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The Public Blogging of Pomosexuality, Homotextuality, Homophobiaphilia, and Drear Theory (aka Career Theory) [aka Gay4Pay]. We also read the Corner and OpJournal so the right buttock will be punished as well.
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Mice Laugh at Cats, Run Rings Around Listless Ferrets
Are half of your ferrets dragging their furry asses around, bumming the other pets out? Get shoe boxes ready for approximately 17% of them and then GET OUT OF THE HOUSE! DON'T TAKE THE CAT WITH YOU!!
Cats and ferrets can carry the SARS virus, raising the possibility that the pets could play a role in any new outbreaks of the deadly disease, researchers reported yesterday.
...None of the cats showed any symptoms, but three out of six ferrets became lethargic several days after being exposed, and one died four days later. All the animals began shedding the virus after two days and continued to do so for about two weeks. Tests found the virus in their noses, throats, lungs and respiratory tracts. The animals could not pass the virus to young mice but could spread it to other cats and ferrets, researchers found.
I rode home tonight into the most spectacular sunset I've ever seen. The horizon was clear for about 40 degrees, then an enormous low field of undulating clouds filled the sky, the upside down crests of which blasted out every hue from orange to purple.
The westward traffic was even more gridlocked than usual as I biked between and through it. Was it the accumulatimg wave of 10 extra seconds of sunset gaping per car propagating backwards towards town? Who do we thank for that sky? The cycle busting solar storms? The burned-out homeless of Southern California? The sunsets here the week after 9/11 were amazing too.
I'd just picked up a book of science fiction art called Visions of the Future (Chartwell Books 1976, introduction by A.E. Van Vogt). I was paging through the paintings of lurid, eight moon landscapes and decided to take them home with me. And then I walked out into one, a Martian sunset all my own.
Maybe I'm a little too showbiz oriented. I first read the headline below as a reference to Sharon Osbourne, and I thought the thumbnail graphic that accompanied it on the Google news page was a picture of Ozzy.
His contemporaries included Kenneth Clarke, Norman Lamont, John Gummer, Leon Brittan and Norman Fowler, a group of friends who became known as the "Cambridge mafia". Two decades later, they occupied the upper reaches of the Thatcher and Major cabinets, though Mr. Howard arrived at Westminster later after searching forlornly for a seat and then practicing as a planning lawyer.
In the meantime he had married Sandra Paul, a Sixties model, who calls him "an extraordinarily romantic man". They have two children and one of the strongest of Westminster marriages.
Yes, well, that's all very good about Messrs. Brittan, Fowler, Gummer..., the whole bloody lot of them, but the keen eye alights upon Sandra Paul, and those enchanting words, a Sixties model (yes, I'm saying I have a keen eye, keen of you to notice--pip, pip). So I reached for one of my favorite coffee table books, though this one is more tea and crumpet, The Birds of Britain (photos:John Green, A.D.: David Tree, Text: Anthony Haden-Guest--published 1967). It's an Audubon field guide to the liveliest bits of awlright on that swinging isle, when beatles ruled the earth.
Sandra's certainly was not one of the great avian names of the era, but the book is pretty comprehensive, so I thought there was a chance. Paging through the black and white, mod antics of Julie Christie, Pat Booth, Lulu, Jane Asher, Sue Murray, Jane Barry, Susan Hampshire, Lady Eliot, Charly [!] Rampling (and on and on) I was starting to lose hope, but then 12 birds or so before the end, right between Cathy McGowan and Paddy Carrington-Bates (there are worse places to be), was our girl, in one of the most boring pictures in the book. No sitting inside a newsboys pouch, or holding a tuba, or wearing a toreador jacket, or bubble bathing in a bath built for a midget, or motor-oil-smeared nakedness for Sandra. She saved the fireworks for her private life, looks like:
Sandra Paul She exudes a soft sweetness to a degree which is utterly formidable, like a Victorian heroine, some Tennysonian femme fatale, say, or like a prize-winning chinchilla cat. She has been married twice, once to Robin Douglas-Home, who is a writer and nephew of a former prime minister, and now to David Wynne-Morgan, who is also a writer, which is heartening news for writers with double-barrelled names everywhere. Even in real life her smile looks like soft focus photography. It has made her one of the most successful models in the world.
Haden-Guest can be forgiven his little joke (if not his utterly formidable), since it does point to the fact that her current husband lacks a split-level name. Bravo Sandra, those hyphenated wankers are the worst.
Perhaps Sandra's tri-level past will be a bulwark against Tory prudery. Maybe she can smile and help them keep the stuffier aspects in soft focus.
And maybe someday she can invite all of her fabulous friends over to 10 Downing Street for the greatest pajama party of all time. Well, hmmm, it's probably about 40 years too late for that. Anyway, I'm sure they've still got their stories.
Instapundit linked a post by Brendan O'Neill, saying O'Neill and others were unimpressed by the same Camille Paglia interview I write about below. I wanted to compare his unimpressions with mine, so I went to Mr. O'Neill's page to see what he had to say. What he had to say is among the most dishonest things I've ever read. I left a comment on his page which I'll copy below. If you want the full thrill of Mr. O'Neill's dishonesty, though, you should take the runaway rollercoaster ride yourself. Read his comments first. Then read the pertinent part of Paglia's Salon interview from earlier in the year. Then read his comments again, then the interview again, then, then, then... bail out of the rollercoaster, it's your only hope. And Mr. O'Neill's. If we all smash our brains out on the carnival pavement, they'll be no one left alive with a memory of the awful truth. And the unartful deceit.
I didn't know the best part of the story when I posted my comment. After I left my mash note, I went to Mr. O'Neill's front-page and learned:
Brendan O'Neill is a London-based journalist and assistant editor of spiked. He teaches online journalism at universities in and around London.
Oooohhh, lawdy. Perhaps that last line is a misprint. Maybe he teaches in and around journalism at London online Universities. One can hope.
Sorry, Mr. O'Neill, but you're the dishonest one here.
I'm no great fan of her latest Salon interview (as I write here), but her position on Iraq has hardly changed at all since her previous interview. If she finds talk of WMD's empty bluster now, well there is such a thing as processing new information as it arises. You might try it sometime. It certainly beats misrepresentation through cherry picked quotation as an intellectual pursuit.
Here are Paglia's own words:
However, I'm extremely upset about our rush to war at the present moment. If there truly were an authentic international coalition that had been carefully built, and if the administration had demonstrated sensitivity to the fragility of international relations, I'd be 100 percent in favor of an allied military expedition to go into Iraq and find and dispose of all weapons of mass destruction.
But most members of the current administration seem to have little sense that there's an enormous, complex world beyond our borders. The president himself has never traveled much in his life. They seem to think the universe consists of America and then everyone else -- small-potatoes people who can be steamrolled. And I'm absolutely appalled at the lack of acknowledgment of the cost to ordinary Iraqi citizens of any incursion by us, especially aerial bombardment. Most of the Iraqi armed forces are pathetically unprepared to respond to a military confrontation with us. These are mostly poor people who have a profession and a dignity within their country, and they're not necessarily totally behind Saddam Hussein's ambition to dominate his region. There's just no way that Saddam's threat is equal to that of Hitler leading up to World War II. Hitler had amassed an enormous military machine and was actively seeking world domination. We don't need to invade Iraq. Saddam can be bottled up with aggressive surveillance and pinpoint airstrikes on military installations.
This you summarize as, "Then, she made no secret of her support for war on Iraq."
Your opening line is memorable for its cluelessness (and its unreality), as well.
Remind me never to take your word for anything.
(Incidentally, I mostly disagree with Paglia's take on Iraq, but I don't try to win that argument--or any other, I hope--by deliberately misstating my opponents positions on the matter.)
Salon's Paglia interview isn't very good. Camille's old Salon column worked because it was timely, wide ranging, and not coincidentally, largely driven by reader questions and comments. She's best when she makes unexpected turns onto hidden side streets. This trip was too short, the road too straight and well traveled. I admire her for giving up the column to focus on her books, but where are the books? Has there been anything beyond that monongraph on The Birds? Is she publishing regularly somewhere else? Her two essay collections were phenomenal, is she even writing enough short form work to furnish a third collection sometime this decade?
She's done a few Ingrid Sischy (aka Iffy Sniffy) interviews in Interview, but they were on the same level as this Salon piece. The interviewers aren't interesting enough to make her interesting, to make the unexpected turns themselves. Camille is clearly very obliging, if you really need to know her current thoughts on Madonna, she'll crank open the floodgates, but nobody's current thoughts on Madonna are compelling, except perhaps Lourdes', and she's not talking. Yet. Wait for her book, circa 2033: Madmomma.
The section on Sean Hannity shows us what we're missing by Camille's temporary (we can hope) Carmelitism. She spots a figure beneath the dignity of official opinion, and gives him his due, explains his importance and deftly plots his philosophical and cultural co-ordinates.
The Drudge/Sullivan/Paglia three-way has got to be broken up, though. They're bad for each other. Solipsists shouldn't further indulge in mutual admiration troikas. It leads Camille to think she's channeling NY Post headlines, that her biannual Salon appearances are driving the culture, that, scariest of all, there is such a thing as "the power of Salon." Madness doesn't that way lie, you've overshot madness by a good ten miles when you start believing that, madness isn't even in your rearview anymore.
So I was entering my usual random nonsense into the form the Chicago Tribune requires you to fill out to read their online content. I click register after my fantastic data is in place.
Then they floors me with this refusal of my submission:
The number entered in birth year cannot be less than 1890.
Bastards. No one older than 113 is welcomed at Chicagotribune.com, it seems. So if you want to see the picture the Trib posts of you on your 114th birthday, you better have some silver coinage in your handbag, great grandma, cause you're gonna have to roll down to the newsstand. The Chicago Tribune needs your three bits more than you need your rest. Grand m-effers.
Then I wonder if they discriminate in both directions, so I re-jigger my birth date. Just as I suspected:
The number entered in birth year cannot be greater than 2002.
Futurians come back to 2003 to murder the infant enemies of the human race must also find other downtime recreation than perusing the Trib online. And if you are a 3003 do-gooder/assassin who needs to check the Chicago newspapers for the particulars of an anti-Christ born and raised anywhere in the Chi-town area, don't look for any help from Chicagotribune.com.
Next I discovered that the precocious are also made unwelcome. You must be at least 13 years of age to register. I believe this is a legal mandate of the online child privacy laws, but this 2 year old webcrawler's feelings were hurt, nonetheless. Is it any surprise that myself and my pampered cohorts are losing the newspaper habit? And they claim Chicago is a toddlin' town.
The Trib is certainly not alone in their robotic rejection of the ancient and the latent. I just question whether they and the others have thought through all the implications of their normal-lifespan ultra-montanism, their space/time fetishism, their disregard of the new model John Stuart Mills'es in their "I'm a Chicago cub but I'm not a loser" Doctor Dentons?
We decide to cheer on the Marlins based on this picture. The Marlins win.
Unfortunately, we have found no pictures from last night's victory to match that earlier kiss. The kisser in that pic, catcher Ivan Rodriguez, appears to be something of a playa, though. I need to work my way into his vicinity, the next time he gets really happy.