Apparently, they've snagged Sarah Palin as a speaker.

Sign up here.

I hope I can go. Unfortunately, I seem to have come down with a bad case of employment, so it would be easier to engineer financially—and harder to swing in terms of time.

h/t: Robert Stacy McCain ("The Other McCain"—the journalist)

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Canadian blogger RightGirl and her badass Celtic husband at CPAC. Oh, how I love those two: I must entice them to get down here to L.A.

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This is Science & Airplane day on my annual D.C./Baltimore trip, and I'm in Professor Purkinje's lovely office surrounded by original artwork and cool furniture, enjoying the the steely-gray Maryland sky visible out of his large windows.

I'm a bit behind on sleep, having stayed up too late last night trying to post pictures to this blog, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn't, due to: 1) the fact that this computer is a bit low on memory; 2) my ineptness in Matters Arithmetical (for when I need to re-size photos "manually" after downloading; had you noticed I almost always download them originally to the wrong dimensions?) and 3) Movable Type's oppression of those who have tiny traces of Dutch in their mostly European ethnic ancestry. I believe I deserve reparations, but have not yet decided whom they might be from.

Home tonight, and back in the office tomorrow. Earning money. It's a beautiful thing, kids.

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Walked along the river by the Pretty Boy Dam in Maryland, wearing Professor Purkinje's wife's jacket and her long underwear.

Why? Is there something going on in politics that should depress me more than usual? Well—do tell. Send me a link, and I'll take a peek.

Maybe.

An election? What the fuck is that? And why should I care?"

I'll back in Los Angeles late tomorrow night. Let me know if nuclear annihilation is near; okay?

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Here he is—Mr. Right Wing News himself—enjoying sushi with a few other CPAC-ers.

A few nights ago I was chatting up my favorite members of Big Oil (more on that later), when Hawkins walked up. The discussion turned to the origin of his Southern drawl, and I turned to the woman I'd been speaking with.

"Make no mistake about it," I told her. "John is a heavy hitter in the blogosphere."

"Wait a minute," he asked me. "Are you telling her that because she asked for guidance, or are you clarifying because I have an accent?"

"The former!" I exclaimed. "And, by the way—must you make everything sound so dirty?"

Variation #572 in the "Joy floozying it up with the Big-Dog Bloggers" series.

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I announce to Caltech Girl.

"Cool," she tells me. "A couple of the Western States girl bloggers will be arranging a road trip out there to see both of 'em later on in the year."

"Count me in," I remark, "as long as I can raise the scratch. And I usually can, in a pinch."

So last night Right Girl asks to see my tits.

"What is this?" I ask. "A goddamn biker convention?"

"No, it's just that I haven't seen them in two years."

"They are the same," I explain. "Except that they may be back down to 'D' cups, now that I'm less chunky than I was back then."

"Aw," she wheedles. "Just a peek."

I pull my black tank top to reveal my lacy purple bra.

"Those are my girls!" she smiles happily.

I pull my blouse back down. "Funny. I thought they were mine."

"By the way," she informs me, "now you have an idea what I had to do to see the Donovan gun vault. His wife and I."

"Well, it might be worth it." I'm pondering the situation. "After all, that military memorobilia he has is real. And I hear that it's spectacular."

Did we get pictures last night? Well, I don't rightly recall. The PayPal button is on your left.

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. . . was sitting next to me on Bloggers' Row at CPAC yesterday.

"Okay, Attila Girl," he tells me. "I want to send you something. What's your email address?"

"Well," I respond, "it's 'miss-dot-attila . . . "

"Don't give me that shit," he interrupts. "I want the real one."

He's sharp, for a guy who cannot modulate his voice to save his life.

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. . . has been passed along from N.Z. Bear to the Ace of Spades. During Robert Bluey's introduction, Ace sat with his face in his hands, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else but in a group of his fellow homo sapiens. Bluey's introduction referred to Ace's distinctive verbal style, and referenced Hackbarth's description of Ace as "the Kurt Cobain of the blogosphere." (When I first heard that, I asked who, exactly, our Courtney Love might be. "I dunno," he told me. "Maybe Allahpundit?")

I was sitting next to James Joyner during the presentation. When Bluey remarked that that "some blogs have made larger contributions than others," I hissed angrily "not true!" (Speaking of which, why is Ace getting the award, rather than me? There is such prejudice against blogs that do not actually get read.)

When it came time to speak, however, AoS gave a rather thoughtful set of remarks on the why New Media is an important part of policy making, and drew a straight line between the history of policy debate in a town-hall setting and the Reagan Revolution, which rejected the notion—now so prevalent in Europe and elsewhere—that the political class can consider itself our "betters," and simply make policy decisions on our behalf.

We have, he reminded us, not simply an opportunity to inform ourselves about politics, but a "duty" to do so. Naturally, alternative streams of information will play a large role in that process.

Ace to the political establishment: "we're the New Media, and we're here to help you."

UPDATE: More from Hawkins; a mention on Newsbusters. Karl at Stud/God of the Cerebrasphere Jeff Goldstein's site, Protein Wisdom, weighs in on the critical Allahpundit-as-Courtney issue.

UPDATE II The link to Protein Wisdom has been fixed, as a way of hinting to the ACU that Goldstein might just be next in line, depending on whether he actually posts a bit over the next year. Besides, he has better arms than Ace, and a bitchin' tattoo.

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Poor McCain can't get a break—Stacy McCain, that is. He and Matt Vadum hosted the social event of the season last night, a "VIP-only" reception in a hotel near CPAC.

The noise levels led to security emptying out the suite Stacy and Matt had rented for the night, so a number of us ended up at the hotel's bar. Over the course of the next few hours, people migrated in ones and twos back up to the suite, and spoke in hushed whispers; security patrolled the hall, ready to bust the party up if there were any more noise complaints. But the beers were free (as opposed to the situation at the hotel bar, wherein it was an accomplishment simply to get served by the overwhelmed staff).

As was not uncommon at a Stacy-promoted event, the place was crawling with young people.

There was tremendous temptation to simply sit on the sidelines and observe the changes that came over people after drinks number 4, 5, and 6. And yet when I was there I introduced myself to people, trading cards when the situation demanded it and talking about everything from Bible translations to how one might bring about a resurgence in interest in old right-wing talk radio and television hell-raisers.

And then it was time to leave; I came back here to my own hotel and downloaded the pictures, which look like they may have tremendous value as blackmail material.

But despite all the effort, we were unable to achieve the level of debauchery Stephen Glass once envisioned. A bittersweet thing, that.

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I arrived here yesterday morning on the red-eye, checked in, and slept for several hours before meeting up with John Hawkins of Right Wing News, Bettina Inclan from the House Republicans Policy Committee, and Sean Hackbarth of The American Mind.

We went out for a lovely Ash Wednesday meal at a local sushi place (fish for the normal people who eat seafood; vegetable tempura and edamame for me).

Bettina is working with some of the House people on how to reach out better to New Media (that is to say, bloggers, podcasters, vid-bloggers, etc.). It's nice to hear that the subject is being taken seriously, although neither of our best ideas seem like they're going to fly with Bettina's Legislative Overlords.

Best Idea #1 (John Hawkins): Post lots of pictures of women in lingerie. (Modified by Joy: balance this out every now and then with beefcake. Preferably pictures of firefighters wearing red suspenders, and members of the U.S.M.C. in tank tops.)

Best Idea #2 (Joy McCann): Ditch the boring blog, and start a whole new one called "CongressCritters." Because that's what the rest of us call 'em anyway, behind their backs.

"Won't happen," she told us. "They want to be hip, but not . . . not that hip."

What a shame, I remark. "And here I thought I could bring our legislators over to the Dark Side of online prurience."

UPDATE: Hawkins tells me the sake is interfering with my memory, and the "post beefcake and cheesecake" joke was all my very own.

Beyond the jokes, however, we did have some concrete suggestions for Bettina. I sent her an extensive email the next day that had what I thought were sound suggestions. Anyone who would like to enhance cogressional outreach to New Media should feel free to send them to me, and I'll see that they are forwarded.

Sorry, John!

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I'm here in D.C. (Not Desert Cat; not David Coons. The nation's freakin' capital.)

The CPAC bloggers are starting to arrive tonight. A couple of us feel that violence can be avoided if we don't hear any of the following words over the next four days:

1) President;
2) delegates;
3) Republicans;
4) Democrats;
5) Election;
6) Maverick.

Of course, I haven't placed any bets on that, myself.

Remember O My New Media Brethren, to practice safe senseless mayhem: do not get caught. Or, if you do get caught, don't ask me to bail you out. I'm way afraid of the cops out here. And I'm broke.

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I really hope Mrs. Clinton is menopausal. 'Cause if the crying thing is happening on purpose, it's just not working, and she should know better.

Yeah, yeah: everyone's going to get mad at me for saying the "m" word. Given the severe reality of my "peri-m" experiences, I'd say I'm damn well entitled.

By the way—my pledge drive is still running! Send me money for CPAC, or I'll cry!

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what are we calling them these day?—oh, yes: males.

(1) Conservative guy calls me. "Yeah, fine," I tell him. "Meet the other bloggers and me for a drink on Friday or Saturday night. If you haven't gone back to bed at that point, with a bottle of cheap booze."

"The place in the lobby, the one across the street, or the pub that's catty-corner to the hotel?" he asks.

"God knows," I tell him. "Ask the boys at RedState. I'm just concentrating on not slashing my wrists—one day at a time."

"Oh, yes," he remarks. "That little McCain problem. Do you think Stephen Glass was prescient?"

"Downright psychic," I reply. "He should get hired back at New Republic. Just a bit ahead of his time. It'll be ugly this year."

"Should the bartenders and pub-owners start arming themselves?" he asks.

"Fuck, yeah," I reply. "In the short term, they need to start stashing Louisville Sluggers behind the bars. Long-term, things are looking good for our beloved Second Amendment; the Cons will be on the prowl this year."

(2) Liberal guy meets me at the Italian place near the old mall Santa Monica Promenade for a plate of pasta and a walk.

"I've been accused of being hostile," I tell him.

"Your blog is hostile," he reminds me.

"Just toward John McCain! And other people like that."

"What? Men?" He's joking. Sort of.

He decides we should see a movie, and I'm on-board because my lack of media exposure makes me well-nigh unemployable in L.A.

But we squabble over the fact that George-fucking-Clooney is the star of the show, and give each other the silent treatment afterward, on the way back to our cars, for no discernable reason.

"I took my blog down," he remarks.

"Fine," I tell him. "It was only a matter of time."

"How many glasses of wine did you have with dinner?" he enquires.

"Not many," I respond. "Circa three."

"You're tipsy," he informs me.

"Fine," I respond. "When was the last time you decided you had to fucking pay for fucking sex?

This is all cool, though: if we squabble, he doesn't have to rag on his sisters. And I, in turn, don't have to take it all out on my brother. Or my father. So all is well.

Wait—if I sound like a man-hater, there is a perfectly good reason for that . . . and someday, I'll blog about it. Or post my brother's pay stub. Or something.

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Well, maybe.

Please send us money, because RightGirl and I will not be posting risque pictures of ourselves if we don't get some scratch.*

Remember: the Little Miss Attila CPAC pledge drive goes on through the 9th of February!

*Actually, we won't be doing that anyway. But we'd like you to hit our PayPal buttons and pretend.

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that particular line did come off like a joke. Not a particularly funny one, but a joke.

After all, I suspect Coulter hasn't missed an election in years.

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Upon reflection, I've decided that I'm very sorry. You are actually doing a lot for the conservative movement. Just as NAMBLA is doing a lot for the cause of gay rights.

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Robert Bluey suggests that we "declared war" on Ann Coulter this week, in the blogger letter-writing campaign that originated at The American Mind. I don't know whether I quite see it that way. I don't have any problem with Coulter earning a living; I just don't agree with the American Conservative Union giving her the platform that it does at CPAC, and I'm very disappointed in their response to our letter.

The left votes with its wallet when it buys books by Noam Chomsky; the right votes with its wallet when it buys books by Ann Coulter.

On the right, as on the left, sometimes—as we used to say in my Marxist days, and in technocrat circles—"the masses are asses." People liked VHS videotape and DOS computers. And they like Ann Coulter's style of discourse, just as they dig Howard Stern.

I just don't have to agree with it. And I don't have to think Coulter represents inteligent right-of-center thought (though of course I know she's bright: that's actually one of the irritating things about this phenomenon).

I'm actually thinking of taking the opposite tack, and waging my own style of protest: I'll cover it when she makes a good point, and I'll mostly ignore her when she spouts off silly, offensive shit.

It's like training a dog, you know?

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She has some further remarks here.

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The destructiveness of Ann Coulter's speaking style is impossible to miss.

And, yes: I've heard her kooky defense of her remarks—that "faggot" didn't mean "faggot," because Edwards "clearly isn't gay." (And we were supposed to know she felt this was clear . . . how? Are there no family men out there who turn out to be gay?) It reminded me of the tortured reasoning Bill Clinton used to defend some of his more outrageous remarks—ones that he at least had a reason (however wrong) for making.

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From Kevin McCollough.

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