how Coco the Pit Bull would react to the allegations of a lesbian affair between Senator Clinton and her advisor. Eric suggests that she's in denial, and possibly a bit jealous:

I'll try to get Mandy's reaction this week: it's true that Clinton has a major following among female pit bulls, but Mandy is black, and I've always suspected her of having a soft spot for Obama. When I complain that Obama's policy proposals aren't very specific, Mandy merely requests that I throw a tennis ball for her—her way of changing the subject.

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Of course, this is significantly less than many others who've been at it for the same amount of time as I have. (Over five years—though who's counting?)

And yet, it's a lovely thing; now if only I could get this site to pay for itself! Soon, soon.

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from Nice Deb.

I'm glad that the issue is getting coverage, since it behooves us to know what we're buying when we purchase something like this. It's a bit too late once it's been built.

But personally, I don't care if the memorial looks vaguely like a filled-in crescent, which in turn appears somewhat Islamic, if that's what one is looking for. After all, the field is bowl-shaped, and circles are kind of a big deal in the history of civilization. (We would have had a much harder time inventing the wheel without 'em.)

What matters, once the Flight 93 memorial has been built, is whether the net effect of visiting this landmark is to be (1) inspired by the sacrifices made by Todd Beamer and the rest, and (2) grateful to them that the Capitol Building is still standing, and (3) inspired to follow the example of the Flight 92 heroes when the terrorist extremism hits the fan.

I care about that a lot more than I care about somehow magically transforming a round land formation into a rectangular one.

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Feminism.

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We know, Baby.

That's what we like about you.

Ask Huey: he'll tell you that it's hip to be square.

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I sure hope the revolution will be fabulous, though: I could use a Coach/Browning Hi-Power, myself.

(Darrell! That was a joke.

Um, I mean, unless you really do find one, in which case I at least want to know about it.)

Via Hot Air.

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It now has the McArdle seal of approval, and I must say my inability to keep my reading material below a few pounds for airplane travel makes it a very seductive option, indeed: I'd love to carry one lightweight item, instead of three magazines, one paperback book, and one hardcover. (Alternatively, I could develop an attention span, but the likelihood of that is not terrific at this stage in my life.)

One potential disadvantage to the Kindle lies in my not being able to write on it (I think—can someone correct me if I'm wrong?), but it isn't as if I go a lot of places without my laptop and/or a pad of paper. And I'm certainly not going to check my laptop in on a plane. Furthermore, the Kindle is so small and so light, I can tuck it into my purse; that's pretty cool.

Of course, it costs 2-3 times what I'd want to pay for something like that, and I have a few other technological needs that come ahead of it (such as the obligatory memory upgrade for the new Mac, a basic video camera for vid-blogging, and finishing my editing/writing site). But it would certainly help me to get rid of a lot of books, and allow me to use my time better when there is an unexpected wait (say, in a line somewhere) as part of my day.

Via Insty. And I'd like to throw in a shout-out (and a bouquet of other prepositions, while I'm at it) to the incomparable Virginia Postrel, who first got me thinking seriously about the Kindle, which initially struck me as the ultimate in techno-frivolity. (It's a source of grief to me that Postrel doesn't write books quickly enough for my taste, so I find myself trawling her bibliographies and endnotes, trying to find more bitchin' reads; that's a bit pathetic, no? But there is another on the way!)

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Mmmmm. Back in town, and I'm ready to start really blogging again—along with editing a cool piece of fiction a friend's trying to knock into shape, and fixing up our new home in Glendale.

Mostly, though, I feel like sleeping for 12 hours solid before I get back to Real Life tomorrow. I mean, on one level it feels creepy to admit that I'm exhausted, but I did show up at three different locations on Sunday to take pictures. I did bring The Runner fresh water, and take his gear belt off of his hands at Mile 18. I did drive us back to the airport today.

So I'm ready for a night off. I'll be reading tonight, and going to bed early.

I am ready, in short, to surf the internet of the just.

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remarks A the H.

Hackbarth, whom I never tire of linking, has a red-meat clip of writer Stephen King displaying his ridiculous prejudices about the armed forces in a public Q&A.

"Just the U.S. military?" I ask. "Or is it all of 'em?"

"I think he regards them all that way," A the H responds. "There's one book [The Stand] in which he has a group of soldiers masquerading as civilians, but they are so stupid that even out of uniform they still stand at attention and salute their officers, so the clever progressives are able to detect them."

Ladies and Gentlemen, the lowest-common-denominator brilliance of Stephen King.

UPDATE: It gets better: according to Ace, King has shut down his own message board, and is sending his fanbots after Newsbusters. Ace:

Wow. Steven [sic] King managed to write something that wasn't a thousand pages long.

BTW, the Newsbusters link above has lots of juicy details on Stephen-gate*; highly recommended.

* As you can see, after fighting the power for decades WRT "gate" as a suffix affixed to any scandal, I've decided to embrace the linguistic suck [age].

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And it has been good reality TV. But some Democrats are getting bored, and wish that the Tribe would speak, already.

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I'm in love with Eugene, Oregon, but I'm sure it's just a passing fancy. After all, they got snow here. I suspect.

Anyway, it was forty-four degrees this morning, and it stayed that way for hours and hours and hours. I mean, cold.

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to the next level.

"Vote early and often."

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Yeah. "Public relations nightmare," indeed. (I'm quoted in California Lawyer as suggesting those letters tend to get posted, which one would think attorneys were starting to figure out. Actually, I think the tide may have turned: for instance, Hymers hasn't sent me one, with the exception of that anonymous threat about how a Florida woman got slapped with an expensive settlement for online libel—after she didn't show up for court. What a joke.)

h/t: longtime friend Henry Reynolds, Esq.

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It is just past 8:00 p.m. on a Saturday night. I'm trying to remember how we handled this night-before business the last two times I accompanied A the H on a marathon trip; the early hours he has to keep make things a challenge. I'll see if I can get to sleep in another hour; otherwise, I could go for a walk, read in the lobby (or in the bathroom), or go grab a martini in the hotel bar. Right now a little blogging and a Damrak on ice are working for me, though potentially I should think about getting headphones for future trips, so I can watch video without disturbing the spouse.

One thing that's different this time: we only have one bed here at the Red Lion, which means that there's no second bed to be used purely for "staging"—a large flat surface only for marathon paraphernalia. He's had to use the desk for this. I tried to adopt a little sliver of that desk for my stuff, but have had to beat back his imperialist incursions into that space. Maybe next time I'll tape off my section—as if we were squabbling teenagers in the back of a car on a family trip.

We drove around town this evening so I could get my bearings; the idea is for me to get A the H to the starting line (or close to it, anyway) before too many of the roads close. Then I need to zip back over to this side of the river and see how many points I can intercept him on during his 26.2-mile par-tay. The critical meetup is at Mile 18, where I'm to take his empty water belt from him and hand him a fresh bottle of water for his final eight miles.

After that, I jump back into the rented SUV and book over to the finish line, so I can see him cross. Then (supposedly) I give him back his wallet, money, comb, cell phone, and wedding ring. [I'm not positive why a guy doesn't need his wedding ring for an endurance contest of this nature. I choose to believe that it's because his hands will swell up during the race. I realize there are other possible explanations . . . ]

Eugene is a pretty little town, and I do love it here. It reminds me of Northern California; it reminds the husband of the suburbs around Chicago. I understand that it probably wasn't quite so lovely here a few months ago. Even now, it got pretty chilly toward the end of the day, and I'm having trouble believing that it'll be over 70 degrees tomorrow. I'll be wearing layers, just to be safe.

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It was an uneventful trip, though I'm as dehydrated as I usually am after flying. I might be able to get online for a time tomorrow morning, and I'll definitely check in at some point over the weekend.

But things might be just a bit light around here until I'm back in L.A.

Tonight, though, I'm going to bed: I was up all night last night. And tomorrow will involve some strategizing over a race map, and the collecting of Strange Marathoner Objects such as a piece of fabric ribbon, a Sharpie pen, and some packing tape.

You be a good blogosphere, okay? And don't forget to send me money.

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Cunt-gate. Kuntuffle.

I don't use that word a lot, but I get flack at writer's group if I so much as place it in dialogue. I still don't get why it's so much worse than calling a guy a "prick." Or a "fuckin' asshole." Somehow women don't get called "assholes" quite as much; we tend to progress from "bitch" to "cunt" to whatever other [usually yawn-inspiring] phrases people want to come up with—I got "skanky gash" once, which I rather hoped was original with the guy who threw it out. It seemed inspired. I was also impressed when I read the term "cock-holster" on a discussion thread a year or so ago. I thought that was rather descriptive, though it all sort of boils down to the idea that women are containers, and intrinsically filthy. Which . . . okay. At least we can run without little jiggly bits jangling around. I mean, women can at least cross their arms, or just hold their breasts. Which is of course what I do when I'm going up and down stairs, and no one's looking.

Those who claim that "cunt" is lot worse than "prick" don't seem to get that they are fundamentally making female genitalia out to be dirtier and more offensive than male genitalia. If you call them on it, they say, "well, it isn't me. I'm only reflecting what's out there."

Well, no: you're perpetuating it by reaching for the goddamned smelling salts whenever someone utters a vulgarity that refers to the female body. The dirty, horrible female body, and the dirty, horrible genitalia thereof, which often harbors teeth; you knew that, deep down, right?

Back to McCain: I wish I lived in a world that would have permitted a politician to say, "not out loud, Buddy. By the way: you're single, aren't you? I can tell."

Remember that old Bill Cosby routine? "We have had some arguments. I've called her names I was proud I even thought of. And she's called me some that I've written down."

'Course, I also wish I lived in a world that would permit a politician to say "drug war? What the fuck were we thinking of?"

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. . . bad Clint Eastwood movies without mentioning Pink Cadillac. Unless, of course, "Dirty Harry" is planning one more post on the subject of Eastwood dazzlers and disgraces, labeling it "The Middle Five—Ugliest—Clint Eastwood Movies," or some such. Certainly In the Line of Fire was fairly forgettable, as was Blood Work (a lackluster movie based on a reasonably cool book).

Naturally, I disagree with D.H. on at least two of his choices: Mystic River, and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. But I don't think I've seen anything like the entire Eastwood canon.

What constitutes "good," though? Is it about creating something thought-provoking, or is it simply about wish-fulfillment: Eastwood in cowboy boots and a serape, waving guns around so men can identify with him and women can ogle him?—vice versa for gay men and female gun nuts?

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You won't like him when he's angry.

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1) If you decide to take your own life, do so in a place where you will not be found by your mother, your father, your spouse, or your child. Unless you are sending a message, of course.

2) Prostitution should be legal.

I wonder what pushed this woman over the edge; I'm not necessarily buying the narrative that's being peddled by the media. But my points still stand.

Via Memeorandum.

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. . . on the chances that we might be able to end ethanol subsidies. I'd love to see the playing field leveled a bit, and see the government stop essentially paying people to make fuel out of soybeans and corn.

Sugarcane is fine. Soybeans and corn make me kind of queasy, unless or until we are into excess production on the latter two.

Switchgrass and algae, however, are awesome.

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