Chilean President Michelle Bachelet is a >go-getter, meeting with the Canadian head of state and with Governor Schwarzenegger in quick succession in an attempt to grapple with her country's energy needs.

I would love to see solar power become cost-effective for something other than heating swimming pools; certainly the next few applications for that may be residential, until we've improved fuel-cell technology. But Chile and California (the world's seventh-largest economy) have a lot in common in this regard: Chile imports three-quarters of its energy, and the U.S. as a whole is importing over half its petroleum products.

(X-posted at Right-Wing News. Scroll around there, though: my old buddy William Teach [one of the illustrious blogospheric pirates] is posting today, as is Kathy Shaidle, the embattled Canadian blogger and free speech heroine with whom I disagree on nearly every social issue.)

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Yeah, yeah: I'm still obsessing about infrastructure, and conservation, and how we live, and how we commute. I know Americans love the suburban life, with the private backyard concept. And yet generations of New Yorkers have been taking their kids to public parks instead of hanging out in backyards . . . with little apparent brain damage. (Though I will concede that they talk funny.)

Of course, I spent my formative years in Santa Monica, California, and it was the best of both worlds: a suburb of Los Angeles on a small enough scale that one could walk around in it. I think that Santa Monica and Manhattan may be the most pedestrian-friendly places on the planet. (Manhattan being a smidge more vertical, and a smidge more counter-intuitive to get around in.)

But if I had to choose, I'd pick living in a smaller place without a backyard, and being able to walk—versus having a yard but being forced to drive everywhere I go. (Oh, wait: I just made that choice, and I find it more delightful every day.)

It isn't a matter of one's carbon footprint (though as you know I'm a foreign-policy conservationist, and I have been recycling longer than anyone I know). It's burnout, really: I spent years of my life losing 1.5-2 hours each working day just getting to and fro. Now I work on-site only when I have to (but stagger my hours so I'm getting there before or [preferably] after the rush hour), and I work from home when I can. And if I were doing a staff job I'd find a way to carpool or use public transportation at least two days a week, concentrating my errands-on-the-way-home into the other days.

I means, I loves to drive, but enough is enough.

h/t: Insty originally turned me on to this article about how freaking old our transportation infrastructure is (other, of course, than in the Bay Area and in Washington, D.C.). And L.A., I guess, though that system doesn't appear to go anywhere. After that, I just followed the links. Kind of like commuting, but . . . it's less important to have a good sound system when one is travelling through "cyberspace." (A word I haven't heard in years, and am starting to feel wistful about.)

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Throw in ANWR and Utah, and we'd really be on our way.

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Rummy has a Vespa! Dang, those things are cute.

I don't need a Vespa; I can walk everywhere I need to go. I feel so sorry for people who need to use their cars. (Actually, I'm going to get my bike fixed up, and use that for some errands; the excellent thing is, it'll fit into the back of the Cruiser without any problems. And the Cruiser doesn't get horrible mileage, considering the fact that I can use it for some kinds of hauling.)

Via Insty.

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It's time.

Stacy McCain:

Some have scoffed at how much impact Barr could have on the presidential race, but now at least one candidate is talking common sense on energy.

"At least" 86 billion barrels of oil? What are we waiting for?

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It goes so quickly sometimes, doesn't it? "Between the forceps and the stone," as Joni Mitchell put it.

I'm in a Team America mood: I want to insist the my husband promise me he's immortal, in exchange for sex. Problem is, he's not a good liar.

Every minute here is precious; let's keep that in mind.

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Glenn Reynolds on the Kozinski "scandal":

People want to know what I think. I don't have much to say about this nonstory, except to offer this compelling legal analysis: Since it's generally thought that men are disproportionate consumers of porn because of their gender, and because, hormonally, they're driven to favor visual stimuli, then obviously punishing porn consumption constitutes sex discrimination, and is probably unconstitutional. Plus, research establishes that porn is good for America. You don't hate America, do you?

The man has a point!

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We've got a lot going on at the house (plumbers, floor-tile people), along with some computer concerns. We're both also doing work-work (me: mostly editing, with some writing; A the H: mostly writing, with some editing). And at this moment we've got one computer down, and one that isn't getting along with the internet. And then this one—which does connect to the internet—doesn't have A the H's writing program, Final Draft, installed.

Of course, I shall be blogging tomorrow at Right Wing News, so you've got that goin' for you.

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If not, head over to American Solutions and make your voice heard!

Remember: we have ANWR; we have the petroleum off of both coasts, and we have huge reserves of shale oil in Utah, Colorado, and Wyoming that Shell has already invested millions in harvesting.

We can do this, people—but we need to show Washington D.C. that we mean business.

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And Waldorf Salad Cilantro, or whatever she calls herself. The woman is a slim brunette—yet has an amazing voice, dark hair, phenomenal presence, and . . . nicer boobs even than mine.

"Goodnight Moon"

There's a nail in the door
And there's glass on the lawn
Tacks on the floor
And the TV is on
And I always sleep with my guns
When you're gone

There's a blade by the bed
And a phone in my hand
A dog on the floor
And some cash on the nightstand
When I'm all alone the dreaming stops
And I just can't stand

What should I do I'm just a little baby
What if the lights go out and maybe
And then the wind just starts to moan
Outside the door he followed me home

Well goodnight moon
I want the sun
If it's not here soon
I might be done
No it won't be too soon 'til I say
Goodnight moon

There's a shark in the pool
And a witch in the tree
A crazy old neighbour and he's been watching me
And there's footsteps loud and strong coming down the hall
Something's under the bed
Now it's out in the hedge
There's a big black crow sitting on my window ledge
And I hear something scratching through the wall

Oh what should I do I'm just a little baby
What if the lights go out and maybe
I just hate to be all alone
Outside the door he followed me home
Now goodnight moon
I want the sun
If it's not here soon
I might be done
No it won't be too soon 'til I say
Goodnight moon

Well you're up so high
How can you save me
When the dark comes here
Tonight to take me up
To my front walk
And into bed where it kisses my face
And eats my head

Oh what should I do I'm just a little baby
What if the lights go out and maybe
And then the wind just starts to moan
Outside the door he followed me home
Now goodnight moon
I want the sun
If it's not here soon
I might be done
No it won't be too soon 'til I say
Goodnight moon
No it won't be too soon 'til I say
Goodnight moon

(Scutwork courtesy of AZ lyics.)

The lyrics work on at least four different levels, and I love that. Of course, to me that whole incubus/realio trulio stalker distinction is fairly clear. For the former, I used to have cutting quips. For the latter, I suspect I'd go for JHPs. YMMV.

And I long—long—to explain all this to Ms. Parsley. At some length. Like, as a public service.

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But it makes for controversy in one's writing, and great headlines.

This summer Colorado is holding an uncompetitive women's bike ride (I shan't be so gauche as to say "race"). There are others, such as the Bay Area's "Cinderella Classic," which my sister-in-law and my mother once rode in. ("No," they told me. "It is not quite a century. It's less than a hundred miles."

"Aw," I thought. "Why bother? By the way: where are we eating tonight? Did you want Mexican, or should we do Thai?")

One is bound to have a certain ambivalence about female-only athletic events, but I figure anything that gets us out there is probably a constructive notion. This isn't "male-bashing"' it's just changing the framework.

Of course, if there is no competition, I'm not sure why you'd want to exclude men—though I shan't try to untangle that tonight. This is the one I want to do someday: not so much for the Tiffany necklace as for the views.

Naturally, of course, I'm afraid that the olive will fall out of my martini.

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For now: the bill that would have permitted offshore drilling was killed, by the Democrats.

Oh, who cares? This won't not solve the immediate energy crunch; just the next one, in five or ten years—which . . . look over there! la la la la la la, I can't hear you!). We musn't develop any domestic supply. Let's leave the drilling to the sand niggers, shall we? Let other countries get their hands dirty—and never mind whether it's done in an environmentally sensitive fashion. Nor how much energy it takes to ship petroleum products here from overseas.

I want to remain pure, and untouched by the taint of petroleum. And, anyway, I must go wash my Prius off with Simple Green, using very little water. Then I shall go buy some Burt's Bees lip balm—it costs four times as much, but there's no petroleum in it. Sometimes I put a little on my halo, to shine it up a bit.

Look; I'm doing my part. Didn't I tell you about the solar heater for my pool? And I've been letting my hemp T-shirts dry in the air.

I did fill the tires in my bike, and now I can ride to Starbucks, which is a nice place to enjoy a cold chai latte on a hot afternoon while I check my email. Sometimes I get the green tea because it's got such healthy antioxidants in it.

Where were we? Oh, yes: oil. Dirty stuff. Simply don't want it around. Horrible smell, too: just like the tar on the beach in Santa Barbara. Ruined my best pair of running shoes.

Conclusion: oil is bad. Smells bad, and I hear that it makes people bleed, too. Bad, bad.

Bad.

Okay, I'm back. Do we need to look at that map again?

There is no denying that we are in the middle of an energy transition, and I believe that recent oil prices have really brought that home to people: fossil fuels will not last forever. We are living on borrowed time. We all know it.

But we can ramp up domestic production for the next 10-25 years to ease the transition. Given how dense a fuel petroleum is, we will still have uses for it even after most of us are driving electric/biofuel cars. And we don't want to be buying oil from dictators then, either.

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Graeme Wood summarizes Mark Steyn's show trial today for The Atlantic.

The plain language of the British Columbia Human Rights Code prohibits exactly the kind of ridicule and contempt to which Mark Steyn exposes everyone left of John Howard, often with dazzling effect. He's guilty as charged -- and not only of violating the BC Code. The U.N.'s Universal Declaration of Human Rights protects against "attacks upon honor and reputation." These are Steyn's tools of trade. But the U.N. version, I note, also guarantees "the right to freedom of opinion and expression," which by contrast with protection from taunters seems like an actual human right, and a right in direct conflict with the right not to have one's honor attacked. The B.C. Human Rights Code is at least consistent: it makes no mention of the right to free expression at all. Whatever else the Steyn show-trial demonstrates, it's proven that "human rights" remains a hopelessly muddled concept, and that British Columbia is a place where the best face conviction, even when the worst aren't filled with passionate intensity.

Wood's conclusion? The hyper-sensitive Canadian Islamic Wankers are much less creative than were those who opposed Salmon Rushdie's Satanic Verses, back in the good old days across the pond.

And the world is poorer for it—in so many ways. Read the whole thing.

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Unbelievable: Canada's HRC is now sending hired thugs to harass senior citizens—namely, Ezra Levant's parents.

Just as well that I live in this country, and that it's a free country. My mother may not approve very heartily of what I do on the internet, but she doesn't take kindly to strange men messing around with the family.

Neither does her dog, who always has to be reminded that my husband and my brother are "good people"—there is that split-second of hesitation that tells me that a grown man was mean to her when she was a pup.

I'm just so angry about this. I know there are bullies in the world, but it makes me crazy when they attain power, and governmental "authority."

This is, I suppose, as good a place as any to plug Mark Steyn (also a victim of the HRC), and Canada's "Freedom Five": Kate McMillan, Kathy Shaidle, Mark and Connie at Free Dominion, and Levant himself.

Thanks to Insty.

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The industrialized world screws the developing world—but it's okay: the greens are doing it, and they have good intentions.

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Nor sublimation.

Remember "food is the good girl's sex"? I guess shopping is the London/Park Avenue/Montana Avenue version of food.

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. . . or, er . . . something.

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Dr. Helen asks her readers what the effects would be on the economy if Obama were elected President, and if he were to enact his economic policies.

Tax shelters? Municipal bonds? Moving to a part of the country with a lower cost of living? Making a conscious effort to earn less, to avoid being taxed at a higher rate?

What's your survival strategy, should worse come to worst?

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P.S. Thanks for your service to our country; please die in the Philippines, though.

h/t: Q and O.

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If the blinky screen thingie is so difficult to concentrate with, Nicholas, why not pick up a book? Oh, right: you can't. Just like you couldn't do your research in an old-fashioned liberry without getting distracted.

Gawd. Take some Ritalin, for crying out loud.

(I just read the article on-screen, though I'm two feet away from the paper version. It wasn't super-deep, if you want to know the truth.)

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