Victory Soap v. 2.0

This article by Peter Hitchens (who I like to call "Christopher Hitchens' Saner Brother") on the mostly faux yet fashionable childhood "affliction" ADHD pretty much echoes my own beliefs, based both on what I have observed of the way parents tend to treat their children today, and on my own experience as one of those "dreamy, vague, in a world of her own, forgetful and disorganised" -- though, thank God not "diagnosed" as having something that needed to be cured with pills, but told by my old-fashioned parents and grandparents to sit up straight, get my nose out of that book, pay attention, and finish my chores -- girl in the Sixties and Seventies. But leaving that, and the article's subject aside, it's the final paragraph that hits home for me in more ways than one:

Some of these motives for believing in ADHD (or any other notion, idea, fad, political movement, etc. -- Ed.) are reasonable and defensible. Some of them less so. All are understandable. But what's mine for attacking this belief? What do I gain? Nothing, as it happens.It would be much easier- and less time-consuming - if I never wrote about it. Other conservative columnists don't. There's no shortage of other subjects I could write about that wouldn't attract the waves of bitter letters I receive. I just think it's wrong, that's all.

That pretty much sums up why I write the way I do. And if you're honest (my dear fellow bloggers), you'll feel the same, and not bow to pressure to avoid subjects that really rankle you just because they might alienate some of your readers -- usually expressed as "if I wrote what I really thought about this I might hurt someone's feelings." Hurt feelings make the world go 'round, don't you know?

(Article via Kathy Shaidle.)

Update: of course, and also, this. Well, at least I won't have to go on The View.

I was able to get a look at the new place today. I can't wait to move in. Why is it still only Wednesday? Stupid linear time!

Anyway, since I am too scatterbrained to write about anything of substance, I'll tell you about the new place. It is much smaller than my current apartment. However, despite the size of the place I live in now -- 800 square feet -- and the big dining room/living room combo, I always feel somewhat closed in, and often claustrophobic, here. The fact that there is only one window opening onto the living room from the patio, and one window in the bedroom have a lot to do with it. I usually keep the windows closed for privacy -- and also the bedroom window is right above the HVAC system for the four apartments on my side, which is a thrilling view, and also they are ancient machines that make a racket. And the view out of both windows, of the scabby grass and the brick wall of the apartment building across from me -- is not exactly preposessing.

The new apartment has windows only along one side too, but there are a lot of windows -- three long ones in the living room taking up most of one wall, and the sliding glass door in the bedroom that opens onto the balcony, and the side door that opens onto the balcony from the living room is also glassed in. So despite the fact that the place I'm moving into is shaded by huge old oaks, I still get a lot of light. Also I'm on the second floor instead of the ground floor, so I get lots of air, and a view. I don't look directly onto the playground that I noticed when I went there on Saturday.

As for trees: the annoying behavior and ideas of contemporary environuts aside, I am one of them when it comes to trees. I need trees about me, the more the better. One reason is the sun in Florida is punishing; another is probably due to my growing up in an old Miami house shaded by a gigantic tree known as a pongam. Apparently they don't usually grow that big, but this one was a giant of its size. It covered the entire front yard, and had a trunk as thick as a full-grown elephant. I haven't seen any pongams in Orlando -- I don't think they do well this far north. But I've always preferred the tree, and the forest is even better. This apartment is for all practical purposes in a wood.

Despite the woodland setting, it is quite close to several major intersections, so I'll also get the traffic noises I also remember from my childhood (my neighborhood was in old Miami, which is heavily urbanized). But I'll still be sheltered, as the complex is back from the busy main streets. I think I've already pointed out that I am now on two bus lines, one a very convenient one that not only gets me to work in ten minutes but has a much better route when it comes to job searching.

Back to the apartment. They put in a new carpet -- a nice light brown berber-type one, not the ghastly cream-colored thing they had in the model. (I had one of those in an apartment I lived in a few years ago, you can't keep them clean for anything.) The manager was with me and the coworker who brought me during lunch hour, so we got to point out some dings they still need to fix, and she noticed some on her own. They were still cleaning up -- they had the stove out and were cleaning behind it. Unlike my current place, which is better for a couple just starting out, who don't really like to cook (the cramped, narrow galley kitchen isn't exactly welcoming), but do like to give parties (that big dining room that I never ended up using), the new place is a true single person's apartment. It's ideally situated, and sized, for someone who lives alone. When I moved into the place I'm in now I thought I'd throw dinner parties and such, but that never happened -- my friends are all too busy and scattered to be able to gather all together at the same time, and I'm not all that sociable anyway. I spend most of the time on the computer, not at the stove cooking up elaborate meals for six. The balcony is private, not the open patio that I now share with my neighbor. And of course there is the closet for the stacked washer and dryer (I will call the rental company as soon as I get the keys -- I can't wait to be able to do my washing in the comfort of my own apartment). The bathroom opens off the bedroom -- and it's bigger than the one I have now, and has a real tile shower not the plastic inset thing that all the other places I've lived in had. Also, it has a linen closet, so I can actually keep my towels and things in the bathroom.

Well, by this time day after tomorrow (if the dsl is set up properly) I'll be writing from my new place. Or maybe I'll be collapsed in a coma -- the second person who was going to help me had to call it off, so I am down to one coworker (fortunately, the one with the truck). That's all I can think of for now -- I've already figured out where I want my furniture. Time to give the old cat her medicine. Later...

Objectivist clubs acros the nation will be littered with the remains of exploded heads: decadent, second-hander-pandering Hollywood is planning to make a version of the Robin Hood story that is sympathetic to the Sheriff of Nottingham.

(Via Those Fascists!.)

As for me, I'll vote for the first candidate who says that his favorite book is isn't a freaking scifi novel. Scifi is fun, but it's pulp. Grow up and read some real books. (Yes, I say this with my huge and now boxed for moving collection of Andre Norton, Jack Vance, and Tolkien books. But I'm not running for president.)

Updated: I read Heinlein when I was a teenager (including, I think, The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, aka The Libertarian Bible), but I haven't touched a novel of his since. I outgrew him. (There, that should get everyone a-hatin' me.)

Speaking of running for pres, if I had an ounce more gumption, I'd start a campaign: "Condoleeza Rice for President! Not only is she African-American™, she's a woman, and she is also an unmarried, successful career woman, so probably a lesbian. So the question is, America, are you ready for a president who is African-American™, Female, and Probably a Lesbian? If not, then what is wrong with you? Examine your conscience and Do the Right Thing!"

It'll be a candidacy for the ages.

Well, that was fast -- I arranged to have my phone and dsl switched over to the new place today, and they said it would be done by 7pm, and here it is 5:30 AM and the connection here is already dead. So I'm stealing some local unlocked wireless. (Yes, I know -- bad Andrea! Bad!) But (wheedle) -- it's only for a few minutes! While I drink my last coffee in this place.

I still have some packing to do. (Of course. This is me we are talking about.) But not too much -- and I arranged to actually be officially out of here in a couple more weeks, because I just needed more time. I have the feeling I'm not going to be able to get everything over there today. I wish hiring professional movers didn't cost an arm and a leg. But at least I'll get my essential stuff.

Later. I am going to play around on the internet again while I drink my coffee. And my next post will be coming from my new place!

Hi kids! I'm writing this from a wireless-enabled coffee shop at the mall, because my phone company, displaying their usual ineptitude, still have not hooked up my phone! I can call in to my number and get my voice mail (though they wiped out my message for some reason), but there is no dial tone at my new apartment. So, not only do I not have a phone, I don't have my dsl connection, and I've been without my sweet, sweet internet for TWO DAYS. I did call the phone company and complain, and the lady swore she'd have someone over to look at the doohickey outside the apartment building to see which button they forgot to push. At this point I'd be happy with dialup...

This is the only reason I ventured outside the apartment. I had no intention of doing so, but I needed to check my bank balance and Paypal balance (thank you everyone who recently contributed -- I've been going through my money like I actually had some), and also check in on the websites, etc... I am still surrounded by boxes at home, have no idea where half my stuff is, must still find places for everything in a much smaller space, and rest my aching muscles. I am going to be crippled for a week.

Did I forget to mention it's blazing hot? Thank God my new place is covered in trees. However, the streets aren't, and I had to order a frozen coffee drink. That's how hot it is -- I usually don't care for frozen coffee.

Anyway, that's all -- I still have some cleaning up to do at the old place, but I probably won't get to it until next weekend. Hopefully I will have my dsl back by tomorrow (I hold no hope out for today as it is Sunday -- they promised it would be up by Monday, which no doubt means Monday evening). Later.

As I also gave away my tv, and hadn't turned on the radio yesterday morning, I didn't find out about the latest monster tornado that hit Greensburg, Kansas until I went to the McDonald's around the corner from the new place. They have a couple of big tv screens that were playing Fox News.

Well that sucks. Not getting my internet connection (and phone) back, but finding out that in February Embarq my phone and dsl company) ended their contract with Earthlink, so that the email address I had with them is no longer valid. That means that I have to set up a whole new email address just so I can get the SMTP authorization to send emails from my admin@spleenville address. Which I had once meant to decommission, but I ended up keeping it. Maybe now is the time.

At least I can now sit at my desk in my new apartment and do my internet stuff. It really doesn't feel like a home until I can get on line. At least not to me -- I'm weird that way.

Update: I forgot -- if you want to contact me, use twistedspinster-at-gmail.com. If you have the Earthlink address, delete it; and you might as well delete the spleenville email too. I'll just use the Gmail one from now on.

Good grief -- is this amok time for employers or what? Every big corporation seems to be trying their Stupid Plan this year, and I don't say that just from personal experience (wait until I'm free from the Large Unnameable Homebuilding Company, then I'll have some stories to tell you); I see it happening all over the place. Another industry that like the homebuilding sector is tanking is that of print media. The reason why is obvious to anyone except those who run the newspapers; the internet has far outstripped the newspapers when it comes to content that is dynamic and interesting. When there were no other news outlets but the papers, radio, and the morning and evening news segments, people had no choice but to watch the tv, listen to the radio, and buy the papers to get their news. And the papers and news shows got complacent and lazy, and the increasing amount of bland "human interest" filler, politically correct "teach your children well" lectures disguised as news, and morbid fascination with disaster and victimization, were the result. But now that we have the internet, we can get news faster than reporters on the field, and we can get information about what interests us, not what Our Betters in Media think should interest us. But all the owners of what I will start calling Old Media can see is a public recalcitrantly refusing to buy the paper for some mysterious reason, they know not why... (That story about the poodle who saved the orphan with spina bifida from the burning trailer home after the tornado destroyed the trailer park didn't wring enough hearts? What about running another sobstory about a dead soldier in Iraq and the quintuplets his wife is left at home to raise alone? And throw in a cartoon making fun of the president -- in a time of war! What do you mean sales are down?)

All this is to lead up to this week's entry in Corporate Follies: beloved Bleatist James Lileks has had his popular column in the Minneapolis StarTribune cancelled by the paper's overlords and has been put on the local reporter beat. That's as in straight reporting without any quirky asides.

Tim and James ask us to contact the paper with our opinions of this bizarre move, but I am not sure that contact is possible with beings that think writers are interchangeable as cogs. It's as if Hemingway's editor said to him "your stories are great and all but we think it's time you started doing nurse romances" or math textbooks or something. I mean what's the difference, it's all just a bunch of words, right? It's not like they mean anything.

I could send the above, suitably embellished in a letter, to the owners of the Star Tribune. But I know the kind of people that they are without even meeting them -- they are the sort of people who think that stories about retarded bag boys* (oh excuse me, mentally handicapped) who put post-its saying nice things into customers' bags, are inspiring enough that they make Powerpoint presentations for meetings of their fellow business executives -- instead of working on a presentation about something that actually has anything to do with their company's business. They are the sort of people who think that the way to "build morale" is to give out fake certificates that say something along the lines of "you're a great person!" -- when all that would make the "great person" feel better would have been to pay them more money.

And so on and so forth. If you try to explain to people like this that they are making a profoundly stupid move with their latest little scheme, they will stare at you with a bright, incomprehending gaze, their smiles frozen as whatever passes for their brains carefully scrub themselves free of your words. As far as they are concerned they have had a great idea, and no amount of fact will disturb their belief in it.

*This was actually passed around my company via email from our regional executive, who thought it was just the greatest thing ever. I nearly tossed my cookies -- it was accompanied by the most treacly music as well. You can probably find it on Youtube -- I refuse to look. And that very same week we got the announcement that our department was being canned. So beware of when that email comes around in your company -- it means that they've weighed your worth in the balance with a retarded bag boy and chosen the guy who gives smiley face for minimum wage.

What The Hell Update: Well, I went ahead and sent a line or two to the reader rep. I figured it was the least I could do. Here is the missive:

Dear Ms. Parry,

I confess myself at a loss for words: your paper is taking one of your feature writers, James Lileks, and putting him on some sort of straight reporting beat. I will be short: this is a spectacularly stupid thing to do. It is clear to anyone who has read Mr. Lileks' writing that he is not the sort of writer who can be shoehorned into any old typing gig. If your paper's owners were so tired of Mr. Lileks' distinct authorial personality, why didn't you just fire him? It would certainly have caused much less ire than this clumsy, ill-considered move.

I am from Florida. I have little interest in straight news of Minneapolis. I am certainly not interested in news about local internet doings in Minneapolis -- whatever those can possibly be. For one thing, the words "local" and "internet" are an oxymoron; if it had not been for the internet, I rather doubt I would have heard of James Lileks in the first place. Once his column is gone I will have no reason to read your online publication. Of course I am only one reader, but I'm not the only one that will no longer be building up your ad revenue.

In closing, I am

Andrea Harris
Altamonte Springs, Florida

Perhaps it will have a good effect. But maybe James should ask himself (as I ask myself daily): do I want to keep working for this kind of people?

One more thing I forgot to mention: I tried my best not to fawn, and in any case I refuse to use phrases like "one of your finest writers" and all that garbage, because fanboi drooling of that sort makes me queasy and is counterproductive in the cynical world of journalism, regulating such letters to the "old lady in love with the cute young reporter" file. And in any case, his Star Tribune column, the Quirk, wasn't an example of his best writing -- you can get that on his Bleat and in his more serious columns elsewhere. His writing for the Star Tribune, though often charming, was necessarily unserious and inoffensive as befits a column for a timid Old Media publication. I just hate seeing talent misused; in this case talent for first-person commentary (what could be called "what I think about something" writing -- for example, Orwell's "As I See It" columns) does not translate into an ability to do personality-free third person reporting -- as James himself admits. But the idea that "anyone can do anything" is our nation's cracked answer to the old "Renaissance Man" ideal, leaving aside the fact that during the Renaissance it was possible for a man to have more than one ability because there weren't as many things for people to do. And in any case, what we really mean is "anyone can do anything for money" -- unless we figure out that money isn't everything, and the idea collapses.

In this post on guns and the attitude towards them, Grim quotes a liberal intellectual, who says of our country's "deeply troubling" relationship with guns:

American society, in the absence of an encompassing and stable traditional culture, has embraced the gun as a substitute for that absence, and created a vast cultural ideology we can call "gunism." Paradoxically, this highly destabilizing object became viewed as a baseline and an icon that could somehow sustain us in a new form of nontraditional society.

Blah blah blah. What a perfect illustration of the mushy thinking most liberals engage in these days! Liberals think that civilization is built on words and can be sustained and protected by words. This is because most of them are quivering bundles of sensitivity who nurse the psychic wounds they received in high school when they were called "nerd" and "dork" by their fellow students. To liberals, words have magical power, especially when you call them "laws." That's why whenever something bad happens, their response isn't to change any behavior of their own but to scream for more laws to be written to stop any future bad behavior. This also explains pacifism -- "We'll just talk about how much we disapprove of war, and people will stop fighting!" In the meantime, practical people with guns are busy doing the actual work of trying to keep the barbarians at bay.

Sorry. I got nuthin' tonight. Later, when I've lost the last of the muscle aches, or something.

So far this month I have helped two coworkers look up research material on the internet for reports their middle-school-age children had to do for school. This made me reflect on the fact that my parents' method of "helping" me do my homework was to tell me to turn off the tv and get started already. I am old enough to remember when the sort of help parents had to give their kids was of the "mom, I forgot -- I have to have a pirate costume for the play tomorrow!" variety, but when it came to intellectual tasks we were expected to do our own thinking and reading, and if our slacker ways meant we had to scramble to put together that book report or research paper, well too bad. (Addition: I made sure to tell both coworkers to avoid Wikipedia.)

Oh yeah... last night after work I decided to take the bus all the way to the mall, so I could go to the Albertson's next to the mall and get a few things. I caught the bus back (five minute ride! as opposed to the forty-minute ride it used to be) and started up the hill to my new apartment complex. (Yes, it's built on a lumpy piece of land, which to a South Floridian is like living in the mountains.) Anyway, to get to the official entrance of the place -- which has a wrought iron fence, but no gates -- I have to go some ways up the block, and then back down the driveway to my building. But if I could climb the fence (which is impossible -- it's one of those tall spiked things) I could cut off all that walking back. As I came near I saw people were indeed taking the short cut, but they weren't climbing the fence -- apparently some enterprising person had removed some of the rods from the fencing in the corner, so you could squeeze through. I was tired and had four grocery sacks, so I decided to take the short cut. Well, I paid for my crime -- as I was ducking through the fence I did what I always do, and misjudged the size of my huge head. WHANG. I banged the top of my head rather painfully on the top bar of the fence, which had a sharpish bit of metal where the rod used to be attached. I felt the sore spot and my finger came away red. Oh great! I'd cut my scalp. Chastened, I hurried up the stairs to my door, before the red gore could start running down my face. Fortunately this didn't happen, but I went right into the shower and applied anti-bacterial soap, and then shampoo. But that's a lesson to me -- no shortcuts.

I missed the chance to wish Kathy Shaidle a Happy Birthday. As a fellow May birthday-ite (and as someone who has benefitted from her support both moral and otherwise), I wish I could do more, but I am currently flat broke. But those of you who aren't, help a sensible voice in the Canadian wilderness.

Uh oh.

What did I tell you? This is how it begins:

First they start talking about recycling and other "green" things.

Then they start letting the "save money" talk creep through.

Then they send out memos asking employees not to order supplies more than once a week.

Then the supplies are put behind lock and key, the key in the charge of a manager who is always in meetings.

Then they start buying the cheap pens that leak and run out of ink after three days.

Then the coffee supplies start being replaced by cheaper items -- real cream packets with powdered creamer (and not the kind that actually creams, but something that looks and tastes like plaster dust).

Then the coffee maker vanishes, and you find out (from the company grape vine, because no announcements ever go out about any of these changes) that they have cancelled the contract with the coffee company. You have to get your own coffee from the cafe in the lobby or boil instant in the microwave.

Brand-name sodas are replaced in the machine by generic knockoffs.

Strange men and women without company nametags appear in your area, making notes on memo pads as if they are counting the number of cubicles, computers, and so on. They do not introduce themselves, and no one introduces them. Their visit was not announced, and you are told nothing about it. When you ask your manager who they were she gives you a blank look and then changes the subject.

People start disappearing. One day you have a coworker in the next cubicle over, the next day he's gone, and you are given all of his assignments to do as well as your own. No one will tell you why he (and several others) were fired.

A meeting is abruptly called. You are given a speech by your boss's bosses about how In These Difficult Times Every Associate ("employees" is officially not allowed to be used) Has To Help. Something vague about "changes" is talked about, but nothing of any substance is said. Several of your remaning coworkers start looking at all times as if their dog was dying.

In the next few weeks you are given assignments to do "yesterday" and when you break your head to get them done on time no one seems to care anymore. The frustration is so thick it can be scooped up with a spoon. You no longer have any idea what you are supposed to be doing, and your boss is always in meetings.

The word "restructuring" starts oozing into company announcements - what little they emit these days.

Then they finally admit you're being axed. But in order to get your severance pay you have to stay for the final excruciating weeks while they figure out what to do with the tangled ball of wool that used to be your company. But don't forget to use up your personal and sick time, because you don't get paid for that.

See what happens when you displease me, puny mortals?

Who, me, hate? Nah, subtropical storms are too busy to hate! (Scroll down through the boring stuff in this to get to the interesting stuff about me. Because the whole internet is about me!)

Okay, gotta go slosh about in the ocean for a while. I was able to get one of those stupid surfers already.

Next day or whenever the hell this is update: seriously, this is just embarassing. Let me quote you the most cringe-making passage:

To rip that platform out from underneath its single most important asset now makes the “Strib” the poster child for the astonishingly stupid and suicidal decisions made by newspapers in the 21st century.

Or maybe that wasn't the worst -- I couldn't bear to actually read the whole sobbing mess, and just lifted that passage from Tim Blair's post. Why are so many journalists such insufferable bores about their jobs?

Let's get real here. The Quirk column and previous Backfence were amusing little bits of filler, but they were hardly the stuff of literary legend. Having thought more about this issue I have decided that papers need less amusing "quirky" columns and more real news of substance (instead of copied and pasted Reuters releases). If James Lileks doesn't have the sort of talent that is needed to report the news (as opposed to commenting on it), then he shouldn't be given a reporter's job. That is what pissed me off -- the fact that newspapers, like so many American corporations these days, waste so much time shunting employees off into positions they aren't suited for. I am not sure why this trend is so popular, but I suspect it has less to do with clueless administrators than American passive-aggressiveness and fear of confrontation. We won't fire you, we'll just play head games with you until you leave on your own, and then we can say it wasn't our fault.

Well hi there. I meant to write a bunch of interesting stuff, but then I remembered a brain is required for such things, and mine shuts down every time my monthly affliction starts up. Well, if it ever comes back (the brain, that is), I'll let you know. In the meantime, please surf the internets at your leisure.

Since my tv watching had dived to nil even before I gave my tv away, I hadn't paid any attention to changes in the broadcast industry, so I had no idea that the entire country is going to completely switch from analog to digital broadcasting in on February 17, 2009.

Well that will open a whole new can of worms. What will people in trailer parks do? (Watch tv as usual, of course, as they've spent what would normally be housing income on 52" HDTV-ready plasma screens hooked up to satellite dishes.)

I do actually intend to buy a new tv at some point. I suppose the need to be "digital ready" will guide my decision, though will the digital tvs of today still be viable two years from now? You know how things are in the world of high tech toys.

But that's far in the future, and I may just decide to keep on opting out. Right now I have a million books to find places for. And I still have to unpack a thousand boxes. Once I would simply have used them as the furniture I didn't have, but now I actually have furniture, so the boxes are just in the way.

Among the many things I don't understand about kids today is the popularity among the younger set of oral sex. When I was that age neither I nor my peers would have even thought of going near each other's peepees with our mouths without the accompanying exclamation: "EWWWWWW! That's gross!" This was the early Seventies, when at least in my part of the US teen sex was still seen as optional. (Now it's apparently mandatory to have sex the minute you turn thirteen, if you're even allowed to wait that long.)

Anyway, my question is, what has happened to the natural disgust young people once had concerning those bodily functions having to do with the end products of digestion? This isn't a new thing -- twenty years ago (ouch) fifteen-year-old Tawana Bradley apparently smeared herself or allowed herself to be smeared with feces (think about it: she let poo touch her body; yuuurrrggghhh!) in order to falsely claim she was raped. But the numbing of our instinctive recoil from human waste, and the places from which these things emit, has become more widespread, along with the increasing callousness of people concerning the sex act and sexual relations. More and more people are turning into automatons, simulations of human beings with no actual human feelings or responses to anything. That way no one will ever get hurt or offended -- beings incapable of offence can't offend -- except for those of us real humans who will have to wade through the piss and shit.

(Oops update: this review is from 1994, which I could have seen if I'd actually read the byline right there at the top of the article. So the current conflict has nothing to do with the novel. Or does it? See my comment. I'm going to leave this post as is; just make timeline adjustments as necessary.)

Hm. Tom Clancy has emitted a new tome. Now, we are currently at war with the crazy jihad branch (or perhaps one should say "trunk, "root system," or even "entire tree") of the Muslim world. Which is centered in the Middle East. And who do you think are the dastardly villains at the center of Mr. Clancy's plot?

The Japanese.

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Sorry, folks, I've got nuthin.' Really.

Except to note that the example of prose Mr. Buckley quotes --"Yamata had seen breasts before, even large Caucasian breasts" -- has replaced my former favorite example of bad sexy-talk from a book (in this case one of Allen Drury's dreadful Cold War spy novels): "Irina went to the shower to douche and towel herself dry." I can't remember the name of the novel that contained this bit of sparkling romantic prose, probably because I don't want to. But I swear by Jack Ryan's "sword" that I've quoted that bit exactly as I read it some time in the early 80s.

(Link to the book review via The Anchoress.)

This picture is for Kim Du Toit. Nice... gun.

Nitey-nite.

It's too early to think about things, so here are some pictures of the new place:

First, this is what I see outside my windows:

And here are those windows:

And from the bedroom:

My plants look happy with their new shady home:

Sure, the place is smaller, and it's more expensive, and has one of those low-flow toilets, but I think it's worth it. Oh -- and I put in my order for the stacked washer/dryer -- it will be delivered Wednesday after next. Which is a good think because I am too broke to be able to afford the laundromat.

I'll end this with dumb new-apartment gaffe of the week: all last night I was sitting here irritated because someone was playing a radio set on the classic rock station, so the whiny tones of Robert Plant and Billy Squier kept intruding into my woodland idyll. I woke up this morning and the radio was still playing! What evil new noisy neighbor was I going to have to deal with now? I noticed that the sound was loudest as I sat at my desk, so I went out onto the balcony to investigate. Odd. I could not hear any music outside. Hmph. I went back inside (where I could here the music again) and sat down at the desk. I decided to upload the above photos. I opened my desk drawer to get the usb cord for the camera... and realized that the music was emitting from the portable radio/cassette player I had stuffed in the drawer. I had left the headphones connected, and apparently accidentally turned on the radio. Derrrr....

The word is MOTHERS. That's M-O-T-H-E-R, MOTHER. Say it:

"Mother."

I can't hear you! Say it louder!

"Mother!"

I SAID I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I WANT TO HEAR SOME NOISE. SAY THE WORD, NOSE-WIPES! OR I'LL TAKE YOUR CUTE "MOM MOM MOM" AD CAMPAIGNS AND HEADLINES AND ANNOUNCEMENTS AND ROLL THEM UP AND STUFF THEM WHERE THE SUN DON'T SHINE!

"MOTHER!!!! Please don't hurt us, sir-- we mean ma'am!"

That's better.

I have a horrible headache from walking around in all the smoke today. It threatened to rain earlier, but all I got were a couple of big, cold drops, and then one huge "BANG" of thunder that rattled the walls, and that was it. Perhaps to make up for the lack of rain, the people upstairs dumped a bunch of water on their balcony -- which as the balconies here only have slats, no sealed floors, immediately rained down on my balcony (and the floor of the patio of the ground floor apartment below me). Fortunately I was not out there at the time. I hope it was an accident (it did sound like they knocked over a cooler full of melted ice or something) -- I don't want to have to notify my upstairs neighbors that this is not medieval France.

However, the walking around did have some satisfactory results. I went to the old apartment to get rid of the remaining stuff, pick up a few things I'd left, etc. I'd intended to clean but as usual I just couldn't get that far. I was able to give away the remaining furniture pieces -- to the coworker who helped me move before; he came and got the big dining room table and the dinette set. He'd recently moved into a two-bedroom condo and it has plenty of room for both items. I helped him carry them in, and then he dropped me off at Home Depot.

The trip to Home Depot was to take care of a most important task: getting a new shower head to replace the pathetic one the apartment came with. This time I not only had an old, inadequate shower head to deal with, I had a low-pressure situation, as well as a smaller water heater than the previous apartment had. So I bought this one, and I managed to install it after much struggle. Now I have a real shower. (And yes, the fine mist is strong enough for me.)

This entry is more boring than I intended; I blame my sinuses. Note to weather gods: we need some rain, please.

Kathy Shaidle links to this blog post noting an article by a Muslim professor on the real reasons for Muslim decline. One of the first thing it notes is that there is high literacy in the Muslim world. But at the same time there is ignorance, bigotry, and attraction to conspiracy theories to explain everything that goes wrong. Hmm, who else does that sound like? If you said "academia and the media" you get a gold star!

The halls of academe and the various artistic and cultural groupings I have lumped under "the media" are as shot through with ignorance, bigotry, and conspiracy-mongering as roquefort cheese with mold. And we have been wracking our brains here in the rightwing nuthouse trying to figure out why. But it's not that difficult to understand -- all you have to do is let go of that mistaken, but popular, notion that the ability to read magically conveys upon a person an open mind and a superior understanding of the world.

Americans are pragmatic, and our pragmatism often leads us to mistaken conclusions about just how effective solutions to problems are. Once there was the problem of people not being able to read. So we pushed literacy and education -- and came up with the ignorant redneck who can now read Mein Kampf and the Nat (Speaking of ignorati - Ed. in the Mirror) Turner Diaries, and the whitey-hating black who can now read whatever gush and kibble leads to joining groups like Nation of Islam. Curing a symptom (in this case, illiteracy) doesn't cure the underlying disease of ignorance and bigotry. As long as we leave the stupid ideas our "intellectual betters" come up with unchallenged because we are intimidated by the degrees on their wall, we will still be assailed by ignorance, bigotry, and fear.

I never looked into the OMG We're Gonna Die Isn't Leo Cute? edition of Vanity Fair -- in fact, I never look in Vanity Fair, as I have better ways to rot my brain -- but that's what the internet's for, other people doing what you won't do (at least, until we turn this over to illegal aliens too). Anyway, it looks like Global Warming and the coming Flood won't be so bad after all -- there will be plenty of opportunity to lie around on the new beaches, sunning our new, sexy selves. (Scroll down to the last pictures.) Bring on the waves, I say!

That's the first thought that went through my head when I caught the news that Jerry Falwell had just died on the tv screen in the break room today. And I used to sneer at him just like everyone else did.

Turns out he came by my little corner of the world this past weekend. Right off the bat our trees frightened him. Good -- we keep them there by the airport to let visitors know not to stray. After all, there be alligators (and possibly a few velociraptors) in those jungles.

Oddly enough, I had just made the decision that one thing I am going to do with my severance pay is go to Disney World. I have lived here since 1999 but I haven't been into the gates of the big World since I think 1992. Or maybe even earlier. Also, I can take the bus there.

I'm not really into the whole Magic Kingdom thing, but it is a well-done concept, and there are several new things (such as Animal Kingdom) that I haven't seen. I'm not much into rides, but the Haunted Mansion was an exception. I always found it restful. (Even as a teenager I was planning my retirement.) Then I'll go to Epcot, where I can get booze and spend way too much money on crap.

Or maybe I'll just stay home and drink on my couch. Who knows... I hope I get a week or so off between jobs; I really need a vacation.

I was at the bookstore the other day -- I'm dangerously close to a Barnes and Noble now -- and I was wandering through the science fiction and fantasy isle. I picked up a new hardcover, one of those thick ones with arty jackets and lots of overblown praise from people who are important (I guess) in the science fiction and fantasy world. I opened the book at random. Here are the words from a character of this phantasmagoric, richly imagistic, wildly conceptual, stunningly original (to use standard blurb words for these kinds of things) work of fantasy: "Fuck that shit."

I put the book back.

I tell you what, I ask so little of the world. I ask only that I not have to read "fuck and suck" and suchlike terminology in stories about fantastical otherworlds populated by myth-spawned creatures and larger-than-life heroes. I can't imagine Aragorn saying to Sam "fuck it, the little fucker ran off to Mordor with the ring," can you? It looks like the only fantasy novel I'll be buying this year is The Children of Hurin, and maybe the last Potter one when the frenzy has died down. As for the rest, I've got a ton of classical reading to catch up on. You know, books from back in the day when bad old oppressive laws and customs meant authors actually had to think before they wrote.

I decided to let the Twisted Spinster domain expire. I just wasn't interested in paying for it anymore -- I had a blog up there in 2004, but could never think of anything else to do with it. So I ignored the emails from GoDaddy, backed up the database for the blog, copied any images and other files off the server, and removed the link from the main Spleenville index page. Which is also crying out for a re-design, but that's another task for another day. Anyway, anyone out there too lazy to updated their blogroll for three years are SOL.

Look! I have a new countdown on the sidebar. I can't wait.

I thought I had more than this, but I don't.

I was prepared to sneer at this approving piece on condensed books, because over the years I've become a book snob who must read The Whole Thing or nothing, when a thought occurred to me: condensing a large book is surely a great way of revealing whether or not the book actually has a good plot and structure. Padding your writing with extraneous baggage in the form of treatises and side-issues and whatnot is a great way of hiding weaknesses. And such severe editing could even reveal the work's true nature. For example, there's a good mystery story struggling to escape from all the speechifying and pontificating in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugs.

This is wonderful: Steve H. lays into Christopher Hitchens, and gives it to him good and hard. Bonus: as perfect a critique of "lite" religion as I have ever read. Gist:

God would have made religion like this in the first place. If He had only been as smart as we are.

Like Steve, I prefer Hitchens to stick to politics. Then again, he's a Marxist, or something -- though that's probably a pose, I'm pretty sure his real ideals are his booze, his fame, and his bank account.

Ah... the weekend. Tomorrow I have to go to the old apartment one last time, to finish cleaning the place, turn in the keys, etc. I don't want to -- I never want to have to get on that bus going in that direction again -- but the alternative is unthinkable. I was raised to tie up my loose ends as well as they could be tied (the bridge-burning I figured out on my own).

Well that was a fat paragraph of dullness. I can't promise any better -- I've become obsessed with finding the Perfect Hanging Lamps for my new living room and bedroom, and I can't make myself think about anything else. I have in mind something like those rattan tulip-shaped lamps so popular in yes, the Seventies. I know I know, but I could paint them a more attractive color... I have the book packed away somewhere, so I went surfing around Lileks' old Interior Desecrations site. So far no such luck, but I did find the bathroom of Sauron. The next page has this... motif. Well, Remington did make sewing machines, typewriters and guns.

And in that last picture there is at least a nice-looking pendant light. Not the tacky wicker thing I'm looking for, but a plain, modernistic hemisphere.

Peh, too tasteful. The search goes on!

My Eyes! They Burn! Update: my God, it's -- it's--

Definitely not there.

A while back (too lazy to link) I mentioned a British tv series based on the Robin Hood legend that was a favorite of mine back in the 80s, and lamented the fact that apparently only a few episodes have been released on dvd. Well, you can watch a whole bunch of the episodes (about three seasons worth -- I'm not sure if this is all of them) right here. There are lots more British tv shows, and some American ones, listed on the main page.

(Via Out of Lascaux, who is alas, much afflicted with comment spam.)

Clicky:

I haven't posted much on the issues of the day because I just haven't been able to summon enough contempt. There are so many things.... the needlessly twee and toddler-aimed "memorial" to Flight 93, the mewling illegal alien coddlers (my favorite argument so far is the sobbing calls -- mostly from, alas, Christians -- to "remember that these are human beings" -- as if calling them "aliens" meant that we think Mexico orbits Alpha Centauri!), a Democratic majority clearly bent on staying in power even if it means selling out the country they are trying to stay in power over, an addled administration trying to please everyone while actually pleasing no one, the "peace" (of the grave) "movement" (which considering the people at the forefront of that cavalcade of trash might better be termed a bowel movement), and so on.

So much stupidity, so little time... Here for your consideration, then, is this delicious little item from our friends across the pond, who are experimenting, for no good reason, with doing away with traffic signs in several of our cities:

European traffic planners are dreaming of streets free of rules and directives. They want drivers and pedestrians to interact in a free and humane way, as brethren -- by means of friendly gestures, nods of the head and eye contact, without the harassment of prohibitions, restrictions and warning signs.

Beautiful. I'm so glad that I never did go on a second trip to Europe with that friend who wanted to rent a car instead of taking trains and taxis like a normal tourist. The rest is a paean to moony ideals of somehow getting people to be more considerate and sociable by putting their lives in increased danger. Hm, actually, that just might work... And if you didn't know you were reading this in a German publication, you'd know it after reading the assertion that "[a]bout 70 percent of traffic signs are ignored by drivers."

Via Tom McMahon's news links.)

Hooray, another appliance to throw out. This time it's a Radio Shack table radio that my ex-neighbor lady gave me before she moved to Ft. Lauderdale. It was nothing much in the sound department, but it looked neat and retro with its fake wood case and lighted vertical display. I've been listening to it almost every night since I moved. I went to turn it on tonight and it was dead. At first I thought it was the outlet -- some of the outlets here need rewiring. But it wasn't.

In the old days I'd have kept it around for a while, telling myself I'd "get it fixed." But I don't need it -- I have a perfectly good portable radio/cd player which I am listening to now, a clock radio/cd player, and a stereo that I haven't hooked back up yet. So I am turning over a new leaf: if it breaks and isn't worth fixing, to the dumpster it goes.

And that is my exciting thought for the day.

Oh dear, another day, another panjandrum of the culturati circles the wagons against those dastardly bloggers. Not that I disagree with everything in Schickel's article; I also believe that good writing is an elitist enterprise that is the opposite of "democratic." But I suggest that his opprobrium against "bloggers" messing about in the sacred field of criticism is a bit of a ruse.

I think that what Shickel fears is not so much that an army of "cultists" with badly-written screeds about the virtues of Phillip K. Dick will be considered to be "critics" just as good as he (or the illustrious names he cites) is, though writers do hate it when lesser talents get attention and worse, make money. But I don't even think that he fears real competition from some talented unknown who can write as well if not better than he can. What this column actually is is a letter to his editors, and the people who own the newspapers that publish his syndicated column. His citing of people like Sainte-Beuve (yes I have heard of him) and Edmund Wilson are meant to remind the media mavens that they had better not follow the latest fashion and drop him in favor of some gaggle of nobodies that they won't have to pay as much for (or even better yet, get for free); or even worse, decide that since he can put pen to paper (so to speak) he'll be willing to do anything for money, such as, say, turning his talents to writing articles on vitamins for the food section or something.

He can see the way the wind is blowing in the media, and he doesn't like it, and I can't say that I blame him.

(Via Lileks, and here's more commentary on Libertas.)

Well, the chief reason is the fact that if something happens you're a jillion feet up in the air, but stuff like this doesn't help:

It’s only when I’m seated at the gate, looking out at the tower and the vast expanse of runway that I feel some hint of the old jet-age kick that airports once gave me, back when flying was a rarity for most people except executives (whatever they were), when you got dressed up to fly, when there were no metal detectors and searches but there were meals on the plane. It’s official, and it’s sad, to think that I hate to fly: there used to be such a promise about it. Flying was new, it was clean, it was modern, and most of all it partook of the shining future. It wasn’t this grim, harried business. It’s a victim of its own success; it’s like taking the bus.

And I like that he uses the Tolkien quote. Tolkien wasn't a Luddite, just realistic about the dark side to our shiny new technology.

Oh hells no -- this article on comedy movies that flubbed the comedy part was going good, but then the writer had to ruin everything. First, he included the hilarious and biting paean to hating New York that is Quick Change among the failures. I beg to differ: that movie made me and my New-York-loving friend laugh ourselves sick. There's something about growing up in Miami, which as everyone knows is a detached borough of New York that drifted south and got stuck on the end of Florida, that brings out instant empathy with all anti-New-York rants. Then again, I have noticed that a certain type of people who actually live in New York -- who tend to be in their late 20s to early 30s and part of the self-consciously "cool" crowd that still thinks it's the height of fashion to have a reproduction of that Andy Warholl poster of soup cans on the wall of their fifth-floor walk-up hovel (for which they pay $1500 a month) -- are somewhat humorless about their city of residence.

And then there is this nonsense:

In a landscape as xenophobic as America post 9/11, the idea of a documentary examining what makes other cultures laugh should have been a slam dunk, delivering a feel-good "We're not so different after all" message with plenty of fish-out-of-water laughs along the way.

I didn't bother reading the rest of the article.

(Via Tom McMahon's news feed.)

... for the washer/dryer to be delivered. They gave me a window of 8am to 2pm. It's 10:30 now. Three and a half hours to go...

(Drums fingers.)

Three hours and twenty-nine minutes to go....

I guess I could go unpack another box.

While I'm sitting here bored out of my skull, I decided to re-design the home page. I know you're thrilled. It's not a big re-design -- I've just changed the picture and colors and so on. You may notice something missing -- the links to all of my previous blogs. I've decided to take them offline and cull the best posts and dump the rest, to free up webspace and in general get rid of clutter. Also so many links in my posts and on the sidebar have gone defunct. This is one of the hazards of blogging, and publishing on the internet in general. One thing about a dead-tree book, even if it goes out of print you can still find old editions here and there. The Internet Wayback Machine isn't always reliable. (Note for the future: at the time of this posting I got a null result, but you never know, one or the other of my old sites might appear there one day.)

It's here!

Update: ah, a thing of beauty is a joy forever:

(Not uploaded until now -- 8:35pm -- because I had to run out the door after the installer guy left, and I've been running ever since. I am seriously thinking about taking a month off after my last day at the job. Speaking of job -- I hope the next one I get pays better than this one. I am tapped out -- I was able to get a few things at the grocery store, like food and detergent, but that's it. Fortunately, it is my birthday tomorrow. Hint hint...)

My favorite Important Author Who Had A Day Job, for personal reasons which some of you might figure out, is Franz Kafka, who worked in the insurance business.

(My previous post on the pretentious and frightened Mr. Schickel is here.)

I got a Sears gift card from my coworkers, so I bought myself a tv:

Finally, some wine. I have been dry for weeks, because I spent all my money on things like moving, but my boss gave me an Albertson's gift card, so I wrote a list that looked like this:

Cat food
half-and-half
food
WINE!!!!

I just bought a couple of bottles, though -- I really did need food, and ended up buying more meat than I thought I would -- Albertson's was having a sale on their pre-seasoned cuts. Chicken breasteses and a couple of pork chops are in my future. But tonight was ham-'n'cheese on zillion grain bread (I am a princess), and some gourmet fancy olives, and something called white shiraz. Kind of like Australia's version of white zinfandel, nice and sweet and easy to drink. I figured I'd better go with something safe since it had been so long.

I've been listening to the radio -- AM here has a new all-oldies station, but it just went out for some reason, so I switched to FM, and I've been dial hopping because I can't seem to find anything I like. The classic rock station was playing all the crap, Foreigner and junk like that. The UCF station that plays jazz was playing annoying jazz instead of cool jazz. Now the R&B station was playing cool 70s stuff but now I think they are playing Luther Vandross and he's too mushy for me. My cds are in a box somewhere but I'm not in the mood for goth or U2.

Maybe I will watch my tiny tv. Last night I caught a bit of a PBS show from Australia about that big rock, about how all the humans are ruining it (except for the aborigines who somehow managed not to ruin it even though they've been wandering around it and scrawling stuff on it for thousands of years, maybe they used their higher spiritual powers to levitate over it so their human toes didn't get all over it). See what I missed not having a teevee?

Jesus Christ, people in California have too much time on their hands. What we would call over here in the sane part of the world "defective pigeons" (or "roast squab"), have a fan club:

Roller pigeons are bred for a genetic quirk that strikes in mid-flight, causing a brief seizure that sends the birds spiraling uncontrollably toward the ground. Thousands of hobbyists compete to see who can best make their birds roll in unison.

And of course, like most fan(atic) clubs, the members of this one are killing anything that gets in the way of their stupid pastime:

But for a hawk or falcon, a plummeting roller pigeon is fast food. Fed up by raptors spoiling their sport, some of the leading competitors in the roller pigeon field began illegally killing the predators, according to a federal indictment released Thursday.

Steve Sailer is mocking the retarded pigeons, but I think their fans are just as retarded and useless. I propose a new sport: we take these "roller pigeon hobbyists" and drop them from a plane and see if they can "roll in unison" before they hit the ground. And then feed their remains to the hawks and falcons.

Stupid people enrage me.

You gotta click:

(Previous Zen. There is something about the magic of the couch and the pillow...)

"... you keep all your money in a big brown bag inside a zoo..."

This is hilarious: that deranged "Truther" guy that put out that "Loose Change" movie (claiming that Bush and Co. actually blew up the World Trade Center, because... well, there's never been a real coherent reason given, has there?) used to be one of the idiot comment trolls over on Little Green Footballs.

Remember, folks, this is the person who is currently the darling of the Bush-hating set. If Napoleon had had enemies like this, we'd all be speaking French.

(Via Tim Blair.)

Update: semi-related -- this clever cartoon mocking a recent BBC show on the "dangers" of Wifi (and it also mocks the scientific know-nothingism of the news media in general -- "shut up, four-eyes, we're informing the public and letting them decide" -- heh). (Via Instapundit.)

A commenter posting here reminded me of one of my pet peeves about modern life: the way children are treated like little maharajahs, complete with servants (their parents or caretakers) toting a palatial burden of food, extra clothing, and an entire Toys 'R' Us-worth of games, dolls, and the like everywhere they go. Not to mention the elaborate transportation systems the little tykes get, some of which have so many accouterments that you could use them to fly cargo to the moon.

It didn't used to be that way, and I can't help thinking that it's just another symptom of Western society's growing weakness and decadence. When I was a kid we didn't get to bring our toys or any of our other stuff when our parents took us somewhere. Babies were brought in their carriages or strollers, and the mother might bring an extra bottle and some diapers, but that was it. And toddlers didn't get to have the entire contents of their toy chests lugged everywhere; and if they got restive they were taken outside or to another room until they quieted down, not allowed to transform the entire restaurant floor (or wherever) into a simulacrum of their own bedrooms.

I think the whole thing started with car seats. Car seats area a laudable invention, but as with everything in American life no one was content with making just the car a baby-safe environment, and no one was content with mere safety being the consideration either. Now kids don't have to spend one amusement-free minute in their lives; their every waking moment they are reassured that the entire world exists to indulge them. This can't be good for them or the nation.

I didn't think much of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy after the first book -- to say the second and third books were a huge disappointment to me would be understating it. One day I shall write my review... Be that as it may, the first book was very good, and a movie version is coming out that looks as if it might be that rare film that actually surpasses the book version.

(Via Ghost of a Flea.)

You know, sometimes I wish that Bush/Cheney/HitlerburtonCo would just announce that they've declared martial law, suspended elections and all other freedoms indefinitely, and that all critics of the government will be rounded up and thrown in detention camps. Just for fun. Just to see how many pretend-leftist pseudo-dissenters would pop a cork.

And to see how many would line up and start goose-stepping.

I am looking for a very rich and unhealthy macaroni and cheese recipe. For some reason all day I was sitting at work thinking how good homemade macaroni and cheese, not made from the box but made from scratch, would taste. These are the requirements:

• It must come out of the oven with a pronounced orange color. I do not like macaroni-colored macaroni and cheese.
• That means the cheeses in the recipe must be orange-colored cheeses like Cheddar. However, I prefer mild Cheddar to sharp -- sharp Cheddar tastes sour and bitter to me.
• The recipe must result in a thick, almost custardy dish. Runny macaroni and cheese makes Baby Jesus cry -- or anyway, it makes me cry, and it's my stomach this is going into.
• My boss suggested I put slices of cheese on the top to get a nice crust, but while I like a nice crust I am not too fond of a layer of just cheese.
• It must use real ingredients, not lite-this and low-fat that.
• I prefer the small macaroni to the large size. I don't like macaroni that looks like those gigantic undersea worms.
• No extra ingredients like bacon or onions or anything like that. I just want macaroni and cheese.

Paste links or recipes in comments.

Update: I am eating a Stouffer's frozen macaroni meal (for one person) because I had it recommended to me by someone at work. I don't think I'd actually eaten Stouffer's macaroni and cheese before. It's quite good, but lacks something -- it's a tad "grainy." (I don't know how else to describe it -- it's missing a certain creaminess that I unfortunately associate with Velveeta cheese, but I'd like to avoid Velveeta if at all possible. I mean, If I wanted to use Velveeta I'd just buy their boxed mix which is just the macaroni with a squeeze packet of their pre-made cheese sauce. Good stuff, but not homemade.)

Oh for fucking Christ SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID SHRILL HARPIES. So the name the "Rivermen" didn't sit well with the little weakminded cunts "female athletes"? ASK ME IF I FUCKING CARE I DON'T.

Jesus... this is what a century (or whateverrr) of feminism has brought us -- crybaby girlies who can't even stand to even be reminded that icky MENS EW GROSS THEY SMELL AND R LOUD exist. But you had better open those wallets, guys! Or you won't get any sex. HOW MANY MINUTES BEFORE THAT "UNCERTAIN PERCENTAGE" DECIDES "fuck it, I'm going gay"???? Not too many more. At least you can give it in the ass as well as get it.

(Via "Lenin's Tomb," whose proprietor probably regrets linking to this now.)

I'm so glad I didn't have a kid. Apparently you can't tell them "no." Oh, this is only pre-K teachers? You think it will stop there? Remember, this is America. Nothings stops anywhere.

Hillary Clinton is giving away all her stuff! Well -- what else would "shared prosperity" mean? After all, she's a lot more prosperous than I am -- I'm sure she wouldn't want me to feel all "on my own" because I don't have any nice furniture from the White House.

I'm laying aside a couple of Hefty bags. Who wants to lend me their pickup truck?

(Via Scott Chaffin.)

I've been reading Lord of the Rings. (Side note: I know people who read a book once and never again. Me no understand these people.) Anyway, here's a scene, late in the book, where the Captains of the West are in conference, contemplating a hopeless attack against an enemy much stronger and more numerous than they are. Gandalf gets off a zinger that for some reason I never noticed before:

"[H]e has not built up his power by waiting until his enemies are secure, as we have done."

("He" meaning the Enemy, Sauron. But it could mean any enemy.) Anyway, I thought that was interesting.

From LIBERTAS:

Quirky really is nothing more than irony gone retarded.

Heh.