December 24, 2005

It's a Sad World

. . . wherein you have to wear feathers to make a point like this. May she forever be a thorn in her family's side. And may her racy pictures torment her uncle for the rest of his short life.

As for her own safety, I've thought for years that feminism needs its own Mossad. Wouldn't it be terrible if those who participated in honor killings were themselves offed?

Terrible. Horrible. I'll be organizing a training camp in the Eastern Sierras for the spring of 2006. Included: firearms and edged weapons, evasive tactics, linguistic skills, disguise, survival ability, and Manuevers for Screwing with Sexists' Morale.

E-mail me if you're interested. We'll be a bit more lethal than Bambi and Thumper—but just as buff. And we'll be protecting Ms. Dufour.

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December 17, 2005

Yep.

I've been there.

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December 07, 2005

Shot Fired by an Air Marshall

Apparently someone claimed to have a bomb, and this led to the Air Marshall discharging his weapon. At least one person injured.

UPDATE: Not injured. Killed. What a horrible business: having to shoot a man who might just be mentally ill in order to protect other people's lives. Awful. I feel for this poor woman. Of course, if my spouse were mentally ill I wouldn't let him/her near an airplane without his/her meds; flying is stressful even in the absence of a bipolar condition. But we don't know the dynamics of their marriage, and in any event it's an awesome and terrible thing.


Via Goldstein.

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December 04, 2005

"Because I'm the Mom."

"And when you're in trouble, whom do you turn to? What would happen if someday you called me and I just wasn't there? Not very good, huh? Now run along and play."

I'd love to see this whole story traced a bit more closely: it's hard not to wonder if this leak was part of the war going on within the CIA.

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December 03, 2005

But Where's bin Ladin?

Soon. Soon.

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November 29, 2005

Update on Hostages

Rusty has an exclusive: pictures of the peace hostages, a snippet of transcript, and the hostages' names.

I'd skip his comments section, but that's me: it's too early in the day for black humor. Personal thing.

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November 19, 2005

The Dalai Lama on War

Dave Price has an interesting digest over at Dean's World of his perspectives on WWII, the Korean War, Afghanistan, and the War in Iraq.

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October 17, 2005

Which Is More Important

. . . to a President's legacy?—the selection of a Supreme Court nominee, or how he conducts foreign/military policy in light of a threat from abroad?

It's a serious question. Not a rhetorical one.

Please discuss.

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September 11, 2005

Four Years Ago

. . . I was sleeping in the living room, because I was slightly under the weather. The phone rang and it was K calling from Florida on my husband's land line. She was saying something about what sounded like an armed standoff at the Pentagon and another bomb at the World Trade Center. "It sounds like we're under attack," she exclaimed, and under stress, her voice betrayed the years she'd spent in the Upper Midwest, the word "attack" coming out with a slight Chicago accent.

It was too far to grab for the phone, but I made a mental note to find out what was going on. One of us would call her back—probably my husband would do it as I went to work. I knew I should wake him up, though.

I had overslept slightly, so I started to run the bath water in the master bath; I needed to shave my legs before getting dressed. With some sort of crisis happening, the radio had to go on, but it's not a nice thing to wake someone up with media blasting in their ears, so I needed to nudge my husband awake first.

It was around 7:30 a.m. I had to hit the road by 8:10, which was fine: instead of breakfast, I'd drink a Slim-Fast in the car on my way into Los Angeles. I shut off the bath water and kissed my husband, letting him know his ex-girlfriend had called about something weird unfolding on the East Coast.

"Honey, we have to listen to the radio now," I tell him. "I think there's been another bomb at the World Trade Center or something."

"Sure," responds. "Turn it on."

In the master bath I flipped the radio on loud enough for us both to hear it and started to take my clothes off. Bill Handel's voice came on; he recapped the morning's events for people like us who don't get up early. I was down to my underwear as he announced that planes had hit both of the World Trade Center Towers. I forget about bathing and went back into the bedroom, wide-eyed as we both listened to Handel. Our eyes locked as Handel announced that "both World Trade Towers have been reduced to rubble."

I sank down on the bed next to Attila the Hub and he crossed himself. We were looking at each other, each hoping that we'd somehow heard wrong.

Ten minutes later I got a call from one of the managers at work, who told me that because of the uncertainty about what the attacks in New York and Los Angeles meant, I should stay home that day.

"Call K," I told my husband. "And then I'm leaving: I've got a manuscript at the office I want to retrieve."

"I'm driving you," he insisted. He returned K's call as I got dressed. We proceeded slowly back through Los Angeles, which had become a ghost town, and cautiously parked at the office building near Museum Row where I worked. We gathered my manuscript up so I could bring it home. It wasn't clear how long I'd be stranded at home, so I piled together all the reference works I could, but we also tried to minimize our time in the building, because we still didn't know whether there would be attacks on other business districts. The silence all around us was eerie.

Hustling into Attila the Hub's Saturn, we made our way back home to the hills near Pasadena.

In the big cities most people were still glued to their televisions, watching planes fly into buildings over and over again, and crying. I tried to give blood because it was all I could think of to do, but the hospital was swamped, and they sent me home, telling me to try again in a few hours. I lay on the couch and fell into the kind of sleep that comes from feeling overwhelmed. Attila Hub headed out to meet his sister, who was swinging through Southern California on the last leg of a car trip. They had lunch at a local coffee shop, but not for long: she was feeling the homing instinct too, and wanted to hurry back to Arizona. When I awakened my husband was there again, and I headed back to the hospital with yet another book in my hands, hoping they would finally let me give blood.

As I waited I alternated between my book and the television, looking back up as they announced that another office building next to the WTC had collapsed from the stress it endured that day. Another hour of waiting, and the clock ran out. They sent some of us home without getting our blood. We feel cheated, as if we'd had rainchecks for products we were going to buy on sale, but the store ran out of them. And we knew it was absurd to feel that way. At this point the nation was still hoping for survivors, like there had been after the Oklahoma City attack. A sinking feeling in our hearts, however, told us there was little chance anyone's blood would be any use at all.

By day's end I was a different person than I had been when I woke up.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dreams; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connelly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

—William Butler Yeats, "Easter 1916"


As I lay down that night I mentally told Al Qaeda "you have no
idea what you've unleashed. None at all."

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August 21, 2005

First Thing

. . . let's kill all the lawyers.

(With apologies to the Bear Flag League, of course—and most of the Volokh crowd, for that matter.)

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August 11, 2005

War!

. . . is hell.


(Via Green.)

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August 09, 2005

Remember Richard Cohen of the WaPo?

Mark Steyn just put his head on a stake:

. . . [Cohen's] first thought, on learning the name of President Bush's Supreme Court nominee, is of hanging chads.

Leave aside Cohen's careless assumption that the 2004 election was "all about" the Supreme Court: I happen to be writing this in a taxicab stuck in traffic in Central London, where bombs are going off, and it seems to me last November was a little about all that loud exploding stuff, too. If the Democrats hadn't been so hung up on chads and the court, they might have had something to say about that.

Leave aside, too, that it was the Democrats who were trying to "hang enough chads." The Republicans were happy to have the election decided on -- what's the word? -- "votes." It was the Democrats who introduced us to the Four Chads -- Swinging Chad, Dangling Chad, Hanging Chad and Dimpled Chad -- at a time when, to most Republicans, the Four Chads were that vocal group who'd headlined the party's A-list $3.95-a-plate celebrity fund-raiser. It was the Dems who demanded the election be decided by chad diviners interpreting the subtle, indeed undetectable indentation of the dimple as a decisive vote for Al Gore. America has chads in its politics because Democrat lawyers put them there.

He forgot the Fifth Chad, the "pregnant chad." But, yes: it was not the GOP that wanted to change the rules after the game had been played.

What's more hilarious to me with respect to all this handwringing about the Supreme Court is that the venerable O'Conner voted with the majority, and against reading chads like tea leaves (and therefore manufacturing votes). Now she's a saint, about to be replaced by the nutjob Roberts. But then, she was part of the right-wing cabal that "selected" George W. Bush.

Steyn's main point is pivotal: if the Democrats want to be relevant, they might want to start addressing the fact that large numbers of people want to kill us just for being [American, British, Australian, Italian, Joo-ish, and so forth]. The issue is not chads: it's bombs.

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August 03, 2005

Some Brits

. . . are finally pointing out that the Emperor has no clothes. Goldstein has your links, with his usual acerbic commentary.

I don't think it's so bad here, because of the American tradition that ethnic groups take on the overall cultural imprint of the U.S.A., but my impression is that things are entirely out of control in Europe, and that it's long overdue for someone to say, "if you hate us so much, get the fuck out of here."

(No, no: I'm not for forcibly deporting anyone from any Western country because he/she is cranky. Some of my best friends are misanthropes. But there's a difference between having a cynical take on our political traditions and actively preaching violence against them. As a former member of the Communist Workers' Party, I know the difference. I sometimes wonder why my little group wasn't thoroughly investigated by the FBI when we were studying Marxism in the 80s. Then I realize that half the group probably were special agents.)

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July 31, 2005

And I Actually Voted For That Slime

Yeah. Turned 18 just in time. What an idiot I was: I think my brain was in my (tiny) Birkenstocks.

Jimmy Carter is a waste of the oxygen he breathes.

Goldstein comments:

Carter’s just a fringe element of the Democratic party anyway, and besides—who listens to ex-Presidents? 

And do you honestly believe terrorists don’t have more important things to do than pay attention to the partisan sniping of grandstanding western politicos?  There are nail bombs to make, and buses and subway cars to blow up.

As to whether or not Carter’s comments provide rhetorical cover for the terrorists—of course not!  Carter is simply voicing his dissent, and if a former US president can’t openly criticize his government—publicly, overseas, during wartime, and on the basis of a narrative of events that an investigative panel has already concluded simply does not represent the facts on the ground—well, then the terrorists have already won. After all, aiding the enemy in their propaganda war IS the highest form of patriotism, and nothing says “I love my country” more than “I love my country provided it's run by people like me."

Be sure to read his entire entry. He's got links, too, but I'm too disgusted to follow them right now. Maybe later.

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July 23, 2005

He's Baaaaaack!

Jeff of Beautiful Atrocities has come up for air. He'd like us to raid our lingerie drawers in defense of the Western World.

I hope those Islamofascists wear size small (not petite) string bikinis in black.

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July 17, 2005

Pamela

. . . has some great footage—and a cool story—over at Trey Jackson's place.

Yes, we treat terrorists who are wounded. That's what we do. I've got to go, though: I'm sending myself to bed without supper because a terrorist had women's panties put on his head once. I'm very upset about the whole thing.

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July 15, 2005

Is Anyone Else

. . . sick to death of the term "militant" as a euphemism for "terrorist"?

I was a militant feminist once, but I didn't set off bombs in . . . football stadiums or fundamentalist churches or . . . really, anywhere.

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July 12, 2005

There Are Dark Moments

. . . when I consider the possibility that the West is every bit as decadent as Bin Laden maintains, and that his forces will kill most of us, enslaving the rest and taking most of the world back to the Middle Ages.

And then I think, "not everyone is a lefty moonbat; they're just louder than everyone else."

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Steyn on Islam

When we get too politically correct, he suggests, we undercut support for the moderate Muslims who must begin to speak up about the evils of jihadism.

You must marginalize the Islamo-fascists. You must shun them.

It is the only way.

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Hitch.

He's just so good; he manages to slap Galloway as if he were a sort of irritating mosquito buzzing through the woods in the summer.

And he explains what is at stake in the War on Terror: everything.

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