While everyone else has been hunting Iraq-Al Queda snipes, I've been trying to figure out one aspect of the newly published 9-11 Commission report that discusses the chaos at the FAA and NORAD on the morning of September 11th. What I find odd is this factoid:

Cheney, who had been moved to an emergency bunker under the White House, approved the shoot-down order after reports surfaced about 10 a.m. that Flight 93 was headed toward Washington. Cheney said he had received approval during an earlier call with Bush to issue the order.

But even after a top NORAD official, Gen. Larry Arnold, broadcast Cheney's message at 10:31 a.m., lower-level commanders did not pass on the order to the pilots.

I freely admit that the tangled weeds of bureacracy are a mystery to me, but I'm fairly sure that the Vice-President has no command authority, unless the President is incapacitated and he fills the slot per the Constitution. I'm also certain that a simple, "Well, the President told me" rationale doesn't fly, either.

During the Cold War, the National Command Authority established clear and direct authority, lines of communication, and ensured that the President's will was not only followed, but validated. As far as I know, the Vice-President, having no military authority granted by the Constitution, was not part of the NCA. Granted, this set-up dealt with launching nuclear missiles, but I would imagine that shooting down commercial airliners filled with civilians would qualify as an extraordinary circumstance requiring the order of a civilian member of the Chain-of-Command, of which the Vice-President is not a member (I could be wrong on that, but by the Constitution, he wouldn't be. Besides, he's never been listed in any of my various CoC's).

So why was he giving orders and why were they not being verified by military commanders? You can't just go by someone's word, you need a validated message by someone within the Chain.

According to the Chronicle story, the President had trouble establishing secure communications with Washington so he could monitor the situation and issue orders. Even in this case, the Vice-President can't assume Command Authority, especially when he states that the President told him that shooting down civilian airliners was a go. If the President could communicate with the VP, then he could communicate with the appropriate military authority. If he couldn't establish a secure channel to the appropriate military officials to give orders, then any non-secure communications the VP said he had with the President would also be suspect and considered void or awaiting validation.

In any event, it seems highly inappropriate for the Vice-President to assume powers not granted by the Constitution, as well as violating an established system of validation and accountability that served us well during the Cold War.

The only way I can see this scenario being valid is if this clause in the Constitution were in effect:

In Case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death, Resignation, or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the said Office, the Same shall devolve on the VicePresident

If the President were unable to Communicate with the appropriate agencies, then this clause could be used as justification for Vice-Presidential usurption of authority, yet there are two immediate problems:

1. Despite several reassurances to the contrary on September 11th and the days immediately following, the President was unable to discharge the Powers and Duties of his Office during the critical period our nation was under attack, making Dick Cheney the President. Though he wasn't incapacitated, you could say that his inability to communicate would temporarily render him unable to discharge his Duties. If that was the case, then it would be a politically embarassing admission for the Administration.

2. Even though the President may have not had secure communications, he did have communications with his Vice-President (by the VP's own admission). That being the case, the President could not be assumed to have been unable to discharge his duties, rendering the clause irrelevant and making the Vice-President's assumption of authority vested solely in the Office of the President unconstitutional.

All in all, this act by the Vice-President sets a bad precedent for future Administrations, as the mere word of a Vice-President could be considered sufficient for communicating the will of the President to the military, over which he has no Constitutional authority.

Another American is beheaded, and once again, we hear nothing but the same empty cliche's:

President George Bush says the Islamic militants who beheaded Mr Johnson were "barbaric people" who were trying to intimidate America and shake its will.

Yes, beheading people is barbaric. The Taliban beheaded people in soccer stadiums. They were barbaric. Zarqawi's gang beheaded an American. They were barbaric. The Saudis behead people almost every week. They're "our friends" with whom we share a "strong and important friendship." I guess they're not barbarians if you're blowing them.

Of course, Dick chimed in with the same skipping record schtick, saying, "America will hunt down the killers, one by one, and destroy them." Whatever. Just like Osama, Zarqawi, those who hung the contractors from the bridge in Fallujah, and Sadr.

Remember Sadr? He was the guy that we wanted dead or alive. We were going to "bring him to justice." In which jail cell does Sadr sit? Where is his grave? Two months of fighting and a few dead American soldiers later, he now stands poised to become an "influential political player" in the new government.

Remember those contractors whose bodies were mutilated and hung from a bridge? We were going to pursue their killers and "bring them to justice" as well. At what court are their hearings taking place? What sentences have been handed down? A couple of weeks of fighting and a few dead Marines later, we retreated from Fallujah and placed one of Saddam's former generals in control of the city. The murderers have so far eluded "justice."

Remember Nick Berg? He was purportedly beheaded by Zarqawi and his followers, who have already killed 700 people in terrorist attacks throughout Iraq. The President, once again, vowed that he would, "pursue those who are responsible and bring them to justice." Zarqawi is still at large. If this story is to be believed, the Administration had three seperate opportunities to "bring him to justice" before the Iraq war, but decided not to out of a fear that doing so would "undercut its case for war against Saddam."

And what does the President have to say about the latest American beheading?

"We must pursue these people and bring them to justice before they hurt other Americans."

If I were a terrorist or nascent Iraqi insurgent, I wouldn't be too concerned about "American Justice," but I would be worried about Saudi security:

Saudi security forces Friday killed the leader of al Qaeda in the kingdom, Abdulaziz al-Muqrin, and two other militants while they were disposing of the body of a beheaded U.S. hostage, Arabiya television said.

Arabiya's Saudi correspondent said the Interior ministry had confirmed Muqrin's death and that another militant had been arrested.

Too bad it was too late for Paul Johnson, but American lives are cheap these days.

Nineteen years this week, and this blog entry reminded me, of the particular cold horror, heaped on top of the slow grinding strain of knowing that you might always be in a terrorists’ cross-hairs. Starting your car in the morning--- the car with the unmistakable AFG plates--- stopping at a traffic light, having a drink at one of the sidewalk tables at Bobby’s in Glyphada, going into the high-rise hotel that housed the clubs and the recreation facilities--- a building that boasted Security Police guards with flack-jackets and M-16s, round the clock. You knew not the day nor the hour, just the slow steady drip-drip-drip of protests and threats, and the warnings; always check the underneath of your car, if you have left it parked on the street, do not speak English loudly in a public place, wear no identifiably American clothing, or uniform items, be extra-alert when in places known to be popular with other servicepeople. I was finally at a point when I only felt safe out in public, away from the base, if all the people around me were rattling away in Greek. There, in a bus, or in a shop, my daughter and I would whisper to each other in English, carefully maintaining our cover of being just ordinary people.

I do remember I was working in the newsroom at EBS-Hellenikon when the news first came over--- first on the voice feeds. As soon as it mentioned Athens, that was a hot-button for us, host-nation sensitivity-wise. I ran downstairs and notified the NCOIC-Radio, who was heading out for lunch with MSgt. Bob, the station manager.
“OK, just the mention that it was out of Athens. That’s cleared--- anything more, kick it up to me before airing it. Is there anything on the teletype yet?”
I ran upstairs again, and scanned the length of yellow teletype copy that had accumulated in the ten minutes or so since I last checked. Ah, there it was--- “TWA Flight 847, from Athens to Rome and New York…hijacked shortly after takeoff…”

Wait a minute. Something familiar stirred my memory, something from two years before; my daughter a cranky three-year old, exhausted from the transatlantic flight. We had stopped over in Rome, on our way to Athens, something about a delay… The stewardess had announced our arrival time, and after she hung up the intercom, she had said… what she had said…”Oh, the New York-Rome-Athens, Athens-Rome-New York flight runs late as often as not… we call it the ‘late-47’”
I had come in country on TWA flights; most everyone did--- not only were MAC flights irregular, they were stunningly uncomfortable--- and departing personnel generally moved heaven and earth to depart on a civilian flight back to the States.

I tore off a copy, and ran down the hall, through the library, and across the empty upstairs workroom, to a little door at the far end which gave on a metal balcony and spiral staircase which served as a fire escape. Down below, MSgt. Bob was just getting into his car.
“Bob!” I yelled, “That TWA flight… Athens and Rome and New York! It’s the rotator flight!”

He looked up at me, on the balcony, and I saw the horrified realization on his face; without a doubt, there were military people and maybe their families on that flight, and we were racking our minds for the same thing--- who did we know, who was due to leave Athens this week, and might very well be on that flight. And if we knew one thing as well as the fact that the Papandreau’s embrace of Yassir Arafat had given Palestinian terrorists free run of Greece, (and the Greek government proved to be insouciant about the murders of Americans, as long as it didn’t affect tourism), it was that American military personnel and diplomats were usually singled out for especially bad treatment.

Nineteen years… over nineteen years. And now, just any old American, in the wrong place at the wrong time will do, for an object lesson at the hands of our enemies, not just a young Navy man on a flight back to his home.

I don’t know what else you can call it, but a war.

Timmer's Weekend Caption Contest has started at the newly revamped Digital Warfighter, and this time I won't accidently wipe it off the face of the Earth.

Also, anyone can register and post over at DW. You can maintain your own blog, participate in the built-in forum, create polls and whatever else strikes your fancy. Give it a spin.

As I sit here listening to my vast music collection, it occurs to me that I've crossed into the VH-1 Zone. Okay, so outside Insomniac Music Theater, VH-1 doesn't really play videos, but those of you who were sober during the 90's will get where I'm going with this. For the rest of you, imagine getting a watered-down Highball from the bar. It's like that.

Right now, I'm listening to "Hanging By a Moment" from Lifehouse. How did I come by this song? I was walking in a Wal-Mart one night and it was playing on all the TV's. I said to myself, "I gotta get that song!" What's funny is that even though I enjoy the song, I can stand outside my body and give myself shit for liking the damned thing. And that other dude looks a lot like a much younger version of myself who happens to wear Chuck T's, a black trenchcoat (oooh!), Jams, and a dirty T-Shirt. Let's call him Stryker 16.

But Stryker 16, you've got no room to talk. Oh sure, you like to think you're Mr. Brooding Deep Guy or the devil-may-care slacker with a heart of gold, but you listen to ABBA, dude. No, no, don't sass me. I start playing the first few bars of Dancing Queen, and somewhere in that diasaffected facade, Stryker 7's bustin' out some Saturday Night Fever. That hurts, don't it, man? You're just getting over having to wear glasses and you gotta admit that you dig ABBA. Wait until you find out that your nickname, Sea Biscuit, is some frickin' horse from the Depression you've never even heard of.

Moving on, the next song to come up is Steal My Sunshine by Len. Stryker 16 and I are exchanging puzzled looks right now. It's the "More, More, More" disco groove in the background that really hooks me. I know what Stryker 16 wants to say: "Dude, that song is totally ghey," but he can't deny the Disco within. Oh, stop feeling all conflicted, dumbass.

Okay, "Die Without You" by P.M. Dawn. Stryker 16 doesn't know about fuck music with vaguely religious imagery, yet. Dude, in a few years a group called Enigma will release a CD. You are totally gonna love it. Trust me. Your appreciation for the format will greatly increase.

I'm Not Sick But I'm Not Well: A song both Stryker 16 and I can agree on. Do you think it will be as much an anthem for Stryker 45 as it is for us? By the way, you know the extreme anxiety and the weird funks you get into every now and then? It gets worse. A lot worse. Sorry dude, we didn't dodge the mental illness bullet from mom's side of the family.

"Down" by 311. I like the bridge and chorus, but I could do without the white guy rapping in between. Stryker 16 says at least it's not Vanilla Ice. Indeed.

"Love in an Elevator" from Aerosmith. Excuse us, it's air guitar time.

"No Rain" by Blind Melon. Stryker 16's looking at me like I'm a friggin' fruitcake. Wait dude, listen to the lyrics...

And I don't understand why I sleep all day and I start to complain when there's no rain.

And all I can do is read a book to stay awake, and it rips my life away, but it's a great escape.

Well, he still thinks it needs to be set to a Metallica riff. Dude, enjoy Metallica while you have them. It's all downhill after '91.

There's a whole bunch of moody stuff from the Dark Years here. Let me see if I can find something good. Let's see...Swallowed, Teen Spirit, Come As You Are, Cherub Rock...here we go: "Linger" by the Cranberries. I don't know why I like it, either. The lyrics don't really resonate with me, but there's something about it that I can identify with. Say what you want Stryker 16, I'm not the guy who was so scared of asking out a girl that he almost passed out. Well, I guess I am.

"More Human Than Human" by White Zombie. Okay, after the porn shit....wait for it...wait...oh yeah. Hey man, is that Zombie Rock? Yeah, man! Well turn it up!

I'm sorry, I gotta listen to that one again.

Reuters:

A U.S. military judge on Wednesday refused to dismiss charges in an espionage case against an accused Syrian-American airman, but said the behavior of prosecutors in the case should be reviewed by a professional standards board.

Brand cited one instance where a prosecutor told an Arabic language translator not to correct a mistake of a translation of a key word in a document and to not disclose the error to Halabi's defense team.

"This may not have been the best way to handle the situation," Brand said.

Brand also criticized how investigators handled a box holding Halabi's possessions. They did not wear gloves when they opened the box and drank alcoholic beverages as they looked through its contents.

"There was beer drinking at some time," Brand said.

You know, the more and more I read stuff like this, the more I believe that it will be the willful incompetance evident in almost every area of government that will do us in, rather than any external threat. It borders on sabotage.

It gets better:

Boston Globe:

A key investigator for the military's espionage case against a Syrian-American translator at the US naval base in Guantanamo has been charged with raping children, officials said yesterday.

Military officials provided reporters a list of charges against [TSgt] Palmosina that included rape of a person under the age of 12 in Japan in 1998 and 2000 and sodomy of a child under the age of 12 in Vacaville, California.

The charges against Palmosina, filed on May 26, also included "failing to safeguard some number of classified documents and/or failing to store some number of classified documents only in authorized locations."

There is definitely a pattern beginning to emerge, especially in the military trials, and it's not encouraging.

While hardly the stuff of Star Trek yet, scientists have achieved quantum teleportation.

I did my presentation on throwing baseball pitches today (a day early). I did well.

I was driving to Target, or as I call it, Wal-Mart for Upper White Trash, with the wife today and we were discussing various current events. We were talking about politics (which I rarely talk about with other humans in my presence) and comparing the two candidates. Just like everyone else I know, we both agreed it's too bad McCain's not running. In fact, every single person I know says the same thing: "Man, I wish McCain was running." I've heard that sentiment from about 200 people so far. I've yet to meet anyone who actually prefers either candidate. You might as well be trying to compare which type of fungus you'd like to infect your body.

"Well Joe, Athlete's Foot might not be that bad, but Jock Itch hasn't been too bad lately, either."

Another Random Observation: I've noticed a new meme cropping-up with increasing frequency: King George. That's all I'm going to say.

The wife and I also started talking about Europe, and she asked me why I thought the Europeans didn't like us too much. I told her I really didn't care, since just about everyone I'm related to went through a lot of trouble to leave the place. Besides, I said, Europe's like one of those people who smoked two packs a day for 30 years, then decides to quit and becomes The Most Fucking Obnoxious Person in the World. Everytime they see you light up it's, "You know, those things will kill ya! I used to smoke and I know!" Oh yeah, they're all smug until they get the shakes and come around to bum one off you.

"Hey man, I knew I swore off all this war stuff, and I've given you alot of shit about it, but could you just go into Bosnia for me? Just this once? Come on, man! It's just once! Don't be an asshole!"

Better yet, they're like that drunk Uncle who spent most of his life beating the shit out of his wife, whipping his kids, going to jail, and being an all-around sloshed asshole. After you kick his ass and force him to go to a couple of AA meetings, he suddenly decides he's better than you are. Sorry, Uncle Bob, you're still a prick. You just remember it now.

And then my wife reminded me of a joke from Jay Leno: America: 10 Million Mexicans Can't Be Wrong. This led into a somewhat odd discussion comparing the relative good looks of Englishmen, Scots, Irish, Americans and Australians. I said that you don't see too many good-looking Englishmen, and the ones that are handsome usually land-up coming from Scotland or Ireland. She mentioned Hugh Grant (and Elizabeth Hurley), but I think they're the exception to the rule. The way I look at it, everyone who was worth a damn left or were kicked out. Because of the great genetic diversity afforded Americans through massive immigration, we tend to be better looking, while Europeans are generally less attractive because they're all inbred and wearing out those faded genes. Imagine it, 200 million people with freaky customs, who all talk funny, and are all related to each other. It's like Deliverance over there --yeah, ole' slackjaw's gonna tell us about foreign policy. Ah well, it doesn't really matter. The full moon will come out one day and they'll go off and kill another 60 million people for the hell of it.

In my unceasing attempts to maintain a certain degree of health--- not to mention a size 12 in off-the-rack--- and because it is hard to kick the twenty-year PT habit, I run every morning, just about the time the sun comes up. My neighborhood is thick with other retired and active-duty military. Mornings and evenings after the heat of the day, there are other determined joggers, puffing up and down the hills, walking their dogs, kids on bikes, and playing basketball at hoops that the city code compliance authorities insist are quite against the local law, unless they can be moved away from the sidewalk on demand. My run follows a regular route through the neighborhood, a long straight run up the long hill, and over, and then zigzag down, over to the other side of the main street into the development, another couple of loops among the older houses, then back over to my street for a last long uphill leg.

It’s approximately two miles, and I can do it in about forty minutes, unless it is Saturday when I run it about an hour and a half later than usual, and stop to talk to too many neighbors--- especially the ones with ambitious gardens. Regular runners like myself, and the dedicated dog walkers are afforded the chance to size up other people’s gardens, the state of their lawns, the progress of various home or garden improvements, the for-sale signs which sprout like ungainly dandelions, the huge moving van parked out front, and the mounds of broken-down moving cartons and packing materials put out for the trash which follow inevitably after--- the cycle of life and moving, and all that.

There are never dogs out, in this neighborhood, unless by accident--- the leash laws are very strict--- but certain of the houses are home to cats who are allowed a little more liberty than mine. Bubba from down the road, the white cat with the bell and collar from across the street, the orange cat and the shy three-legged cat at the house with the fan-shaped window filled with stained-glass; they all are known, and all stick fairly close to home, having all an excellent sense of what side and where their bread is buttered. The older houses, on the streets and loops that are the last half mile of my run are nearly thirty years established now, with well-grown trees and mature gardens. People have put in elaborate pergolas and garden-gates, and added sun-rooms and porches, and ells with additional rooms, and painted them in attractive colors, and otherwise made their little patch of paradise to suit themselves.

There were two cats, out in front of one of those houses on Monday, a dainty little Siamese with a collar, watching me from between a couple of large planters next to the walkway, and a white one which lollopped down the driveway towards me--- not a cat, but a white rabbit with a splotch of gray on it’s head between the long ears, laying back along the white neck and shoulders. Nose twitching, it sniffed at my fingers, and I wondered if it was in some sort of danger, being outside. My sister had never let her rabbit out, without it’s leash and harness, and it was only last week I had found that poor little ferret, cowering in my back yard; clearly, some pets are best off ignoring the call of the wild and letting the answering machine pick up. And the week before, it was a surpassingly grubby toddler; really, if it couldn’t tell me what its name was, and point out its house, it had no business out on the sidewalk unsupervised, even on a very quiet street. As far as the toddler was concerned, and now the rabbit, I felt obliged to notify someone.

The little Siamese followed me up the walk, and sat down to wash her paws when I rang the doorbell.
“Yes?” An older lady with a German accent answered at the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I think your rabbit has gotten out of its’ cage.”
“Oh, but it is not my rabbit--- I don’t know where it comes vrom,” she gestured at the cat. “It is her friendt, she came home with it von day, and now they play togedder.”
“It followed her home?” The little Siamese looked very smug. “How… interesting.”
“Dey are friendts, “ The German woman shrugged. “I tdon’t know vere it lives. Around here, close, I tink.”
“Sorry to bother, I thought was yours, “ I said, “Maybe we should just think of it as a vegetarian cat.”

I could just imagine the little Siamese--- “Mutti, it followed me home, can I keep it?” They were, after all, about the same size. I went on with the last lap of my run, musing about a neighborhood with tame rabbits playing with the cats and all the other little things I had discovered while living here. I saw the rabbit again, this morning, peacefully nibbling on some ruellia, in the front garden of a house across the street--- it appears that it looks after itself, quite efficiently.

Remember the guy who got on a plane with a bomb
built into his shoe and tried to light it?

Did you know his trial is over?
Did you know he was sentenced?
Did you see/hear any of the judge's comments on
TV/Radio?
Didn't think so.

Everyone should hear what the judge had to say.
Ruling by Judge William Young US District Court.
Prior to sentencing, the Judge asked the defendant
If he had anything to say.
His response: After admitting his guilt to the court
for the record, Reid also admitted his "allegiance
to Osama bin Laden, to Islam, and to the religion of Allah,"
defiantly stated "I think I ought not apologize for my actions," and

told the court "I am at war with your country."
Judge Young then delivered the statement quoted
below, a stinging condemnation of Reid in particular
and terrorists in general.

As some of my readers may well know, I am quite the fan of classic cinema, but hardly the 'western' genre. (I tend more to 'film noir' - my favorite being 'Double Indemity').

But I have just watched 'The Comancheros', which can be considered a 'second teir essential' film, if only for the fact that it was Micheal Curtiz's last movie, and that it was a progenitor of the 'mismatched buddy' flick typified by 'Midnight Run' and '48 Hours'.

But here's my question: The statue of John Wayne at my local airport is widely berated because it shows the actor bearing his gun on his right hip, while Wayne is known to be a lefty. But in 'The Comancheros', Wayne is sporting his gun on his right hip. So, what is it - by film - right hip, or left?

Well, I gave an Informal Lecture today in my Principles of Instruction class and it went a lot better than my formal lecture last week. My formal lecture instructed students in the mechanics of hotwiring a car, but a combination of nervousness and clock-watching led to abysmal results. I passed the lecture itself, but I finished my lecture below my time range and proceeded to tap-dance for the next two minutes while sweating like a whore in church. In fact, I didn't feel good about how I delivered the entire presentation itself at all.

Today's lecture was an informal lecture, which meant I could accept input from the students and ask them questions about the topic I was teaching. The topic was the Omaha Beach landings on D-Day, and I knocked that bugger out of the park. It was a complete reversal of last week's fiasco. For one, I know quite a bit about this particular subject, and for another, I created an awesome Power Point presentation for the lecture. Since I've never used Power Point before, I taught myself how to use it over the weekend and incorporated some pretty cool elements into the presentation. I also used a map of Omaha Beach originally designed by Supreme Allied Command, and I included a clip from Saving Private Ryan to round out the instructional aids. I went over my time by 8 seconds, but all in all, I think I did rather well. The Instructor said it was one of the best presentations he's seen, so I think I might have a future in this Instructing business after all.

That's it for now. I just bought an electric guitar, so I want to play with that, plus I have to start preparing for my third and final lecture on Thursday.

In my home of Orange County, California, the average price of a single-family home has topped a half-million dollars. In San Francisco, and other prime Bay Area counties, it is even higher.

But yet, the Homeowner's Exemption from California income tax remains at $7,000. This has been unchanged for as long as I can remember. Indeed, that was the exemption my parents received on the $18,500 cookie-cutter stucco-n-slab rancher they purchased in 1964.

California started a national tax revolt with Proposition 13, precisely because inflation was causing tax assessments which ran people right out of their homes. This is a similar situation to today. A California Constitutional amendment needs to be introduced to set the Homeowner's Exemption at a level based upon the taxable value of the home.

While they are at it, a system whereby the Renter's Tax Credit is determined by the average rental rate of a home 'appropriate' to the size of family being claimed, in a given market area. It's worth noting that these 'market areas' cannot be established along county lines, as in many counties - Los Angeles in particular, rental rates vary widely.

It is often noted that people who have endured hard times and deprivation develop little, quirky habits of thrift about particular items, long after those hard times have passed. Granny Dodie and Grandpa Al had a garage full of canned goods which they never touched; in Greece, the mother-in law of my dear English friend Penny, who had endured the German Occupation and years of civil war afterwards, could no more pass up a white sale--- sheets and towels and dress-goods, oh my---than an alcoholic could pass up free drinks.

What isn’t noted is how often the next generation or two can become bizarrely thrifty about certain things as well, as if there is some sort of race memory of hardship and want passed down to those who have no first-hand memory of it. A Korean co-worker of mine, my age and the daughter of a diplomat, with no direct memory of post-war privations, could not bring herself to ever throw away rice. I can’t bear to throw away bread, especially artisan bakery bread, or good bread that I have made myself; once it is past its’ best. It is transformed into croutons for salad, or toasted in chunks and tossed with juicy tomatoes and basil to make a bread salad, or run through the blender and turned into crumbs, in a sealed plastic bag in the freezer--- to top a casserole with, or to add to meat loaf, or a crusty coating for chicken. Throwing away those last stale crusts and slices feels like an offense against the gods of bounty.

Now that the UN Inspectors no longer have Saddam's minders getting in the way they are finding all sorts of things:

The United Nations has determined that Saddam Hussein shipped weapons of mass destruction components as well as medium-range ballistic missiles before, during and after the U.S.-led war against Iraq in 2003.

The UN Monitoring, Verification and Inspection Commission briefed the Security Council on new findings that could help trace the whereabouts of Saddam's missile and WMD program.

The briefing contained satellite photographs that demonstrated the speed with which Saddam dismantled his missile and WMD sites before and during the war. Council members were shown photographs of a ballistic missile site outside Baghdad in May 2003, and then saw a satellite image of the same location in February 2004, in which facilities had disappeared.