Perhaps you need to be more modest yourselves. Just a thought.

A reminder: Many women continue to be arrested in Iran for violations of the strict dress code, and it doesn't always turn into a riot, as it did this time. The difference is that when it does, we can find out about it, due to cell phone videos and blogging.

The full story is here at PJ Media, including translations of what the crowd is chanting on the video.

The situation in Iran is untenable.

Via Insty.

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But it isn't like I didn't handle weather extremes yesterday as I drove back to L.A. from Shell Beach.

For one thing, the temperature outside was a crisp 68 degrees; I really prefer 70 to 72.

For another, I left the sunroof open too long, and got a touch of sunburn.

The abandoned Arroyo Hondo bridge, along the U.S. 101

So it isn't like I don't have painful realities that I must come to terms with, in my own way.

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. . . on the issue of experience? It didn't work so well when Senator Clinton tried it, but she was a special case.

Sean has some thoughts on how likely this would be to be effective—plus some juicy bonus video, and a little primo snark from Allahpundit.

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Adorable pets everywhere are getting nervous around now.

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Captain's Quarters has now been assimilated into the Malkin Empire; all hail the Queen!

I know what you're thinking. But, for crying out loud: if we're going to complain about consolidation of power, can't we start somewhere logical? Let's begin with Google, and/or the gubmint.

h/t: Write Enough.

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How did you guess?

I don't know how much longer my grandmother will be imprisoned within the world of her deafness.

I don't know whether my uncle truly hopes, in his heart of hearts, that she'll hang on as long as possible. I don't know whether my father truly hopes, in his heart of hearts, that she will die soon. Or whether the motives are selfish or selfless in either case.

I do know that I'm caught in multiple paradoxes when I come up here: gratitude for the amazing care my grandmother receives in her last years, and that it is delivered by her son and daughter-in-law, rather than "staffers" at a "home." Gratitude that her own longevity may suggest I'll be around—with a sharp mind—for a long time to come. Gratitude for any pleasure she gets these days, and a hope that it's worth it, despite the isolation her deafness causes. Smug satisfaction that as an internet junkie I'll be able to communicate with others just fine view text messaging, email and the like--even if I can no longer hear.

A feeling that I will end up owing my uncle and aunt some sort of debt that I shall never be able to repay.

I would like to get up to the Pismo Beach Area once a month, but lately it's been more like every three months. I shall just have to do my best.

The bitchin' things:

1) getting to know my uncle much better than I ever did when I was a kid, and connecting on some level with his loyal and courageous bride;

2) the pretty drive up the coast;

3) Having my grandmother tell me things that she never told me when I was young. She is being very honest, lately—very real. At least, she was when we could communicate in two directions.

4) The enforced isolation at night here at the Oxford Inn and Suites (less so when there are other family members lurking in the same complex).

"Take the sweet with the sour, if you take me."

—W. B. Yeats

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she can read for five hours at a stretch. I just couldn't handle that."

I open my mouth. I close it. If one had all the leisure in the world, why would one stop at five hours?

When I'm old and deaf it'll be nonstop murder mysteries, or something equally intriguing, yet salacious. Material that's intensely violent, sexual, and lyrical at the same time. Like good poetry, or my sweet menopausal dreams.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:29 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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over at the InstaNewsRoom, writing about the NYT smear about McCain, and Bill Keller's defense thereof:

It's a ludicrous argument. It would mean that editors could purvey all sorts of trash as long as it is [was] embedded in a larger story. And when we get outraged, they could look down their noses and insult us about our poor reading comprehension.

Well, that is exactly what is being suggested: the affair thing was parenthetical. An aside. Shame on the American people, and our filthy dirty-Tom minds, for even noticing the allegation of a sexual affair. The real news lay elsewhere—in the fact that McCain was friends with a lobbyist.

I'm embarrassed. For myself. For my fellow conservatives. For America.

I feel, in fact, like a dirty, dirty whore.

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"Maybe," I reply cautiously. "So. You, um . . . you read it occasionally?"

"Once every couple of weeks," he responds.

"Oh."

There is a pause, and then I announce, "you know what would be good? If you gave me, like 24-48 hours' notice before you went to my website."

"Whyyyyyyyy?" he draws the syllable out. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Because, then, um . . . then I'd be able to make sure the content was, like . . . really good. So you'd . . . um. So you'd be impressed."

I did not, of course, secure any such agreement. So either I clean up all the references to my family herein, or I find myself on a sort of psychological/electronic frontier for the rest of my life.

Probably the latter. Because . . . really—who has time to look through his/her archives?

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. . . vs. the Gray Lady.

She makes it look so fun! Thanks, MKH; you're as smart and funny as you are beautiful.

Via Hackbarth.

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"Mmmmm. Caltech Girl?"

"No, it's Darleen. We're here at the restaurant. Are you on your way?"

"I'm on my way, I just . . . where are my glasses?"

"I don't know where you put your glasses, Dear. But Caltech Girl wanted to make sure you were awake."

"'Course I'm awake. Been up for hours. Izzer coffee down there?"

"There's coffee down the hill, yes. And Greta's here. We're waiting for you at the restaurant."

"Where are my glasses?"

"Have you checked your nightstand?"

"Oh, yeah, hey. There they are. But now I can't find my cell phone."

"Honey—it's in your hand. We called you on your cell phone."

"Okay, then I'll see you guys in a few. They have coffee there?"

"Yes, there's coffee. It's a restaurant. Just drive down the hill, okay?"

"Okay. Is Greta there?"

"Yes, Joy. Greta's here."

"Okay. I'll see you in ten minutes. But I might not have my cell phone with me. I can't find it anywhere."

The record should reflect the fact that Darleen was there on time, despite the fact that she drove in from Riverside County.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 10:54 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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Ace on the Obama connection to domestic terrorists Bernardine Dohrn and Bill Ayers:

Let me ask everyone a question: A man brutally murders his wife. Fifteen years pass, and now he's paroled.

He invites you to a party to discuss business possibilities with you. He does have money, and he could actually offer you some decent opportunities.

Do you go? Or do you not even dignify this murderer with a "no"?

For some reason, the hard left—of which Barack Hussein Obama appears increasingly to be a part—feels that there is some distinction between a terrorist and a murderer, and while the murderer perhaps should be socially ostracized, one can still do business with, and pal around with, the terrorist.

Why they believe this is a question no one in the MSM has bothered to ask them.

That was one of the things that changed for many of us in the wake of 9/11. Most Americans found themselves unable to tolerate any sort of terrorism any more, once we'd seen it up close. Irish-Americans stopped sending money to the IRA. It was over. Finished.

As a nation, we experienced a consciousness shift: most of us no longer found it possible to proclaim that "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."

Sure: a few of my far-left friends continued to defend, for example, Palestinian actions against "soft targets" (read: civilians), but the era of terrorist chic had come to a close.

For most of us.

Not so, apparently, for Barack Obama.*

Remember: The Weathermen sighed—and people died.

These are legitimate issues for the mainstream media—or possibly some responsible journalists—to ask the Obama campaign about.

* According to the Little Miss Attila style sheet, use of Barack Obama's middle name still constitutes dirty pool. Please recall that my sister's middle name is Syrian. Anyone who'd like to make an issue of this is invited to try. I suggest you wear Kevlar for that interview, however.

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Over at InstaPundit:

The Swing Voter is completely outraged by the New York Times story—she vows to no longer take the Times—nay, not even for the Sunday crossword. She is also now thinking seriously about voting for McCain just to spite The New York Times.

I found myself offering a tepid defense of what really is a pretty indefensible story: to wit, that reporters in cases like this usually know more they can tell, because so many sources refuse to go on the record. The Swing Voter was unmoved. She feels like the Times, and the sort of people who staff the Times, feel that they are entitled to manipulate the election in order to get the "right" results—that such a story would never have run about a Democrat. No doubt the folks at the Times would strenuously disagree—but it matters that people feel that way. I seriously doubt my mother is the only one.

I'm quite sure she is not.

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But I am above 110. I don't have to worry until I dip below that, right?

I'm at 113.5 tonight. That was normal when I was 25; these days, it feels like low tide.

And there is, of course, the argument that the causality arrows go in the other direction: that I'm depressed because my blood sugar is chronically low, and that if I only ate more, I'd feel better.

I still think the solution is to start smoking: that way, I could create a little gap in between when the caffeine ends and the alcohol begins. It would be, you know: wholesome.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 01:08 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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[Potential gin-industry sponsors: I command you to ignore this post!]

Ladies and gentlemen . . . the man. The phenomenon. The eyebrow. Stephen Colbert.

Has anyone ever noticed how Jeff P., during his not-so-brief reign in the blogosphere (before he retired to do Real Writing again), never called himself gay? It was always "as a homo . . . "

I miss Jeff. And he's 400 miles away. Road trip!

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Cécile Grégoriadès interviewed me last week in my "adopted hometown" of Santa Monica, California, about the upcoming national election—and listened just as carefully to my stories of going to high school in Dogtown as she did to my views on John McCain.

She's a sweet, wonderful woman. Very bright. We were in her neighborhood, down by Main Street. I knew I was being silly, but I insisted on walking her back to her apartment building. Never mind that she towers over me: it's a mixed area, and I know how to handle the South side of Santa Monica. Hell—I used to live in Venice, until the drug dealers chased me out. Some part of me felt that it was no area for people who are truly nice. And never mind that houses there start at a bit over a million dollars; the bums are still always out in force.

Hey! Nobody told me that an interview with Le Monde would be published in . . . French. No fair!

Seriously: If only my French weren't so nonexistent/sucky.* But the interviews actually play in both languages on Le Monde's site—English first, translation second; the quality is remarkably good, and having the audio in the background while one reads the interviews is a good multi-media approach, shy of having to videotape every interview one conducts. Nice blend of online "print" and podcasting. And Cécile has a great microphone.

A special shout-out to Cécile: remarkably sensitive in her questions, she listened very well to what could have been quite a "hard right" point of view on American national security issues. (I am less right-wing on other topics, of course.)

* I did get, however, find out at CPAC that I was still able to converse in pidgin German with a couple of European journalists. At least, I rather think I did; I was on my second dirty martini at the time.

UPDATE: Place this quote:

"Le Monde? It's a great price, for a small vice."

UPDATE 2: David Linden writes in from New York City:

Mon Dieu!

The interview is great. The photo, however, makes it look like some Islamo-Fascist just stuck a baguette up your ass.

His ex-girlfriend, aka the Manhattan Moosette, assures me that the translation seems fairly accurate.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:33 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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But does Obama know what the term "semi-automatic firearm" means?

I mean, other than Big Bad Gun?

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I do think The New York Times did Senator McCain a big favor by bringing out a rather weak slam piece with such . . . obvious . . . timing.

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FireDogLake.

It was rather a fascinating exchange (a few posts down, wherein I refer to Allahpundit's take on The NYT). Though very ADHD, of course.

Their heads are, for the most part, so full of interesting stereotypes about "the right." We're like cardboard characters to them.

At least some of them "get" that Macs rule . . . And even my troll referred to Sharia Law as an "abomination."

Common ground! See? We can all get along.

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my beloved Jonathan Rauch makes me choose between loving him, and disliking McCain as intensely as I have been wont to do.

I think Rauch's star will simply have to "settle" a bit within the big black sky of my heart.

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