Cool.

Now I can go get a copy of that Esquire issue, with Bryan Anderson on the cover. I just couldn't be sure that the article wasn't a slam on the Armed Forces. But I no longer care; what an extraordinary young man.

Cassandra's summary reminds me about Project Valor IT. Good thought: that organization has to be part of my spending plan for this coming year: better to read a few books from the library and send the extra to get laptops to injured heroes.

Happy New Year!

I'm going to try to get to bed at some non-vampire time tonight, so I'll wish you all well on the slim chance that I'm successful. (But happy happy on the East Coast!)

I'll be spending the next few hours with Attila the Hub, watching part of the Marx Brothers Marathon on Turner Classics.

Smart guys. But can anyone tell me why the Marx Brothers named two of their movies after Queen albums?

Now I Can Die Happy.

Tammy Bruce took me out to breakfast this morning.

Hey, it's okay!—my husband knows all about it.

Well, all right. It's possible that there were a few other people there. But I think it still counts.

After all, would she have done it if she hadn't been captivated by my good looks? Of course not: I'm clearly the somewhat chesty reincarnation of Emma Peel.

Jules Crittenden

. . . on Saddam's death: "drink up."

Or, you know—do whatever it is you do to celebrate.

"Executed by Vengeful Countrymen"?

Well, okay, AP.

By the way, how's that search for Jamil Hussein going? I mean, I trust you guys; I really do. Like I trust CBS.

But I would like to point out that what happened to Mussolini sounded a lot more like "vengeance" to me than what happened to Saddam. Though no less deserved.

H/t: Darleen.

How to Keep Yourself From Being Proselytized

Very practical.

Of course, knowing us we'd have a BVM on one side of the porch and a Buddha on the other, and it would create Much Confusion.

H/t: CalTech Girl.

What Is It About the End of the Year?

I have a long list of things to do, and yet none of them really sing out to me.

"Oh, duty, duty—
Why hast thou not the visage of a sweetie, or a cutie?"

—Ogden Nash

Of course, I was genuinely under the weather for a few days. But still . . .

Bad Idea: RFIDs on American Passports

Good idea: "inadvertantly" destroying the chip.

Thank you, Wired.

And thank you, Sean Hackbarth.

Clarity is Good.

Kate Kershner puts in writing the requirements any sane person would have of his/her parents during a holiday visit in Production Rider for Kate Kershner's Holiday Visit Home Tour:

Probably best to avoid politics, books of a high-minded literary nature, foreign films, and music that doesn't have words. TALENT feels stupid when these are discussed and accidentally lies about her knowledge of them, which makes TALENT feel bad and drink more.

Maid in Japan

We're buying more Japanese cars than domestic ones these days in the Golden State. Apparently, one of the factors involved is a change in fleet sales, but still . . .

People who want us to buy American should get American manufacturers to make better cars. Ford is doing better, but GM's taken a big dive in the past 6-8 years. Not that I'm bitter because my love affair with Saturn went sour, mind you.

I Need One of These!

It's the Pocket Iraq War Casualty Counter, from the Associated Press!

H/t: Ace.

Let's Get Busy Exploiting Gerald Ford's Death!

Crittenden reports on two examples, including an egregious one from Bob Woodward.

It's a Beautiful Day.

The high winds have subsided, and the sky is blue, with fluffy white clouds. I'm thinking this would be a great time to start drilling ANWR.

John Edwards

. . . has announced for 2008, 2012, and 2016. Scott Ott:

“Americans are looking for a candidate with experience running for president,” said an unnamed campaign spokesman. “In 2018, when John Edwards is 65, he’ll have spent 16 years seeking the office and have four campaigns under his belt. We think that will position him well for victory in 2020.”

H/t: Insty.

Yeah, well.

This parasite is called "human nature."

So, I Have This Friend.

You know the one. This morning, she had an egg, over easy, and bacon. And most of a standard-size waffle.

For dinner, she had two toaster waffles. I'm not kidding.

Is it possible she's slightly addicted to carbohydrates?

Should I shun her?

Remember:

An "ex" is a has-been; a "spurt" is a drip of water under pressure.

Ace on expert journalists.

Surviving.

There are lots of rules. But the big rule is this: respect the forces of nature. Nature is very big. You are very small. Act accordingly.

Via Simon at Classical Values.

Goodbye, Gerald Ford.

I was so young when you occupied the White House. But I do know that I thought you were amazingly bland. Very boring.

And in retrospect I see that the country needed that blandness. Desperately.

"Interesting . . .

to see an advocacy group impeached by its own grading system."

Insty links some fun facts about the Brady Campaign's "successes."

Goodbye, James Brown.

You changed everything.

I Almost Feel Sorry for Him

But the military has been through a lot because of John Kerry: the insistence by the media that his purple hearts were for significant injuries, the continual reference to him as a "war hero." The glossing over his role in Winter Soldier. I know of one former Army LRRP (Vietnam era) who stuck by the Democratic Party during the 1990s despite the torrid affair it was having with gun control, but John Kerry broke him, and he voted for Bush in the last election.

I'm not exactly sure what Kerry expected when he went to Iraq, but it probably wasn't this. Reality must have been a bit of a shock.

More here.

Crais Rawks.

I should read the rest of his books; they're very witty.

Maybe too witty.

The dimwits in my writers' groups would say that I have a competitive vibe going with "Mr. Repartee-Bloodbath."

But they'd be flattering me.

Ace

. . . has a beautiful Christmas post up, featuring three different clips from A Charlie Brown Christmas.

It's possible that a couple of these excerpts were edited just a little. Possible.

For the Longest Time Today,

I just felt overwhelmed. I even called my mother and told her to drop by later than we'd said—I wanted to see if a nap would help. It did, a little.

God bless my mother: she's not one of those moms. I don't come from a really domestic line, praise the Lord and pass the convenience foods.

Mom came over and told me she wanted to open presents soon, and then maybe we ought to go out for dinner. She even offered to take the turkey home with her, and roast it herself tomorrow!

A the H didn't want to go out (for who knew what would even be open today?). So I rallied, and put the turkey into the oven without any stuffing, using Barbara Kafka's high heat method. (I usually use a hybrid approach that combines her technique with more conventional roasting, though I'm no longer sure why.) It cooked in an hour and forty-five minutes.

We made gravy, and enjoyed an Atkins Christmas: veggies, cranberry sauce, salad, turkey and gravy. No stuffing, no dinner rolls. Because I have PMS, and I decided we were all way too fat to eat high-carb food.

Well, It Was Warm Today.

Though not quite this warm. I didn't take a picture; my hair's dirty.

Attila the Hub's close friend called from Ohio; he used to live nearby in the San Fernando Valley.
"How are you doin', Honey?" he asked me.
"Pretty good," I told him. "It feels like Christmas."
"Like Christmas? What is it there?—seventy degrees?"
"That's just about exactly right," I told him. "We have the sliders open. Why?"
"It's forty here," he explains. "And we're grateful it's that warm."

And a Merry Christmas

. . . to you!

The Rules of the Game in the Middle East

M. Simon has 'em here.

Merry Christmas,

Mr. Osmami.

Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with dead Talibans. And dead AQs.

Iowahawk

. . . channels Joseph Rago in a "rough draft" of the latter's diatribe against the blogosphere for the Wall Street Journal.

It is, as always, magnificent.

Kathy Shaidle's Classic

"The Night Before Kwanzaa" revealed the disturbing history of this rather silly made-up holiday.

Kathy's usual 'hood: Relapsed Catholic.

Sheila

. . . has some lovely pictures from the world's great libraries. It's amazing stuff.

H/t: Photon Courier.

Alexandra

. . . over at All Things Beautiful asks if things have changed since last year, when she wrote about "the war on Christmas."

I think it's a real phenomenon, but I believe it peaked last year and has eased up slightly since then.

Thoughts?

All I Want for Christmas

. . . is money! Remember: only you can help me purchase the additional memory that will allow me to publish photos here in 2007 (and post over 10 lines at a time). And only you can send me to CPAC in early March!

Your contributions aren't tax-deductible in any way. Though I suppose you could lie on your tax returns and say you sent the dough to Attila Girl Enterprises, a Nonprofit Corporation. And it will be used to feed a starving blogger . . . but in Washington, D.C. in late winter.

Over at WE HATE GAYS

. . . I mean, MY PET JAWA, Ragner takes the high road.

They're pretty funny over there, for homophobes.

Those Berger Documents

In case you haven't seen it, this is the alternate scenario regarding Sandy Berger's theft/destruction of classified documents, detailing how the media would have reacted if Condi Rice had done the deed instead.

I'd especially like to see reactions from my liberal/dem readers on this situation. Do you agree that the media are handling Berger with kid gloves? Do you agree that temporarily suspending his access to the classified documents at the National Archives (for only three years) is an obscenity?

Crazy-Talented Chick Bloggers

What knocks me out is that there are two Bear Flag League (California-based) bloggers on this list (Tammy Bruce, and me), and a total of four "Tiara Media" (Cotillion) sites, including Mary Katherine Ham's, The Anchoress', SondraK's, and the one you're reading now.

It Looks Like Sir Elton

. . . was not 100% successful as an astronaut.

Fun-Loving Palestinians

. . . saluted over at Ace's digs.

Nuts!

And I'm not talking about soybeans.

Powerline has a mini-roundup on the Battle of the Bulge.

Merry Christmas, 101st. And thank you.

Via Insty.

Wow.

This is some pretty heady company I'm in, here.

I'm getting a surprising amount of support. I mean, I'd feel bad about my low showing, but look at this list! Even Virginia Postrel isn't looking as good as she ought to.

I was considering voting for The Anchoress, and then I faltered and voted for . . well, myself. I'm selfish. So selfish.

Reynolds

. . . on Jimmy Carter:

"I think Carter hoped that this book would cement his reputation for history. And I think it has."

Overheard, 2

"Look, I don't mean to be a cunt, but . . . . Wait . . ."

"What?"

"It's just that I've got a bad case of Christmas stress, and I do."

"Do what?"

"Do mean to be a cunt."

Battling Blood Cancers

John P. McCann was one of the writers for the Warner Brothers cartoon Animaniacs, as well as a producer on Pinky, Elmyra and the Brain—and the co-producer (along with Paul Rugg) of Freakazoid. He's been a working writer in this town for years, concentrating mostly on television animation.

Over the next few weeks he'll be raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and he will run the Phoenix Marathon this winter in memory of Melanie Fastrup, who died of cancer after a long battle. Please contribute what you can: the Leukemia and Lymphoma society has done so much to ease the suffering of children and adults with cancer, and has funded vital research that's achieved real results.

Thanks.

What's with the MSM

. . . and its apparent death wish?

The Anchoress just made Eric Boehlert her bitch.

Not that she needs a bitch, but now she's got one for emergencies.

Via Insty.

Rules for Shopping, 1

Special Christmas Edition

• This time of year, you're tempted to worry about what others think of you. Cut it out: no one cares. They are too busy worrying about what you think of them.

• Shopping is not a hobby. Window-shopping can be a pleasant way to solve wardrobe problems or home-decorating challenges, but if you buy everything you like the look of, you have an addiction. Get help.

Right-Wing Racism

Debbie Schussel is a good spokesperson for the stupid, racist Islamophobe right-wing fringe, so she makes a good museum piece—a sort of monument to idiocy, as her post on Barack Obama demonstrates.

Juliette says what needs to be said about that line of "thinking," and does a beautiful job of it.

And, of course:

Wired,or Popular Mechanics?

Glenn Reynolds Sez:

"The over-examined life is not worth living."

Now he fucking tells me.

Okay. I Hate to Admit It.

But—my own feelings about Santa-storytelling to one's kids notwithstanding—this is pretty cute.

Via Snark Patrol, who points out that NORAD's Santa-tracking enterprise began with a proofreading error.

Me? I may be a cynic, but I'll be looking for those Santa-Cams on New Year's Eve.

The ISG

David Zucker takes it on here. James Baker doesn't come off too well.

Via Glenn.

Aw, Kofi, Kofi.

How would one go about satirizing you? You do that yourself.

So You're Wondering What That Word Was That Got Bleeped Out, Huh?

Cal Tech Girl has the uncensored version of "Dick in a Box," to inspire all the procrastinating (and, um, self-confident) males out there.

Goodbye, Joe Barbera.

And thanks for the cool cartoons.

(CNN's story.)

So.

AC/DC, or KISS?

Which, and why?

Rubber Sidewalks.

You've seen the pictures, right? Here's the backstory: it sounds like one of those "why didn't someone think of this before?" moments. Walkers and runners will be especially happy about it.

Dan C. and Jeff G.

. . . are looking for Professors of Drunk Studies. Please send your applications to Protein Wisdom.

There's Nothing Worse

. . . than organizations that depend upon high turnover in order to propel themselves forward. Megan McArdle bares her soul about her time with PIRG:

. . . The shamelessly llame pretexts for getting rid of the overly successful, and the deliberate assignments to bad turf in order to depress your wages and thus force you to quit, or if that doesn't work, give them an excuse to fire you. . . . . It all comes flooding back . . .

Those who run organizations that treat their employees badly have a special place in Hell.

I know, I know.

I had the same reaction.

Quite a comedown, isn't it?

There's Something Crazy Going On Outside.

First of all, I got up this morning and I noticed that the sun wasn't there. I mean, I know it's around somewhere, because there's some light in the sky, but I just don't see it at all. It's like the light is somehow diffused by some sort of material, but I can't figure out what that might be.

A while later, I looked out the door and there was water! It was in the sky, but also coming out of the sky. Some of it was hitting the street! It's really weird.

Is this permanent? Does anyone know what's happening? It's really scary.

Tommy Thompson

. . . has entered the fray for 2008.

VodkaPundit Returns.

Well, sort of.

Holy fucking shit: Steve has been—is—seriously ill. But he's stabilizing, and may even start writing again at some point.

Send him a note to wish him well, or drop by and say "hi."

Another Secret of the Universe.

Bitchin' lunchboxes.

I got a few for A the H and me when the back-to-school sales started in September. One has to have a few around, and they only last a few years before the vinyl edges start to rip or milk spills into the folds and smells nasty.

But next time I have a steady dayjob, I'll get a set of this stuff. I might even poke around here, though 30 minutes for making lunch is out of the question. As are mango bunnies and hard-boiled eggs shaped like flowers. Just—no.

Ooh, Nice.

Jon Stewart with Dennis Miller. I honestly think I could watch this all day long, and I definitely agree with Cranky Neocon that Stewart and Miller ought to replace Hannity and Colmes.

It Turns Out That Beth

was a good deal less impressed by that KISS song than I was. I mean, substantially less impressed.

"Okay, see you later."

"Of course," he replies. "I might bail on my own party, and decide to shadow you instead."

"That's fine," I tell him as I put on mascara. "Did you want to verify that the guys I'll be talking to at the party are gay?"

"Of course. I might just emerge from the shadows and demand that they sing show tunes. Just to be safe."

"Fair enough." And I put on my lipstick.

Charles Krauthammer

. . . on how the Iraq Study Group has given the Bush Administration another chance to forge a new path there.

h/t: His Instyness.

JibJab

. . . celebrates 2006.

But Which One Is . . .

—aw, never mind.

"We're Getting Together for Chanukah,"

he informs me. "And we'll have latkes. My mother makes excellent latkes."

"Will you be eating beef brisket?" I ask.

There is a pause. Then he remarks, "you must know a lot of Jews."

"Define 'a lot,'" I request.

And he has no answer.

Eric

. . . at Classical Values discusses the scarlet "R," and what it means today.

I believe that if you're in media, entertainment, or academia it means a hell of a lot.

There are people I'm still not "out" to, after knowing them for years. As a bisexual, yes. As a right-of-center libertarian, no.

Vin Ordinaire

Why is it that each decade has one particularly fashionable type of vin ordinaire?

In the 1970s, it was burgundy (and liebfraumilch, as a white wine). In the early 80s, it seemed to be sangria. In the late 80s, everyone was drinking zinfandel—and then white zinfandel. In the 90s it seemed people went back to chianti as a red table wine. Now it's merlot and shiraz, or pinot grigio in the white realm.

All along, my father has stuck largely to his cabernet. Commendable.

Dan Collins

. . . posts at Protein Wisdom on the creepy reactions to Tim Johnson's health crisis.

Chalk One Up

. . . for the Democrats. I am actually rather stunned.

I Should Be In On This Project.

Or at least they should call me in for the sweet-talking part. I happen to excel at that.

I Just Took the Day Off.

That wasn't my original plan, but that's what I did. Unless one wants to credit me for the housework I did, or classify the mysteries I read as "research," or characterize exercise as being work, or give me the benefit of a doubt and assume I'll be productive during the night tonight.

Which is possible. But I don't care much. Because I'm grabbing more reading material, and going back to bed. Please don't bug me unless the house is burning down, okay?

See you tomorrow. It's been an intense several weeks.

The Crisper Is Back.

Dave's posting again at my favorite nutrition blog. Thank goodness; I was starting to feel like a chump for going back there all the time during his hiatus.

Satan, Soy, and Sexuality.

CalTech Girl's found one of those hilarious fringe beliefs regarding Scary Tofu.

This one ties the extremist religious right with skepticism about soy products, but I've seen similar thoughts (minus the homophobia) on the science-challenged leftist edges.

Personally, I live on rice milk and pure grain alcohol . . .

I May Not Be a Hippie Any More

. . . but I still eat this shit up. Maybe more, now that I know what our dependence on foreign oil is doing to human lives all over the world.

Not everyone wants to live off the grid—but decentralization sounds like a cool way to go. Personally, I'm getting a windmill for my backyard.

From everyone's favorite PM whore. (I say that with love.)

Jules Crittenden

. . . translates Kofi Annan's recent speech "from the original bullshit."

Via Insty.

Let Us Now Praise

. . . drug companies. Works for me.

Last Week

. . . is finally over. I had a three-week cycle to put together the newsletter for my non-profit, so the art director and I had to crank to make that happen. Meanwhile, both the Chair and the Vice Chair of the organization were out, so I had to chair both the big meetings this past Saturday.

Meanwhile, last week was also the "on" week for my daytime proofreading job, and I was still getting over that wacky virus as the week started out.

Do You Remember When You Were a Teenager?

Pretending to be half asleep, hoping to fend off an attack? And knowing that if there were one, you could "come to life" suddenly and hold your own?

Do you remember how it never quite worked out, though logic dictated that it would?

I Can't Help But Imagine

. . . that the Democrats quietly campaigned on something like, "vote for us; we're slightly less corrupt than the Republicans."

Now? Now they've changed the unspoken slogan to read: "oops; we meant that we are sligthly more corrupt. What a dreadful misundersanding; simply dreadful!"

Peanut Man

. . . has some 'splainin'to do.

Aw, Come On.

You're both right.

Everyone blows it in bed every now and then. That's as it should be.

But—ye gods!—I'm not sure I believe there are chicks out there who make some of these mistakes. I mean, who doesn't like to get titty-fucked, for example? And if you don't like bodily fluids on your bed, why on Earth did you let a man into it in the first place?

Life Is Good.

I'll be working for my favorite client today. The one wherein I get to interact with the nice guys at a particular organization.

I swear: it's a damn fine thing. I feel like humming the dwarves' song from Snow White.

Okay, Here's My Concern.

I mean, why would I want a worm? When the early bird gets it, doesn't that actually enhance the quality of my life? That's one fewer worm I might encounter in an apple or whatever, and really a damned fine thing.