Pictured, Dr. Rusty Shackleford with Mr. Caltech, supremely good sport and husband of Caltech Girl (natch).

Dr. S. is being played in this picture by Little Miss Attila, but he is portrayed at his actual height—though slightly less tipsy than he normally appears at these gatherings.

Note: I'm hoping True-Blue UCLA guy Little Mr. Mahatma (my high school sweetheart) will someday get over the trauma of seeing this picture on my blog. But I'm presuming that my husband and my father will dig it, for the complementary reason. (Not that the old man has ever seen a football game, but I do believe he remembers the odd shape of the objects thrown therein, and one has to give credit for that. For the dad, knowing what a football looks like is enormously butch.)

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Had a lovely time in downtown La Canada today with Rusty, Caltech Girl (whose Fredhead graphic I adapted/stole for my sidebar recently), the Caltech Hub, Justene of Calblog—along with her charming husband and bright teenagers—Juliette of Baldilocks, and Flap.

We were at the restaurant for three hours, but the wait staff at Dish was as patient as ever. And I didn't have to either (1) slightly clean my house, or (2) slightly decorate it (as I would have had to do if I'd hosted the event). Also the food is terrific there.

Now can someone explain to me why it is that when I drink, Rusty seems to get tipsy? I'm just askin', because up in Santa Barbara he had too much Diet Coke and spilled my martini; today he got all hopped up on ice water and started slurring his speech. I think he might do better if we started spiking his drinks; I really do. I mean, especially if he's going to drive.

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22

Find Ultrasound schools near you.

It beats the heck out of me why the "Five-Year-Olds in a Fight" people are pimping ultrasound training, but I suppose everyone has to earn a living somehow.

h/t: the gang over at Ace's digs.

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. . . a week from tomorrow in the Los Angeles area. Email me for details, if you're interested. This is a Bear Flag League-sponsored event, for center-right new-media types who operate (at least part of the time) in the Golden State.

Blogging today will be more than light, as I finish up a project for my premier client—and tie up a couple of loose ends at my nonprofit gig.

I'll be pulling Christmas together tomorrow morning, which means the house will end up either slightly decorated or slightly clean for the holiday, and everyone's cards and presents will arrive sometime between Christmas and New Year's Day.

Of course, in my family we figure that birthday gifts should arrive within six months of one's natal anniversary. I could simply apply that logic to the birth of Christ, and promise my near and dear that they'll get their swag by mid-June, latest.

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The Right-Wing News Conservative Blogger Awards.

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that The Anchoress and I will not be engaging in the hot-oil wrestling match (with statues of the Saints watching over us) that we had considered, to assist people in deciding who would make a better Grande Conservative Blogress Diva.

Unfortunately, our holiday schedules got in the way.

Though I've decided to switch my endorsement over to her. Vote Anchoress!

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Voting just began for Grande Conservative Blogress Diva! I'm lobbying for Virginia Postrel this year, so either vote for her, or . . . well. Me.

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Yup. It is. Just realistic enough, just cartooney enough. Just right.

Though of course at first I sent it to Marty not because of his interest in animation but because he's such a hard-core feline aficionado.

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Muir has resolved the "identical vs. fraternal" question.

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. . . that Fausta and I will not, after all, be engaging in a mixed-martial art contest of will in an octoganal cage in order to decide who gets to be crowned "Grande Conservative Blogress Diva 2008."

Our agents were simply unable to hammer out an agreement. As I recall, the sticking point was that her representation would not allow mine to fudge my height in publicity photos, so I look as tall as she is. You know how agents are: can't live with 'em . . . and so on.

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. . . on his legal problems in Canada.

This is the logical endpoint of politically correct "speech codes."

I'm off to buy another copy of America Alone, along with another copy of Jonathan Rauch's Kindly Inquisitors. Under the circumstances, they make nice companion pieces.

I just started Dinesh D'Souza's What's So Great About Christianity? And, yes: I do intend to read God Is Not Great, by the amazing (and great) Christopher Hitchens.

Because you know what's great? Free speech, and freedom of the press. Those are two of the most bitchin' concepts out there.

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Yeah, right. Whatever.

The only thing in America Alone that bothered me along those lines was that segment—a couple of pages out of the whole damned book—in which Steyn discussed "Hispanics" and "assimilation," and "learning English."

All very understandable coming from a Canadian who moved to New England and has spent little time in the Southwest. But of course there are plenty of people in the (make-believe) category of "Hispanic" who speak nothing but Engish. It sounds like it's a reference to a linguistic tradition, but there's nothing in any "Hispanic's" blood that I don't have: lots of European, a dash of Native American, some eye of newt, and goodness-knows-what-else. An easy mistake for a Northeasterner/Canadian/Brit to make, I imagine. And, of course, I don't have his command of the Old World—nor of stage and screen.

Racist, no? Deceived by census categories? Yes.

Insty, natch.

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That is, if someone seconds me in the comments here.

I'm looking forward to getting trounced by SondraK again. Not to mention some of the other heavy-hitters who are now under consideration for inclusion. It's a bit intimidating, if you want to know the truth.

There are several more worthy candidates (other than Fausta, Sondra, and me) over here.

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This came up in conversation at my father's house the other day. Part of this depends on what you call "a living." One eminent blogger chooses to do this so she can stay home with her child, because pursuing a "real" career would take her out of the home too much.

Some reject the idea of professional blogging as a potential "sellout." I estimate that there are probably 20 people out there making decent livings via blogging, and another 20 who eke out a sort of existence, paying their bills via their blog-incomes.

My stepbrother asserted that he thought the "break even" point was 5000 hits a day, but he didn't realize a lot of us have PayPal/Amazon Honor System buttons on our sites, so one of the variables is the generosity of one's readership (just like NPR stations—without the public subsidies). And, of course, there is the question of whether one makes more at any given traffic level by selling blogads (via BlogAds, or another agency) vs. participating in PJ Media.

There exists a partial list of people who may be making significant incomes from blogging, though I'm not sure I need numbers that are that specific: after all, one of the factors involved is whether one resides in Southern California, the greater Chicago area, New York City, the San Francisco Bay area, Washington, D.C., Tokyo, London, or another high-cost-of-living environment. Raw numbers don't tell us much, particularly if you're in Atlanta or somewhere reasonable like that. (Another variable: do you have roommates? Are these roommates humans, or cockroaches?)

Thanks to Janette, for sending that last link— and to the Cotillion Women, for posing the question.

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. . . Repeal Day.

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As usual, I was the only non-football person present; I'm starting to pick up some of the nuances of the game. Slowly. (As Rita Mae Brown once put it in quite a different context, that would be "as in, slowly the Ice Age ended."*)

Caltech Girl and I discussed the cultural phenomenon of The Dangerous Book for Boys and The Daring Book for Girls. She definitely felt the latter was worth a read, and a lot of fun. The entries are apparently longer than those in Dangerous, and have more explanatory text. ("Developmentally appropriate!" she joked, and of course I laughed.)

"Some of it's practical," she informed me. "Like the segment on what girls should carry with them at all times."

"Well, that would be everything the boys have in their pockets, plus lipstick or chapstick—and a tampon," I responded. "Right?" She smiled, and her husband rolled his eyes. So everyone was happy.

Justene of CalBlog and her husband informed me that as their daughter's sponsor into the Catholic Church, I'm now responsible for any misbehavior she engages in. (Of course, that would be a sobering thought if she weren't quite such a well-behaved young lady.) As I understand it, though, they still get the credit for her accomplishments. Certainly there's some fine print I should have read, somewhere.

Juliette of Baldilocks and I laughed about our experiences in rough neighborhoods with scummy men, and compared our reading material. She's deep into the mighty Thomas Sowell (always a good choice)—and digging Conflict of Visions right now. I'm still pimping Jonathan Rauch's Kindly Inquisitors to any multi-cellular organization I come into contact with. The cool thing is that we realized that some of the arguments that Dr. Sowell makes in Conflict of Visions are very similar to those Rauch put forward in his book: the process by which one reaches conclusions can be as important as the conclusions themselves, because scientific and philosophical inquiry must have a way of correcting its mistakes.

Of course, Rauch and Sowell take quite different routes to get there; the books probably make a nice complementary set.

At some point the subject of Larry Elder came up; Juliette and I both admire him intellectually, and have each had a chance to talk with him at some length. Razor-sharp guy, very articulate. His good looks didn't enter the discussion, of course; neither Baldilocks nor I are that shallow.

I also gave Juliette a good laugh by completely flubbing military terminology. "Let me help you out, Sister," she told me, and explained the finer structural points I'd been missing.

And, as advertised, Justene and I had a few cigars. She enjoyed a Cohiba, and I took a Punch (my Cuban of choice). It was too cold to take them onto the balcony, so we just smoked them in the dining room, with the rest of the crowd moving as far away from us as they could get. Justene's other daughter—the hyper-moral one—looked on disapprovingly, waving the smoke away from her face.

"She doesn't like it when I drink, smoke, or cuss," Justene explained. (Once again, that Yeats line about "youth restraining reckless middle age" comes to mind.**)

I suggested a game of poker at that point, but the CalBlog family was up past the curfew its teenage taskmasters have set for it, so after we finished our smokes the CalBloggers went home. Caltech Girl, the Caltech Hub, Baldilocks, Attila the Hub and I talked for a while longer, until the party broke up around midnight.

Now that everyone's gone, I'm considering cleaning the house—something I couldn't be bothered to do before my guests came over. (A the H decided in his kindly fashion that there should be snacks at my party, even though I had explained this afternoon in my literal-minded way that all I'd promised was red wine and pizza, and those were therefore the only items that were contractually required of me. He set out some chips, dip, peanuts and grapes early on in the evening, and people liked them just fine, even though they fell outside the purview of the gathering's stated intent. Thank goodness I'm not turning into my minimalist, non-domestic mother; that would be simply awful.)

* The quote is somewhere in Six of One. As one might imagine, Brown's current fiction is outside of my reading parameters, but I loved her earlier work when I was in college, and went to a few of her book-signings in my youth. (The Wikipedia entry, BTW, does not mention Plain Brown Rapper. This might be just as well; that book didn't age nearly as well as Rita Mae.)

** It's here, on page 76.

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