March 25, 2006

We're Allowed to Talk, I Guess.

The government has decided that bloggers are still allowed to engage in political speech. Advocacy groups (comprising, of course, private citizens) will still have their political speech rationed.

But it appears that the cancer isn't spreading too fast; Hackbarth has a summary.

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Harrell's Looking Forward

. . . to seeing American Gun.

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Semper

Fi.


Via Insty.

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Here You Go, Yolanda.

I adapted the expression about a servile womb not breeding free men from the closing stanza of this poem:

Advice to Young Ladies

A.U.C. 334: about this date
For a sexual misdemeanor, which she denied,
The vestal virgin Postumia was tried.
Livy records it among affairs of state.

They let her off: it seems she was perfectly pure;
The charge arose because some thought her talk
Too witty for a young girl, her eyes, her walk
Too lively, her clothes too smart to be demure.

The Pontifex Maximus, summing up the case,
Warned her in future to abstain from jokes,
To wear less modish and more pious frocks.
She left the court reprieved, but in disgrace.

What then? With her the annalist is less
Concerned than what the men achieved that year:
Plots, quarrels, crimes, with oratory to spare!
I see Postumia with her dowdy dress,

Stiff mouth and listless step; I see her strive
To give dull answers. She had to knuckle down.
A vestal virgin who scandalized that town
Had fair trial, then they buried her alive.

Alive, bricked up in suffocating dark,
A ration of bread, a pitcher if she was dry,
Preserved the body they did not wish to die
Until her mind was quenched to the last spark.

How many the black maw has swallowed in its time!
Spirited girls who would not know their place;
Talented girls who found that the disgrace
Of being a woman made genius a crime;

How many others, who would not kiss the rod
Domestic bullying broke or public shame?
Pagan or Christian, it was much the same:
Husbands, St. Paul declared, rank next to God.

Livy and Paul, it may be, never knew
That Rome was doomed; each spoke of her with pride.
Tacitus, writing after both had died,
Showed that whole fabric rotten through and through.

Historians spend their lives and lavish ink
Explaining how great commonwealths collapse
From great defects of policy—perhaps
The cause is sometimes simpler than they think.

It may not seem so grave an act to break
Postumia's spirit as Galileo's, to gag
Hypatia as crush Socrates, or drag
Joan as Giordano Bruno to the stake.

Can we be sure? Have more states perished, then,
For having shackled the inquiring mind,
Than those who, in their folly not less blind,
Trusted the servile womb to breed free men?

—A.D. Hope

More thoughts on the current pertinence of the poem here, and another site reproduces it with footnotes to explain the historical references.

When I was young I always assumed the poem was written by a woman, because men were too busy thinking of new ways to oppress us. Wrong.

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March 24, 2006

O the Things I Have To Tell You!

Last night we took the niece to a Dir en Grey concert. Very fun. Very strange.

Now, however, it's off to work, in the hopes that I'll be back in time to take the niece to Hollywood.

She wants to see Palm trees. And the Hollywood sign. I tell her it's difficult to avoid either.

She wants to see the ocean. No problem, I reply: that's a given.

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March 23, 2006

Won't Work at Maggie's Farm No More

Hm. Went in for my "audition day," and this doesn't look the the solution to my income problems. The person who attracted me to the company is leaving, and most of the rest of the crew there are barely out of diapers, which means (1) the company very likely can't afford me, and (2) no one has enough experience to see how great I am. Also: (3) if I were to get on-staff there, I'd be reporting to some 20-something. No thanks.

And then there's the fact that no one wanted to either talk to me about their supposed staff opening, or give me real feedback on what I was doing.

I may work freelance for them, but they'd have to make me a sweet offer before I'd be willing to consider settling down there. The thing I imagined was the biggest stumbling block—the commute—was actually the easiest element in the whole day.

I'm going to invoice them for today's work and move on to the next possibility.

It's very easy for me to tell my husband that we shouldn't act out of desperation, and even though we're a bit broke he shouldn't take any gigs that make him uncomfortable. It's quite another to enforce that rule for myself.

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March 21, 2006

Funeral for a Friend

Tonight was the first memorial for Roger Borden; the second will be held in Texas, so he can be buried next to the son he lost to drugs and alcohol years ago.

I made myself look at him, though he was difficult to recognize. It wasn't just the baldness: his face was thin and gaunt. He'd obviously lost a lot of weight from the chemo. And Roger was a bit vain about his looks, so that must have been especially painful. I do know he showed up at a few AA meetings after he lost his hair, but I'm not sure they saw the full destruction I witnessed today.

As another friend remarked, it made it easier to let go in a way: because that was clearly not Roger in the coffin. The guy we know had left the premises.

What a good guy. What a talented, brilliant man. He touched so many people's lives, and left the world a better place than he found it.

The minister who gave the service mentioned the idea that we would all eventually be summed up in one of these cards they hand out with a photo, some dates, and a quotation of some sort. These cards that tell us so very little. She suggested that in Roger's case, perhaps the card should have been shaped like a little black book. (No. I don't know how many ex-girlfriends of his were at the service, and since I sport a wedding band he never hit on me. But I sat next to one of his lady friends during the service.)

I do feel better. It's nice to laugh about it. It's nice to hope everyone's right about the existence of an afterlife—a heaven where Roger can get everyone together to record CDs and set up websites and have business meetings, as he did in DA.


This is serious. Life is serious. I'd best remember that, and do my best to follow his example: laugh a lot, commit to projects, follow through, and treat people well.

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Write Enough

. . . tells the story of the the Viet Minh attack that was the beginning of the end for the French in Vietnam:

The French viewed their position in a flat valley surrounded by hills as an offensive base. From there they would venture out and cut the Viet Minh supply lines, preempting an attack on Laos. As a result of this outlook, the garrison never outposted the hills. They'd be attacking and, besides, it was impossible for the Vietnamese to haul any significant artillery up there.

Unaware of French opinion, the Vietnameses went ahead and hauled heavy artillery up onto the hills along with daunting amounts of anti-aircraft guns. On March 13, they let loose a barrage, followed by a human wave attack that engulfed a French strongpoint manned by crack Foreign Legionnaires. The fight was on.


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March 20, 2006

Acid Test in Afghanistan

The boys at On Tap discuss the prosection—and possible execution—of a Christian in Afghanistan.


UPDATE, 2/24: Fixed the link to On Tap, where the discussion still rages on. Apparently there was a rally outside the Afghan embassy in D.C. The situation is very dangerous right now.

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O How I Hate It When the "Crunchy Cons" Have a Point.

But the right has got to forge its own brand of conservation that goes a bit beyond giving a few dollars to Ducks Unlimited or the National Wild Turkey Federation now and then.

Big discussion on the Crunchy Con website; I'd start with Goldberg's post here.

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Big Tobacco Is Coming to Get Us!

With tobacco lounges! Eeek! A mouse! A cigarette!

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Three Years in Iraq

. . . have finally inflicted the level of casualties we sustained during the bloodiest month we were in Vietnam.

Which gives the lie to a lot of the comparisons between the two conflicts. Nonetheless, it's not a bad time to send a few bucks to your favorite Iraqi or Afghan charity, or your favorite military support group.

I like Soldiers' Angels, Marine Parents, Operation Iraqi Children, and Spirit of America.

If you have a favorite, leave it in the comments section.


(Via Insty.)

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Goldstein Documents

. . . the latest progressive insight:

“Yes, but how can you prove it’s Monday? And don’t go citing western calendars, either—because those are just evidence of how widespread the western hegemonic meme of dividing the week into 7 days has become . . ."

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March 19, 2006

Swell.

Two friends of mine yelled at me today: one for a joke I made that—unbeknownst to me—drew blood, and the other for not riding along on an emotional head trip he was taking.

I find myself less willing to do that these days.

And Mr. Can't-Take-a-Joke may find that he has less license for brutality in his jokes with me from here outward. After all, I was simply matching his style of interaction.

I have a headache. I have friends like other people have mice.

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Happy Birthday, Democratic Iraq.

Glenn quotes Strategy Page:

The key to peace in Iraq is not a military problem, the terrorists and Sunni Arab rebels are beaten. The key to peace is political, and the ability of Iraqi factions to work together. Iraqis have paid a lot of attention to Lebanon, looking for answers. Lebanon is split by religious factions (about one third Shia, one third Sunni and one third Christian). Lebanon went through a 15 year civil war (1975-90), and since making peace, the country has prospered (without oil, just the skills of the people), despite interference from Syria. The Lebanese example gives hope, but the payoff is in the performance. The Iraqi politicians have to perform. In the next few months, we'll see if they can.

And adds:

Indeed. The problems are now mostly political, and can only be worked out by politicians. That said, the United States could have done more to dissuade Iran and Syria from interfering. Upside is that Iraqis know this, and if things work out they're likely to remember, to our benefit and the Syrians' and Iranian mullahs' detriment.

It's delicate right now. But I have a lot of respect for the Iraqis, and I think they'll pull this off.

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So. The Sopranos.

The writers thereof are making some wild calls. Taking chances.

I can't get the movie Apt Pupil off my mind. Tell me why.

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Hm. Very interesting.

I wouldn't want to piss off the scientologists. Of course, I wouldn't want to piss off Matt Stone and Trey Parker, either.

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I've Been Up for Over 20 Hours.

I should go to bed, but the true obsessive-compulsive doesn't stop what she's doing merely because it would be the rational thing.

My "audition" for the gig that I'm almost positive I really want is this coming Wednesday. After that, my niece flies into town—that very night.

It feels like I'm about to have No Time for Anything, Ever Again in My Life. But that would be just fine, if I also had those. . . what do they call them? The happy paper thingies. Um. Paychecks!

Actually, the thing to do is set aside that feeling of desperation, and try my best impression of someone prepared to do rational analysis: figure out what hours I'd like to work if I'm going to commute, and how many days a week I'll crash at my mom's place. (She's in the next town over, and has an extra room; quite the resource, huh?)

And, given all that, get a REASONABLE idea of what salary level would compensate me for having to work in El Segundo. I should set that figure higher than it would be for a job in L.A. or Pasadena; that's for sure.

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Drugs or No, He's Still Brilliant.

Harrell, again:

HereÂ’s how I know IÂ’m a hot-shot D.C. insider: If you fly into Reagan on the northern approach late in the day and happen to be sitting on the left side of the plane in a window seat, you get the most amazing view of the District you could ever hope to see. As the plane makes it approach down the center-line of the river and performs its death dive into the Potomac, all the towering marble facades slide by outside your window like so many visions from an era past. I know this. In fact, I specifically changed my seat assignment this morning so I could have a window seat on the left side, just in case the winds are favorable for a north-to-south approach to the airport. Just in case.

IÂ’m pretty sure that makes me a hot-shot D.C. insider.

Shut up. Stop laughing. Seriously. IÂ’ve been there for three weeks.

I saw that view entirely by chance when I flew out to D.C. for CPAC. And then I landed at National and took the Metro to the neighborhood my hotel was in, looking at the map and grinning like an idiot all the way there. ("I'm underneath the Pentagon! Or nearby, anyway! Isn't it wonderful!" I did not say these things out loud, of course, but I saw people edging nerviously away just from the vibe.)

I love that city. Though it is cold; no getting around that.

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March 17, 2006

"My Complication Had Complications."

And my Instalanche had an Instalanche.


(Via . . . good old whatshisface.)

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