it: my eyes are bigger than my eyes. Not that that's a bad thing . . . I hope.

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Robo-Raptor

So, Prof. Purkinje's son, age almost-nine, is showing me his Robo-Raptor.

"Wow," I say. I'm really impressed. "Isn't he a cutie?"

"Cute?" He's appalled.

"I meant a butch sort of cute," I tell him.

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As Long as The States Involved

are undisclosed, it's all good.

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Lot of Ad Slots Free.

In particular, the "Gold" adstrip is available. And you've probably noticed that even with the copper and silver adstrips, I move 'em around to achieve the most advantageous positioning for the client. (Not for nothing was I was a managing editor at a magazine.)

Promote yourself! (Except Darrell, who's a subscriber to this site. And the other bleg-exceptions I've noted elsewhere: broke people, for example, should not give me money lest it send me to the version of Hell from of my Methodist childhood.)

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I Don't Want to Leave.

This is such a pretty town anyway, and right now its skeletal trees are accented with white.

The thing I dreaded most about coming out here has been the most fun: I was spooked at the idea of having to walk 15 minutes every day to the Shoreham hotel&mdash&or 20 minutes to the Metro stop—but after I got used to the fact that it's nippy here, I remembered that I love towns I can walk around in, whether it's sedate Santa Monica, the bohemian end of Chicago, or glass-and-steel-laced Manhattan.

It's been a great experience. Today, I go back to the Mall to photograph a few of the monuments in different light, and check out the war memorials (Vietnam, WWII, and the Korean War). Then it's off to Be More for a couple of days with Professor Purkinje and his family.

BTW: why do they call it a "mall"? I went down there looking for a Baby Gap or a Victoria's Secret, but they had neither. Nor even a Crate and Barrel. If you want to know the truth, I feel a bit led on.

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Harrell's

. . . having a little fun with the "defend Ann Coulter no matter what" crowd.

Apparently, those of us who don't like ethnic slurs are on a slippery slope: first you're objecting to the term "ragheads," and—next thing you know—you're applauding a new, worldwide Caliphate and/or submitting to the installation of Sharia law.

It's true: two days ago I got pissed off at Coulter's bigotry. Now I stop men on the street—guys with dark coloring and strong noses—and ask them if they'd consider stoning me to death.

I keep getting misunderstood, though: Most of these guys are Jewish, and nearly all of them assume I'm trying to score some weed. I keep getting pointed in the direction of Georgetown University. Sigh.

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February 12, 2006

Well, One Data Point Should Do Me, Here.

Mexican food in the nation's capital sucks. Not to the same degree that Mexican food in Europe sucks, but it's pretty lackluster stuff. My tamales last night were bland, and the salsa that accompanied our chips didn't have nearly enough cilantro in it—but did have black pepper, of all things.

And the margaritas were terrible. I mean, they used good booze, but they make them too sweet. Even ordering a Cadillac-style margarita didn't get them to dial down on the sugar. It almost tasted like they were using some kind of a goddamned mix, though that's such an outrageous thought that it could simply be that they're using a sucky recipe.

Once I realized my partners in crime were sold on the oversweet Margies, I powered a few of them down very quickly, figuring I'd need a bit of a buzz to survive the next few.

And I woke up feeling fine. Once more. What does a girl need to do to acquire a hangover in this town?


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The Short Write-Up of Gingrich's Speech Yesterday Evening.

1) He's definitely seeking the nomination in '08.

2) He can be a very charismatic speaker. Not bland like George Allen, nor bordering on insanity, like Tom Tancredo. He creates a lot of excitement, without resorting to "wingnut code," such as talking about the New World Order.

3) Newt and his handlers have a flair for drama, and clever ideas for creating excitment and momentum.

4) A lot of his most passionate support seems to come from college-age kids who have lots of energy and clearly would be willing to put in lots of volunteer hours for a campaign.

Our best candidates are clearly Rice, Guiliani, and Gingrich. (I do not count the guy who's attacking the Bill of Rights: if it came down to him or Hillary, I might vote for Hillary. Or just stay home. I will not vote for that man.

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February 11, 2006

Lunch Today

with David Foster of Photon Courier and Chicago Boyz. What a nice man. And smart. He's semi-retired, but I've decided to label him a Maryland beach bum, because I like the sound of that. We stopped in at a Chinese restaurant and worried together over green tea about the future of Google, privacy in this country, the concept of free speech, and some other issues I'll cover later so I can pretend that his penetrating insights were really my own.

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Will Someone Vid-Blog This?

Apparently, Reynolds will really be beating up on CNN tonight, but I may still be listening to Gingrich's CPAC speech around then. I'd truly hate to miss it.

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Dear Denmark,

It's our pleasure: Legos and cheese all around.

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February 10, 2006

Sparkle

. . . wants to know what Ace of Spades is like. I can't say much, except that he was gallant enough to walk Wendy and me across the bridge to the block where we're staying. And that there are two types of comics: the immature, hostile type, and the mature, sweet type. Ace is the latter, but I don't think I'm supposed to say that. So: while in our presence, he did hoist one black flag, but he only slitted a single throat. Or maybe two. (Possibly a third, while I sneaked off to the ladies' room in my bare feet, looking for all the world like a Californian out of water in a fancy East Coast hotel. But I can't vouch for that third casualty.) The bartender cleaned up the mess, and that was really the end of the whole matter.

For some reason, tonight I was able to procure a few drinks that were weak enough for me to stay out a bit and act like a human being. So I spent time at the Marquee Bar with bloggers too numerous to list—though including our host, Mike Krempasky, Cam Edwards,Tom Bridge, and a few legitimate people with real jobs. Then we adjourned across the street to Murphy's, where I had potato skins and another gin and tonic, listening to Ace's jokes, Wendy's stories, Sean's anecdotes, and the vignettes of the witty guy who started Football Fans for Truth during the '04 campaign.

At one point in the Marquee, I was introduced to Jeff Harrell, who hadn't been sure he'd be here for CPAC at all. So I put down my G&T and embraced him. Somehow the person I'd been talking to got the idea that if only so-and-so introduced him, he'd get a hug as well.

Of course, that's not how it works. Sorry.

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Had I Mentioned Lately That My Sister is Half-Syrian?

No?

Well, it's true. And Ann Coulter can get fucked.

Wasn't it James Joyner who coined the moniker "our Michael Moore"?

I'll never buy one of her books.

UPDATE: Nice little roundup of right-wing outrage here.

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Lunch Yesterday

. . . with my cousin Pillage Idiot, who lives and works nearby. It's always nice to meet someone whose blog I love to read: after the first few minutes, the strangeness of it all melts away, and you're cracking jokes. Look Ma—no keyboard!

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So. Glenn Reynolds.

Sat down next to me; before he got mobbed, we had a few words. He ended up interviewing me for one of his next podcasts. What a sweet guy. It's interesting that when I've heard his voice in the past—on his podcasts and on Bill and Jeff's experimental web radio show—his Tennessee dialect appeared more muted than it does in person. (Tracking accents is among those things that I like doing, but do not do particularly well. Singing is another.)

I'm terribly tempted to buy his book while I'm at the convention, though as it is I'll have to discard most of my clothing in order to fit all of the tomes I acquired here into my suitcase.

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February 09, 2006

"O Oysters, come and walk with us,"

the Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant talk, a pleasant walk, Along the briny beach.
We cannot do with more than four
To give a hand to each."

The eldest oyster looked at him and never said a word.
The eldest oyster winked his eye, and shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say, he did not wish
To leave the oyster bed.

—Lewis Carroll

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More on Illegal Immigration from CPAC

Tom Tancredo is, of course, a pistol. He's a strong speaker, and one of the important voices right now advocating for immigration reform. His stance is uncomprimising: the border must be sealed as soon as possible, he insists, using both a physical barrier and more efficient deployment of our manpower.

He talks about his experiences as a freshman congressman, bringing this problem to the attention of the country: “I wasn’t a committee chairman. By the way, I’ll never be a committee chairman. I’ve burned too many bridges around this issue.”

He voted against Katrina slush fund, he reminds us. He voted against the PresidentÂ’s Medicare prescription drug policy program.

And he voted against CAFTA. Why is it, he asks, that we no longer have treaties to control trade policies? All our new laws are called "agreements." Why? To pass a treaty, two-thirds of the Senate must vote for it. With a simple change in nomenclature agreements, all they need is 50% plus one vote.

President Bush, he proclaims, is in favor of open borders, and his proposed temporary worker program is sub rosa amnesty. The audience applauds. People filter into the back of the room, and stand there, listening to him speak. It is, of course, an impressive bit of speech-making.

Cheap labor, he tells us, is only cheap for the employer—not for the taxpayer. [I do hear that a lot, but I remain unconvinced, since the figures I hear are contradictory.—ed]

Tancredo has more red meat for us: “God bless Denmark," he proclaims, and the audience goes wild. "No new world order," he thunders. [Does that mean, I wonder, "no coalition-building?" Or does it mean "the Trilateral Commission is going to get my momma?" Unfortunately, NWO is another term with a somewhat flexible definition.]

"You young people are the hope of America," he proclaims. "America is something unique, an ideal worth fighting for.

I commend you to that task."

What I cannot argue with is his exquisite delivery, much as I can't bring myself to condemn every piece of wall that gets covered by his paintbrush.

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CPAC: Focus on Immigration

There are a lot of ideas out there on how to deal with the problem of our porous borders, and it seems that people are finally approaching the issue in a serious way, recognizing that the present situation is untenable.

The main two debates seem to be (1) between those who believe that some sort of guest worker program must be a component in whatever we set up, vs. those who feel that this would be tantamount to amnesty. And: (2) those who feel that enforcement of our existing laws should come first, before we address the issue of how to deal with those who already live in the "shadow world" of illegal immigrants.

James S. Gilmore talked today about the necessity to design a system to deal with immigration in a way that is humane. He maintains that we cannot take punitive action, because other miniorities might then think that "they could be next." Also, in the Hispanic areas of American cities, illegal immigrants are intermixed with legitimate immigrants, so it's more complicated to identify the illegals than one might suppose.

He insists, however, that we must control our borders, and cannot have any kind of anmesty program.

["Amnesty," of course, is becoming one of those squishy words that has at least two separate definitions, like "affirmative action"—which either does involve quotas or does not, depending upon how you feel about the issue. Everyone is against quotas, just as everyone is against amnesty. It's a question of getting more precise than that and figuring out, for example, whether we can have a guest worker program—or enhanced rates of legal immigration—without creating the kind of amnesty that only encourages a sudden, overwhelming flood during a perceived "window of opportunity."—ed.]

Some kind of guest worker program might help us to get our arms around this, Gilmore suggests, and it might be better to do that rather than simply letting the situation “drift.”

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February 08, 2006

Between the Sheets

. . . is where I spent most of the afternoon. Last night I flew out of LAX to Chicago, where I arrived at 5-something a.m. today local time. I had just enough time to grab breakfast, which consisted of my standard Starbucks order (a grande chai latte) with a big, fat, disgusting, decadent cheese Danish. (Women who pull all-nighters for a good cause deserve cheese Danishes. That's just the way it is.)

As I got to the gate, my flight from O'Hare to Reagan National was already boarding. At the time this struck me as rather lucky; what I didn't realize is that the tight time frame between flights made it possible that my suitcase didn't make the same connection I did.

Now may be the time to tell you that I planned very cleverly for this trip, realizing that in both Chicago and D.C. I'd be indoors all of the time, so there was no reason to lug a big, heavy coat around with me on two planes. After all, before I'd actually emerge into the ambient temperature of D.C., I'd be able to retrieve my coat.

This plan was much more clever in theory than in practice, a point that was driven home to me every time the wind kicked up as I stood on the elevated Metro station waiting for the train so I could get to the hotel—wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt with a cashmere sweater over it, a hat and gloves, a scarf, and the flannel shirt that serves as my jacket when I'm in Los Angeles. I found the ensemble a bit inadequate, if you want to know the truth.

Back at the hotel, I couldn't decide if I was more hungry, or more exhausted. This dilemma was solved when I was invited out to brunch by Girl on the Right and Wonder Woman. I sort of walked briskly along with them to stay warm until we found a nice bistro, where I had pasta and Merlot, figuring that this would help me take a nap when I got back to the hotel. It worked so well that I started to get sleepy right then and there, and as I recall started babbling inchoerently, asking them how the plans for Canadian World Domination were coming along. We walked to a nearby drugstore after our "early" lunch (it was late as far as my inner clock was concerned), and stopped at a local drugstore, where they could pick up some stationary supplies they needed for their next meeting—and I looked at cheap gloves in the children's sizes that fit me. They went off to their appointment from there, and as soon as I was over my acid flashback ("oh, hey—like, look at the weave of the yarn, man") I picked up some snacks and came "home."

And then I crashed out for what was supposed to be a 2- or 3-hour nap. I woke up eight hours later at 7:00 p.m. local.

My bag arrived at the front desk about an hour ago, and I went down to get it because I'm too cheap to tip people for bringing things up to my room. (Other than that, I'm a nice person.)

And now I need to sleep enough tonight that I can get up early for the first day of Conservative Political Action Conference, which includes the ill-named "Presidential Banquet." (It's actually a Vice-Presidential Banquet, since Cheney will be there and G.W. will not, but I'm off-duty as an editor, here, so I'll let that one go.)

Please note that CPAC will pool all our blogging, and we'll also be posting to our own sites. Make sure that, in addition to the wall-to-wall Cotillion coverage, you check out Scott Schmidt's posts at Spot On.

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