I'm not in Austin for the Defending the Dream Conference.

I'm not in San Francisco for the BlogHer Conference. (But please—call that city "Frisco." It makes people from the Bay Area go all red in the face, and it's fun to watch. Like anthropomorphized lava lamps, all of 'em.)

On the other hand, I will be in San Diego next week for Comic-Con (no, I'm not a fangirl; I will be there, as Joan Didion once wrote about the experience of going to college and thereby exploring the realm of the abstract, "on a forged passport"). But I'll be digging it anyway: I love the SD convention center, and the nearby gas lamp district with all those bitchin' art galleries. I'll be breaking in my new videocam at the convention, though I cannot vouch in advance for the quality of the footage.

But let me know if you'll be nearby and might feel an overwhelming urge to buy me a good cup of coffee (or a martini, for that matter). It's what you'd expect: there are certain parties I must attend, and those that I can blow off. So try me.

And I'll most definitely be at Siggraph this August. (Though the Free Pass Fairy hasn't been here yet. Hm. Free Pass Fairy, are you reading? Chop, chop.) I've been trying to talk the other locals into getting a room/suite for one night downtown so I can crash in his/her/their/its room instead of having to drive back home. But none of my friends seem to understand that my need to party trumps that $200 or whatever it is that's burning a hole in their pocket. (I have no idea what rooms cost in downtown Los Angeles. I don't care. I only know that I'm being asked to engage in mature behavior by attenuating my drinking, and that the very idea is offensive to me. Someone was supposed to simply take care of that problem, and I'm suffering. Suffering.)

So if you're going to be in L.A. for that computer graphics thingamabob in August, let me know. Especially if you've got a room. I'll be by around 2:30 a.m. with a sleeping bag and a bad case of the giggles. If you try to cop a feel, I'll blow your brains out with my Glock. But in the friendly way. The good way. I happen to b a great shot when I'm in my cups.

Where I am, tonight, if you must know, is in Glendale, California: I'm playing The Slider Game. The Slider Game is that fun little romp in which one opens various windows in the condominium, figuring out which ones will let in the most noise. Or, rather, the least amount of noise, but the maximum amount of air. This involves computing the way voices bounce off of the neighborhood's closest swimming pools and various external walls. At least, it would if I were one of you engineering types—but I'm not. Instead, I'm employing the Empirical Method to see how well I can cross-ventilate this place without enduring too many screams of childish laughter from the local kids, or too many earnest discussions over strong coffee in Armenian. (Because earnest people make me cranky, no matter what language they are speaking.)

Now some idiot is going to suggest that I turn on the A/C. No. We do not turn on the A/C unless the temperature reaches 100 degrees. Did my forebears, crossing the Oregon Trail in their covered wagons, go around turning on the air when the ambient temperatures were in the double-digits? They did not. They merely had an extra glass of pinot grigio that afternoon as they watered the horses. Or, if all their friends were having fun in Austin, TX, or in SF, CA at some sort of blog-related conference, they treated themselves to an extra olive in their martinis that evening as they circled the wagons.

The next morning, they started out again, ferrying the rest of their charges out here to the West Coast for whatever reasons people came West in those days. (Gold, or agriculture, or filmmaking, or computer programming, or defense subcontracting/space exploration: it's all the same, no?)

I come from pioneer stock, and I'm tough. No air-conditioning for me. It's cooling down, anyway. I might have some mango-pineapple juice, though. The white-trash-WASP forebears were way into that stuff as well.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 05:36 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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. . . messes with my mind.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 09:46 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Proper computer wear for conservatives consists of panties, a tank top or loose bra, and a robe, hoodie, or flannel shirt nearby for when the midnight breeze rushes in through the sliders. (Close the windows? No, never: it ranges between 80 and 95 degrees during the afternoons around here.)

And socks. Always socks. Wool most of the year; cotton during the dog days.

Let's stick to the facts, Chris.

And full-on pajamas? Strictly for wimps. With, um, all due respect.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 07:32 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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1 I shoulda got the socks right,damn.

Posted by: Chris Muir at July 09, 2008 05:20 AM (Qn+aj)

2 They tend to be fluffy, and striped. Just so you know.

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 09, 2008 09:49 AM (1q/ac)

3 Well... Fay Wray*. 'nuff said, right? *okay, I'd be a necrophile if I went after her now, but still, that's what film is for, right? But no, that's my real name; I'm not so fussed about identity theft in this respect. /could be worse //parents could have named be George ///and then where would I be? Haven't kissed any girls yet... ////made them cry, yes. Sit on them, yes. Grabbed their chests & asses, yes. Kissed, not so much.

Posted by: Gregory at July 10, 2008 12:11 AM (cjwF0)

4 货架 货架

Posted by: at February 27, 2009 04:21 AM (MuEBu)

5 货架、 货架

Posted by: at March 01, 2009 05:55 AM (+Xe1F)

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I adore Megan, particularly since she doesn't preach veganism—nor even vegetarianism—for the rest of us. She's just bein' her bitchin' self:

Prosperity allows us to have things that we all now regard as moral requirements. It permits us liberal democracy, a form of social organization that doesn't much work in hunter-gatherer tribes. It enables us to forgo infanticide, a necessary form of population control when Mom has to carry the babies everywhere and an extra unnecessary mouth might doom the whole tribe. It lets us reserve the death penalty for the most heinous violent crimes, because stealing a loaf of bread no longer threatens its owners own nutritional health. We don't have to stone adulterers, because we have enough breathing room that such behavior no longer poses an existential threat to the tribe. Wealth enables charity in the deeper, older sense of the word.

That this is true in no way undermines the decision to be charitable. Morality lies in doing the best you can with what you have. Given that I do have the luxury of finding delicious vegan food and non-leather shoes, I believe I have an obligation to do so. If that should change, I will go back to eating and wearing animal products without moral regret--though with a fair amount of digestive distress.

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. . . for reminding me of this great clip:

Thanks, Z!

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Iowahawk in ghey Paree:

"So vhat are you doink here? Are you artist or writers or zomesink?" laughs Fille un.

The Doctor and the Professor point at me. "He's a writer."

"Really?" they ask, enthusiastically. "Novels? Screenplays? Have we heard of you?"

I'm still looking around trying to figure out who they were pointing at.

"He's a blogger," offers Professor Jonathan. "He's . . . well, sort of known."

The three filles react to this as if they had learned I wrote school lunch menus or lawnmower warning stickers. Despite his revealed association with blogospheric scum, the filles continue their flirtation with Dr. Carlos, who deftly extracts a party invite for Saturday night.

Apparently, that Burge Magic doesn't quite work across the Atlantic. Which is cool, because that means that the Chicks of the Americas have him all to ourselves.

I mean, I know that I'm married, and all—but it's nice to have that Dove Bar in the freezer you know you'll never eat.

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That is all.

(For the next 24 hours or so, just look over to the right. As of Friday evening, you'll need to follow the link.)

"Owning." That's it, in a nutshell. Once African-Americans begin to figure this out in larger numbers—and it's already begun, as you know—the Democratic Party is going to have some 'splainin' to do.

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1 Well, maybe not God, per se... there be only one position, and the job's taken. However, I will make a very strong case that Mr Muir is a god, possibly a Greater Power on Faerun (well, at least a Chosen), or possibly a Level 70 Night Elf Druid. Nerds and Geeks knowing what I mean. BTW, on a completely different track I wonder if Chris could someday shoehorn Bridget from Guilty Gear into his artwork one of these days. That oughtta be fun

Posted by: Gregory at June 22, 2008 06:15 PM (cjwF0)

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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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It all seems to hinge on whether this is Terminator-style time travel, or whether one is showing up wearing wildly inappropriate clothing (and one's gold tooth fillings, and wedding ring—maybe even one's Swiss pocket knife).

Beyond that, there's the issue of whether one is allowed to take a small bag of necessities: spices, a few reference works, a cigarette lighter. (I'd take Tampax and a water-purification kit.)

Via McArdle, who suggests:

Your biggest comparative advantage is the ability to read and write, and your knowledge of modern sanitation techniques. However, given that you don't speak the language, or know how to do any of the basic manual labor careers open to you, you may have a hard time surviving long enough to employ these. Do not be tempted to do nifty things with modern technology, as this will probably cause people to suspect you are a witch or similar. Go to church regularly and mumble in fake Latin; no one will know if you're getting it wrong anyway.

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. . . in the news.

BTW, tomorrow is my first on-duty stint as part of Hawkins' Saturday crew. So send me lots of tips tonight and tomorrow morning. Thanks!

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Jane Novak will be on Fox & Friends in just a few hours, discussing the plight of the Yemeni people. (That is, she should be on-air at 6:20 Eastern, 4:20 Central, and Oh-Gosh Pacific. I'm staying up, and will crash on the couch afterward, with a stern note to my husband that I don't really exist until noon. At that point, of course, I'll make all my outstanding phone calls, and be up in time to greet the plumber at 2:00 p.m. This whole thing is not mitigating my vampirism, in case you were wondering.)

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now that we're moved, it's time to adopt a soldier through Soldier's Angels. Or maybe just sign up to send care packages out to Iraq and Afghanistan.

My non-warmongering readers should remember that one of the diverse outreaches through Soldier's Angels is focused less on supporting the military, and more on helping them to meet the needs of Iraqi kids. So there is truly a program for everyone within SA—even my lefty fans!

Now that I'm going to follow up on this, it's time for the rest of you to do it, too: after all, I have a birthday coming up in July. Join an Angels outreach for my birthday! Yay!

(This is on my mind because Greta does such great work with them—as does Whatever Beth. They are good examples, and it's time to get my hands dirty.)

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And read the entire post, which is lovely and has a nice "button." (I spend a lot of time searching for good post-buttons, but they always turn into digressions. It's hard to find something that really completes the circle in a blog entry.)

But where is Megan? She sneaked away while I was moving my digs. Never trust tall girls: never. Certainly, never get drunk around 'em.

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Ace:

I've cut out the numbers because I was told there would be no math on this blog.

I'm glad he's learned to take orders from the boss. The 'sphere, after all, is a harsh mistress.

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Well, maybe.

Of course, I've always felt that Reynolds does a pretty good job, considering the fact that he has a family and little that part-time law-professor thingie. And the podcasts. And the freelance photography. And the tech reviews. And the cooking. And the book-writing. Also, he's a person, rather than a web-spider, which has to cut down on efficiencies of scale.

And he cannot link every worthy cause, and every bitchin' little boutique blog (though of course he should link me just a bit more often, because I'm so fabulously wonderful, and most certainly first-among-equals for those who only get 250 hits a day).

Furthermore, Mr. Bloody Protein Shakes did eventually link a Malkin-site/See-Dubya post on the subject. I also think the crew at Jawa has been pretty supportive of Jane's work on behalf of the Yemenis, and Ace most certainly has been, so there's no call to get mad at all the "big dogs" of the 'sphere. Unless we want to.

But, yeah: I can see the temptation to compare Glenn with Goliath rather than with David. It was inevitable that that would happen at some point. I'm sure he'll see the compliment in there.

(FWIW, I still get more traffic from an Instalanche than I do from a mention on CNN, a link from the NYT, or prominent placement on Memeorandum. Glenn is, indeed, a one-man force of nature, or perhaps he's some other mixed metaphor I can't quite think of right now.)

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Iowahawk carves up our congresscritters once more, exposing their ooky innards for the world to see. Revolting. Disgusting. Beautiful.

All this, and classic cars. Thank you, Sir.

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Sure. I'll give it a shot.

Clockwise, from the high heels: Rachel, David, Jonathan, Eric.

Do I get a prize?

Via Eric, this time around.

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Michael Yon on the difference between a technically illegal—yet acceptable—lifting of a photo, and Michael Moore's theft of one of his own signature image (the one that, by the way, graces the cover of his Yon's new book, which I just bought):

When someoneÂ’s grandmother disseminates the photo of Major Beiger cradling a dying girl in his arms, I allow the usage because I feel she is trying to share the human tragedy. When Michael Moore puts that same photo on his web site, alongside images of George Bush, John McCain and Hillary Clinton, the clear implication is that FarahÂ’s death is their fault.

That is a misrepresentation of the facts on the ground, as well as the story of the photo. Farah was killed by a suicide car bomb in Mosul on May 2, 2005. Major Bieger and other soldiers literally risked their own lives to save many children and adults that day, but Farah didnÂ’t make it.

Michael Moore apparently does not understand – or refuses to acknowledge – the moral distinction between a man who would murder innocent people, and a man who would sacrifice himself to save them. The photo, as I took it, is the truth, but Moore uses it – illegally – to convey falsehoods. His mind is that of a political propagandist who sees Farah’s death not as a human tragedy, but a tool.

Yon is one of the great journalists of our age. He points out to his angry readers that this situation must be handled in a legal fashion, but I have no problem citing this as one more example in which Moore uses powerful images to tell flagrant lies.

This—like splicing together words from different Charlton Heston speeches to make it sound like he said things he never said—reflects upon Moore. Not on whatever topic he has chosen to lie about that day.

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Today brings us

Next from Bruce Ramsey: The Khmer Rouge -- Misunderstood Warrior-Poets

A few weeks ago I read a few lines from Ace aloud. At least a couple of posts were represented.

"What the hell?" I wondered. "Am I delighted, or appalled?"

"Yes," suggested A the H. "But he's just as brutal with himself as he is with the rest of the world."

"Maybe," I replied. "He's no rifle crank; that's for sure."

"Nope."

"I mean, he isn't spending untold hours sightin' anything in."

"He's a shotgun man," A the A responded. And he turned the page the book he was reading.

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The Rachel Boyfriend has returned. Go say "hi."

He looked smokinÂ’ hot in his uniform. Oh lord. I was tempted to test social boundaries and fellow travelersÂ’ patriotism by jumping him right there at baggage claim - I mean, are people really going to say anything to a guy in uniform? - but I controlled myself.

The uniform did come in handy at one point, which is when while boarding that flight, the agent stopped him and said, “Would you like to sit in First Class, sir?” Well of course he would, thank you very much. So that was nice for him.

Yeah. A the H reports that flight attendants were always nice to him when he flew in uniform. I like the Glenn Reynolds approach (though at present I can't afford it): when you see a group of people in uniform, send them a round of drinks.

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