What Do I Know?

Seen and Heard on the Links

I've called for a writers' strike today, to protest the Academy Awards, from which my favorite film got shut out. (Hang in there, Don! 2008, we take back the Oscars!) In exchange for the original crap I usually dispense, here are a few tidbits from the wide world of blog. Enjoy at your own risk.

If you're tired of all the hoopla over The Gates, check out The Crackers from Culture Kitchen. (via Rox Populi)

For more art in the kitchen fun, check out Foodie's new find, the EggCuber.

One panel of the box pictured a primitively drawn, puzzled chicken, gazing down at the square egg she has just produced. The hen comments : "?#!! OUCH!"

Square eggs. This vegan can only look on wistfully.

From FunctionalAmbivalent, the most interesting post on the passing of Hunter S. Thompson I've read (and there are plenty to choose from, though I must say I never worshipped at the Alter of HST):

Here's something I think no one but me can say honestly:

Back when I had a brain tumor, Hunter Thompson visited me in my hospital room and autographed my Bible.

Via NewMexiKen, a WhiteHouseTapes.org recording of President Johnson ordering slacks. If you're a student of presidential trivia, you'll find it fascinating. If not, you'll be amused by the belching ex-President. (Remind me again, we let boys run the world WHY?)

Random Thoughts reminds us where the real crisis lies: It's Health Care, Stupid! Specifically, Medicaid, which is the safety net of last resort, not to mention the source of funding for over half of all nursing home residents.

Thirty-four states are already restricting Medicaid benefits. In Bush's first term, the number of uninsured increased from 40 to 45 million. It's only going to get worse. The Knight Ridder story puts the numbers into the equation, making it easier to figure out when you won't be able to pay your premiums any longer.

And finally, Lesley at Plum Crazy discusses the perceived gender differences as they relate to map reading and math...which reminded me of my daughter, who has phenomenal spatial skills, and my husband, who can't find his way down the street without a GPS.

A more telling study, IMO, is this one, which indicates no gender differences in cognition when children are tested. It also points to studies of adolescents where differences in nationality, as well as gender, affected mathematical scores. Interestingly, Japanese girls scored higher on math skills than American and European boys. Unless we’re all prepared to concede that the Japanese are just genetically superior to Americans and Europeans, which I don’t think we are, the results are likely attributable to socialization. Furthermore, in only half the countries where adolescents were tested did boys perform better than girls in math.

If We Were Meant to See the Oscars, We'd Have Been Issued Proper Amphetamines

Take a moment, please, to pity those of us living here in Greenwich Mean Time, where the excitement and glamour of the Oscars will be overshadowed by the lure of our sveltely-dressed beds. Not only are we treated as second class citizens by movie studios ("Oh, say, shouldn't we get around to releasing our Oscar-nominated, bazillion dollar boffo flick over in the UK? They've been queuing for six months.") but now I discover that damn Academy is in on the conspiracy to deprive us of appropriately timed Hollywood spectacle.  If I want to stay up till one a.m., I can see Chris Rock open the show, and if I effectively lose a night's sleep, I can see which of the films I haven't seen is the Best Picture. The last time I sacrificed a night's sleep for a similar event--the November election--it didn't turn out very well. (Basically, "A Series of Unfortunate Events" led to "A Very Long Engagement," and now some people in blue states are all for "Finding Neverland.")

In my sleep, I'll be rooting for "Hotel Rwanda", in whatever category it's nominated in. I saw a snippet of it today, and if Don Cheadle doesn't win for Best Actor, I demand to see the paper trail.

I'll congratulate the winners tomorrow, and see their films some time in the next administration.

Can't See the Forest for the Furrball?

Sorry for the no-show yesterday. I spent the day in secret meetings with high level members of the Leftist Underground in London. (Since David Horowitz, like most other males, doesn't read girl blog, I can feel free to divulge such information.)

I'd meant to post something serious and weighty, a commentary on the news that Labour has proposed an increase in the minimum wage from £4.85 to £5.05, which no one really minds. The interesting thing is, Labour seems to have done this in order to pre-empt the Conservatives. (Do you believe that?! I live in a country where Conservatives want to raise the minimum wage!)

Instead, I've been rambling through the internets (why is it "internets" sounds friendlier than "internet," sort of like a group hug?), reading some good girl blog. You'll notice I enhanced my blogroll to better reflect the gender of the blogosphere, and to call your attention to some prime blog. Some are political, some not--I have a theory if all we think about is politics, we'll never be able to connect with voters, who, come to find out, lead actual lives! (This reminds me of the day after an intense campaign I'd been working on 24/7 came to an end, when I walked outside, blinking in the sunlight, and noticed my neighbor's trees had disappeared. Seems the pine beetles had invaded while I was preoccupied with precincts and press.)

Maybe all those cyber-thumps to the head have worked. Kevin Drum, who started all this, has been practicing some affirmative action. (I think I know how a black law student feels. "We ARE qualified, you idiots!") But for every step forward... When I read Eschaton this morning, I noticed the same old male piling-on effect, exemplified by a link to a guy who only links to other guys. (Well, 98%--I had to scroll down to the T's to find a girl blog on WWDT's blogroll, Jeralyn from Talk Left.) I bet he's a nice liberal, and he didn't look blind, but I wonder if it hurts when he bumps into all those women he can't seem to see?

I'll admit, when I first started blogging, I mostly read and linked to male blog too, simply because that was where the links led. But Kevin et. al. have been at this for a long time, whereas I'm just celebrating the end of my 30-day free TypePad trial. And yet I still see more pictures of these guy's cats on their blogs than links to women. If they don't know where the women bloggers are, maybe there's a big furrball in their field of vision.

Some Estrogen with That Blog?

There's been a debate raging this week in the blogosphere, about how women bloggers don't get no respect. This is old news, new battleground. For years I've been fuming at the New York Times Book Review, using my lil' ole math skills to tally up the percentages of books by males vs. books by females. (It's roughly 60-75 % in favor of males, with 10% falling in the androgynous category.)

I'm the mother teachers dread at the open house. When the reading teacher asks if there are any questions, I wave the reading list and ask, why are all these books written by men? What kind of message does that send--not just to our daughters, who might be budding writers, but to our sons, who'll one day control the pursestings at St. Martins, not to mention the frontlines of the editorial boards? (Good luck, Next Generation, at smashing those glass ceilings.) "Sputter sputter--but--but we're reading 'The Giver' as a supplement." Then, with more confidence, "And besides, boys won't read books by girls." (This was pre-Harry Potter. I think J.K. has pretty much put that one to bed.)

I recently got into an argument with my daughter, who complained that one teacher was too much of a "feminist," as if it were a dirty word. I realized she'd fallen victim to brainwashers while I'd been preoccupied with trying to elect Democrats and blogging. When women complain about the glass ceiling, we're accused of being "FemiNazis," as a famous radio blowhard likes to call us, conjuring images of stout German SS officers. If we ignore it, we're told we don't really want to advance in the boardroom anyway, it's PTA meetings and our babies' bowel movements we really long to control.

It's an argument we can't possibly win. (Even Mary Wollstonecraft died in childbirth.) The opposition assumes our lack of engagement equals acceptance, and our engagement is an indictment.

So what to do? Take a lesson from science fiction: It's called World Building. We start our own blogosphere, in this case. We've got some estrogen and a neat pair of ovaries, our trump mitochondrial DNA, and that uterus we were wondering what to do with.

Fortunately my sisters have already begun the work. In honor of  Women in Blogging Week, here's some estrogen-enhanced blogs I've been reading today:

What She Said (great source of female blog)
Baghdad Burning
Rox Populi
Suburban Guerrilla
Trish Wilson's Blog
Mad Kane
Prairie Angel
Booksquare
Dogged
MomBrain
Left Turn Signal
Democracy for New Mexico
The American Street

Bookmark your favorites, and welcome to the feminine side of the blogosphere.

Don't Worry, Bérubé, We've Got Your Back

(I've always wanted to say that. I rarely, however, engage in street fighting, so the opportunity hasn't arisen. If it had, let's be honest, I'd have run like the lily-livered leftist I am.)

And why does the melodiously named Michael Bérubé need us at his back? He's taken on the proprietor of the Discover the Network site and known rightwing crackpot David Horowitz (here's an idea, kids--try Googling "David Horowitz nude") and been horribly maligned--indeed, accused of writing "clumpy" humor. This is low, folks. I mean, calling a humble English professor's attempts at les bons mots "clumpy". Might as well have accused him of misspelling, of confusing the nominative and the objective. Of incorrectly subjuncting.

Some background: David Horowitz published a website that purports to link all us leftists in some kind of "network" whereby liberal icons such as Roger Ebert, Rachel Corrie, Mike Farrell, and Yasser Arafat (I didn't get the memo on that one--network must be down) are all cut from the same bolt of traitorous Red fabric. Because we didn't denounce Fahrenheit 9/11 as being anti-American, we must all be leftist/Marxists and therefore aligned with the forces of The Great Satan. Bérubé mocked the linkages outlined therein, and Horowitz attempted a reasonable, coherent explanation. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten his meds again and resorted to paranoid ravings. Although his mother probably told him that crap about sticks and stones, here's Michael's response:

And then it gets personal. Not content with the defense of the site’s formatting quirks and innocent features, David proceeds to make fun of my tentative, innocuous, well-meaning post on the Network, calling it “a pretty good rendering of the paranoid fantasies of the left” and claiming that “its ‘humor’ . . . is so clumpy, however, that you would hardly suspect his expertise was literary.” Well, I ain’t no Ring Lardner, people, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard tell of “clumpy humor.” It’s true that some of my jokes have had to huddle together for warmth in recent months, because the Bush Administration has been deliberately withholding heat from blue states (and no, that isn’t a paranoid fantasy, David-- the BTU readouts don’t lie, dude), but that doesn’t make them “clumpy.” In fact, as the recent Koufax Awards have definitively demonstrated, this blog’s humor is exceptionally smooth, with a full body and an effervescent finish.  Cheers!

Now, I've read the humor in question. I'd describe it as "well-defined" rather than "clumpy," which is clearly intended to imply a certain "cheesiness" about the suspect humor. This, dear readers, is clearly a slur upon the good folks of Wisconsin, cheese capital of America, and coincidentally or not, incubator of leftists. (There's also some really nice quilt shops there, which just goes to show ya--Grandma's been cozying up to leftists too! That blanket Osama was wearing in his last video? Looked like Flying Geese to me!)

But I've digressed (indeed, clumped). The point is that, in this great leftist network of which I'm proud to call a tiny corner "home", when one of us is attacked, we all feel the pain. We all feel blood spurt from our left ventricle. (Why, it's as if we were looking at homeless black folk!) We clamor to defend. We race to our keyboards. We search our thesauri, we hone our humor, we call our friends (namely, al-Zarqawi and Bruce Springsteen) and our therapists. Finally, we strike back, with Fight Club-like professionalism and pride. (Rule number one: Don't talk about The Network.)

A slur like this cannot go undefended. Like those great leftists of the past, Franklin Roosevelt and Samuel Adams, we must rise against our oppressors. We must put aside our squeamish lefty scruples and toss slings and arrows with abandon.

David Horowitz is a big fat jerk.

Call THAT clumpy, you paranoid nit.

Bonnie Franklin Doesn't Pose Nude Here

I mentioned the other day that my visitor stats had reported someone visiting this site as the result of a rather odd Google search--at least I thought so at the time. Now I've had dozens of visitors searching for "Bonnie Franklin nude". What's up with that? I'm shocked that anyone harbors such sick fantasies--Bonnie Franklin, star of One Day at a Time, is like a mother to me, well, in the sense that I watched the show a lot with my mom and my mom had red hair.

So, those of you here searching for nude photos of a nice actress who hasn't worked in a while, word: Turn out the lights. You have school tomorrow. You don't want to sleep through Algebra, do you? Go on. Get.

Or I'm telling your mother.

Montel's Guests Today: The Windsors

Ah, the Monarchy never fails to provide. Again, the Windsors have given us armchair journalists a juicy story. But I fear I've grown weary of writing about yet another mundane fracas by this dysfunctional family. So, Lizzy doesn't want to go to her son's wedding. This sort of thing happens all the time in my family, indeed, a fully attended wedding is so rare, we've occasionally pulled strangers from the swimming pool, dripping wet, to witness the blessed event.

Forget Prime Minister's questions; there's a bigger debate on the telly:  Is it a snub or isn't it? (And if not, do we have to cover the earthquake? Or is that footage of the Beckham baby in yet?) At least she's given poor Ken Livingstone, mayor of London, a breather. As of yesterday, he was still trying to explain why he didn't feel like saying sorry for calling a reporter a Nazi two weeks ago. Apparently, public finger-wagging works on him about as well as it does on the Royals. Meanwhile, bird flu is threatening to turn into a pandemic, George Bush is threatening to turn Iran into Iraq, and global warming is threatening to turn Scotland into Majorca.

There's always the ballet, right? What better way to elevate ourselves and our discourse?

Sadly, no.™ Your highbrow thrills have been replaced by tawdry melodrama:

Link: Coming soon: Diana the ballet set to Elgar and The Cure.

In the ballet Diana dances romantically with Dodi al-Fayed. Another theme is the Queen and Prince Philip frequently turning their backs on her. And at one point Prince Charles dances a pas de deux with Camilla Parker Bowles to Love Song, by the Cure.

"This piece is not out to judge anybody or take sides," Schaufuss said, although people who have seen the production beg to differ.

Schaufuss admitted he uses caricature to make some characters instantly recognisable, and it is unlikely that the royals will be particularly pleased to see Mrs Parker Bowles kitted out in riding gear and whacking the future monarch with her riding crop.

This will surely attract the crossover audience, the Tchaikovsky/Knots Landing crowd who flocked to Jerry Springer - The Opera. And with the Diana Memorial Fountain closed for repairs, it's a nice repository for all those flowers.

Those of us who prefer the high road will get our linguistic kicks watching the Royals parse the definition of "snub."

Newsflash: Daily Mirror Often Prints Rubbish!

Oh dear. Word on the blog street is that the Bush White House has snubbed Prince Charlie and his intended by "banning" Mrs. Parker-Bowles from the White House, because she's a "dee-vorc-ee". (Synonymous with "Newt Gingrich" and "Ronald Reagan".)

Much as I'm willing to believe the Bush administration is capable of egregious nonsense, this story amounts to little more than rubbish.

Let's dissect:

First of all, this was reported in the Daily Mirror--need I say more? Yes? Okay. Not a single reputable newspaper has reported this, nor has it been on TV--and I've been watching (that Beckham baby sure is cute!). Just to be sure, I searched the Sky website. Nada. On the other hand, yesterday it was all over Sky how a former staff member is suing over the employment practices of Clarence House (code name for Prince Charles' official offices). Seems Elaine Day had to sleep two floors above the prince, with the lesser servants, and her boss (not the Prince) kept touching her on the back. (She's going to give frivolous lawsuits a bad name!) She was happy to pose for cameras, so we got to see lots of her yesterday.

Second, there's not even a date set for the prince's State Visit to Washington--why on earth would the Bush White House risk ridicule and "ban" Camilla for an event which isn't even on the calendar? It's not likely to happen before the fall, and 2006 looks more promising, my secret sources tell me.

The Mirror claims this was done for "PR reasons." I'm still in denial, but wasn't George Bush reelected? He's now officially a lame duck, which means he doesn't have to worry about PR. He can feel free to piss off the evangelicals who elected him. (Now, if Mrs. Parker-Bowles was a gay prostitute--oh wait. No worries, as the Brits say.)

And yes, I know, Princess Diana was loved in the U.S., but most Americans could care less about her sad history and her lousy marriage--it's been seven years, for cripes' sake. We've gone on, found new bulimic icons.

Most rumors, however, have SOME basis in fact, and in this one I smell a grain of truth. (Smells like Bounce dryer sheets.) Official State Visits, as opposed to merely popping by for drinks, are ornate occasions, strictly controlled by protocol. The rules are archaic, designed to keep society from upending and possibly the world from exploding in a ball of fire. Girlfriends aren't invited. Spouses are. (An interesting factoid reported by D.C. columnists: The guest lists for the four Bush State Dinners include more wives who share their husband's last name than did the Clinton guest lists.) And let me plug Sen. Clinton's book here: "An Invitation to the White House" contains a fascinating account of an actual State Dinner, for Vaclav Havel and Mrs. Havlova.

So, move on folks, there's no story here.

But if you really want one--and I think I know my readers' tastes--here's a scoop: Prince Harry is engaged to Jenna Bush. Yes, you heard it here first:

Link: DeadBrain - Prince Harry Potter to marry Jenna Bush.

Sir Michael Peat-Moss, Chief Principal Aide to Prince Charles, made the announcement at a press conference at Clarence House today. He said that Prince Charles and President Bush had discussed the possibility of marriage between their offspring during Mr Bush's State Visit to the UK in 2003 but neither of them had followed up on it until recently. However, following an initiative by Prince Charles, it had been decided to proceed, and the president had offered the hand of Jenna. Ms Parker Bowles is understood to be delighted.

 

Now THIS is a story with legs.

 

Guy Walks into a Bar, Turns Water into Wine

I used to love to read the Bible, when I was, oh, five or six. (Only after I'd exhausted the library's supply of the Bobbsey Twins.) I especially liked staring at the maps on the end leaves. I bet I could find my way around Galilee, blindfolded, the map in my head my only guide.

These days my taste tends toward humorous fiction--not incompatible with Bible reading, it turns out. Yes, dear readers, the Gospels are full of humor, according to the Italians--and they should know. I wasn't invited to this conference on Laughter and Comedy in Ancient Christianity, but maybe next year.

"There is a prejudice that states that humour and Christianity are incompatible," says Clementina Mazzucco, the conference organiser.

"On the contrary, there are many episodes and dialogues in the scriptures where irony and sarcasm are being used."

She cites the example of a disciple who, referring to Jesus's home town, asked: "How could anything good ever come from Nazareth?"

Link: Scholars say Jesus was good for a laugh - news from ekklesia .

This no doubt comes as a surprise to certain religious groups, who are preoccupied with the harsh, unforgiving aspects of the Bible: stoning, an eye for an eye, dumping Social Security. Gays and their apostles, SpongeBob and Tinky Winky, are another favorite target of the religious right. It's been a while, but I don't remember Jesus mentioning "Blessed are the Intolerant" in the Sermon on the Mount. (Sorry, James Dobson, et. al., looks like the lake of fire for you!)

When I was really young I wanted to be a preacher--either that or a stand up comedian. Then I found out my church not only forbade girls from becoming ministers, but we weren't even allowed to speak in church. So now I blog instead. Fortunately the Church of the Blogosphere operates by the Golden Rule: Do Unto Others. Girl bloggers are even welcomed to the pulpit, potty-mouth and all.

If the Bible doesn't bust your gut, try Christopher Moore's  "Lamb, the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal". Who knew the son of God was a chick magnet, whose first miracle was resurrecting a lizard? If you like irreverence with your philosophy, check it out.

What I wanna know is, who'll play Jesus in the movie? I envision a sort of campy, playful version, with Roberto Benigni as Christ and (who else?) SpongeBob Squarepants as John the Baptist. Billy Crystal would make a great Creator, and maybe William Shatner as Moses could command the Red Sea as well as he did the Enterprise.

But the ending will need a rewrite. There's just nothing funny about dissolving flesh, pestilence, and melting tongues.

Heard About the Time Travelling Third-Grade Therapists?

My friend and early supporter, Stacia Deutsch, will be on C-SPAN's Book TV program Monday, 3:30 p.m. ET and again Tuesday, 3:30 a.m. ET. She co-wrote a children's book, "Blast to the Past: Lincoln's Legacy", the first in a series of time travel books about third graders who go back in time to offer encouragement to various historical figures, who, like all of us, suffer from wee bouts of despair. I read an early draft of this book; I would have gobbled it up when I was in second grade. (Instead, I glommed on those Bobbsey Twins brats.)

Stacia was taped speaking to schoolchildren at Politics and Prose, a Washington D.C. bookstore. Check out the Blast to the Past website, and if you know a beginning reader, introduce them to Lincoln's Legacy.

And leave the Bobbsey Twins on the shelf. Your second-grader will thank you.

Nude: Search That, Google!

TypePad informs me I've got one day remaining on my 30-day free trial. I think it's time to assess the value of my 29-day blogging adventure.

I've posted 31 times, and received 62 comments--all thoughtful, responsible comments (thank you Spammer Gods, for protecting my site with your powerful mojo). I'm getting around 70-80 hits a day now, only a few of which are from me or my minions. (My younger daughter still hasn't read my blog; I think she's afraid I'm writing embarrassing stuff about her--as if the Royals don't provide enough material!) I like to think it's quality, not quantity. You guys are the few, the proud, and mostly related to me by birth.

Go ahead, think of yourselves as a select group. While EVERYONE is reading Atrios, you're a discriminating reader, reviewing carefully selected blog: Amero-British blog, hucksterish Daily Mirror-style blog, dog-on-dog blog, inquisitive, thoughtful blog, superior nyah-nyah-nyah blog, and some trash, let's face it.

I've moved up in the world of search engines: What Do I Know? often appears on the first page of Google hits, depending on the search terms. The most popular search is "freaky frog ringtones" and second is "juicebars". (Maybe I've been out of the states too long, but I had no idea juicebars had become so popular.) Oddest was a search for "Bonnie Franklin nude." I don't wanna know.

The other day, when I'd just told myself no one reads this crap, so why go on, I got an email from my aunt. "ARE YOU SICK?" she asked. "Why haven't you posted yet? I read you every day. I don't know where you get your news. I don't see that kinda stuff on CNN." My aunt, mind you, only recently started using a computer and never cared about email or the internets.

This is why I'll let that free trial period lapse and pay for the remaining 11 months. Amazingly enough, someone reads this crap I write every day. After years of filling my hard drive with fiction, I've found fans in the unlikeliest of places. (And if you're the one who searched for "Bonnie Franklin nude", shame on you!) They even care if I get sick. (A few sniffles, but I'll get over it. Thanks for asking.)

Eat your heart out, Atrios.

Breaking News: Charles and Camilla Forced to Wed on High Street

Liz is furious, secret sources tell me, about the latest screwup by the Royal Offspring. Britain's cutest couple, Charles and Camilla, will no longer wed at Windsor Castle. Seems the ancient fortress isn't licensed for marriage ceremonies, under the 1994 marriage licensing act, which--ahem--no one bothered to check. (Of course, in the old days, the monarch would just sign a new act, or simply lop off a head or two, but in the new days, the Queen can't poke around in matrimonial affairs without the approval of church, state, and The Daily Mirror.)

Instead, the Wedding of the Century (so far) will occur just down the High Street, at Windsor Guildhall. Though not quite as posh as the castle, (the walls of the loo are said to be covered with graffitti) the Guildhall has its own share of history. When the original architect died, Sir Christopher Wren finished the project, in 1690. But council members, not entirely trusting this Wren guy, were concerned the floor would collapse, and so insisted on additional columns. Sir Christopher did as they wished--except the columns don't quite reach the ceiling. (I suspect Chris is having a good posthumous giggle over this.)

His other masterpiece, St Paul's Cathedral, was the scene of Charles' last wedding. While the Guildhall is considerably smaller--seating fewer than 150 people--second weddings are generally a smaller gig. (Which is a good thing--I mean, a practical joke is one thing, but if the ceiling collapsed during a royal wedding, Sir Chris might just have his head lopped off--posthumously, of course.)

Clarence House, in a performance worthy of the "Putting a Happy Face on Disaster" award, claimed the change in plans was actually a good thing: "The venue will enable the public to see the Prince of Wales and Mrs Parker Bowles arrive and depart and ... include the town of Windsor in the day's events." (I myself plan to be there with bags of rice to pelt the happy couple.)

In related news, Mrs. Parker-Bowles has chosen a designer for her wedding gown, Robinson Valentine. Ladbrookes is offering 1-5 odds the dress will be cream, while William Hill give it 1-3. (No word yet on who'll provide the music, but sources tell me Charles was at an urban music workshop yesterday, listening to reggae. No one's asked moi, but "No Woman No Cry" would make a lovely wedding tune.)

Questions remain, however, and in the spirit of internet muckraking journalism What Do I Know? is willing to dig deeper: What DOES the graffiti say in the Guildhall loo? Will the Corgis be allowed inside? Just where IS Christopher Wren buried, and is the faint sound of "bwahahahahaha" ever heard from his grave?

(Secret sources are only good for so much; just ask Woodward and Bernstein.)

Tally Ho, and Good Riddance

Today at the gas station the attendent told me, "They'll never be able to enforce it," referring to the ban on fox hunting being discussed on the radio. "Sure they will," I snapped. "I'll help them. Gladly," I added, with a glare for good measure. He gave me a cautious look. Another American who doesn't understand bloodsport.

Maybe it's the American in me, that sees the faults of another country more clearly than its natives. Or maybe it's the vegetarian in me, that sees the plight of animals and protests. But I like to think it's the human in me, that sees the cruel practice of fox hunting and cries "Enough."

I've had it up to here listening to complaints from proponents of fox hunting about the new ban, a mirror of the one that went into effect in Scotland two years ago. I'm sick to death of hearing the Countryside Alliance threaten civil disobedience in defiance of the ban, and claim their human rights have been violated. I'm disgusted by people who claim the government has no right to ban a sport enjoyed for hundreds of years--a fine, old tradition. (This, in a country that "traditionally" chopped off heads.)

Inhumanity doesn't deserve the protection of tradition.

Reporting for Duty

We didn't get to watch the Westminster Kennel Club dog show here, which is just as well. My dog is still mad at me because I didn't register her in the AKC, thus dashing her hopes of being a show dog. (She's seen how many treats those dogs get, and she wants some of that action.)

I'd wanted her to go into pet therapy, but she flunked the test, deliberately, I suspect. She just wasn't cut out for social work. When I eventually sneaked her into the nursing home to visit Grandma, she did think it was pretty cool--Grandma spills a lot of food--but then the menacing sight of a guy in a wheel chair gave her the willies. (That's just unnatural, she says, for people to have wheels.)

Since she loves the snow, she decided she wanted to be a rescue dog like her brother. I took her to agility school, but the preparation was for naught. Turns out there aren't too many opportunities to rescue people from dangerous teeter totters in the actual wild.

After we moved to Britain, the land of pampered pooches, she thought she might like to be a Yorkshire Terrier, but they took one look at her and ruled her ineligible. (Something about tail docking--WTF?!) Besides, those cute plaid coats don't come in extra extra large, and what's the point of being a toy breed if cool threads don't come with the job?

On her first outing in Regent's Park, she was attracted to the water, which offered several exciting career possibilities--a swim instructor? A lifeguard? Diving for tennis balls? But then a swan spit at her and a career on the high seas was out.

Our new house in the country presented an opportunity as a guard dog...until she got her first close-up look at the cows in the neighboring pasture. ("Those things are HUGE! Mommy! That one LOOKED at me! Help!")

Now, she's decided undercover work is for her. Every time she goes outside, she rolls in the mud, cleverly disguising herself as a sewer rat. The enemy? Apparently it's the pair of Commie ducks nesting next door. (You didn't know ducks were communist? Make Way for Ducklings was set in Boston. What more proof do you need?)

I try to tell her we're vegan, and all the animals are our friends, but she's not buying it. She's read Animal Farm, and knows it's just a matter of time until they organize a resistance, and as a Tool of Man she'll be first on their list for extinction.

I hear retirement is planned for the shorthaired pointer that won Westminster. If she's considering a second career, maybe she should talk to my dog. She's been around the block a few times--just today, as a matter of fact, and when it comes to careers, she's got some advice: It's a tough world out there, and you don't get treats just for showing up. Watch out for wheel chairs, and when dealing with cows, always--ALWAYS--have backup.

The 70s Can't Come Soon Enough

Some days it sucks not to be able to watch American TV. I think February 22 will be one of those days:

Link: A 'One Day at a Time' Reunion!.

The Cooper women and the friendly building superintendent Schneider are back! That's right, VALERIE BERTINELLI, MACKENZIE PHILLIPS and the rest of the "One Day at a Time" crew have come together for a long-awaited TV reunion!

One Day at a Time was must-see TV when I was growing up. Of course, back then I identified with poor misbegotten younger sister Valerie Bertinelli, and wished my mom was Bonnie Franklin and my brother was Mackenzie Phillips. My mom liked the show, too, because she was actually a closet red-head, and felt the show broke new ground for her people. (It did, too. I don't have to hide behind frosted locks like my poor mom, ashamed to be the red-headed stepchild she was born to be.)

Now, with two teenaged daughters, I suspect I'd identify with the mom more. I even have my own Schneider, though I married mine. (He's got his own tool belt, too--and as I always say, a tool belt does for us females what a thong does for men.)

So now that the 70s have become popular again, can we have Nixon back? Really, I'm sorry the liberal media ever forced him to resign. He wasn't that bad. Honest. (Deep Throat was probably just some male prostitute.) Here's the deal: We apologize, Nixon gets the Oval Office, and you keep George Bush. (We'll even throw in Pat Buchanan as VP.)

Candy? You Want Candy?

I wasn't going to mention Valentine's Day, since the only romantic thing I've done today is watch VH2's "Songs with Love in the Title". But then, courtesy of Booksquare (you enabler you!) I hit the blog trifecta: books, politics, and chocolate, all that speaks to my heart. Seems Steve Almond wrote a book about candy, and decided to flaunt his first amendment rights and express his (cover your eyes, kids) political views. His readers were upset. Oh, they liked the candy part, but apparently mixing candy with opinion (particularly lefty opinion) is like bringing Veuve Clicquot to the church potluck.

As he says in a Moby Lives guest column, How I Managed to Galvanize the Right Wing Hate Machine Without Really Trying:

"What folks want from the pop — hell, what we deserve as tax–paying Americans — is a nice soothing mind bath. A few chuckles. A nice melodrama in which to park our emotions for a couple of hours. In a word: opium.

He goes on:

Pat Buchanan Hates America!

I got into an argument with my right-wing brother one day, who said the reason we were attacked on 9/11 is because "we're free and they hate freedom." I was surprised to hear such nonsense come out of my brother's mouth, despite the fact he listens to Rush--so surprised, I couldn't respond. But now, Pat Buchanan has done it for me:

Meet the Press interview: (Via Crooks and Liars.)

BUCHANAN:  The president of the United States was profoundly mistaken. He has misdiagnosed the malady.  He has misdiagnosed the reason for the attack, Tim.  The United States was not attacked because we are free.  Bin Laden was not attacking the Bill of Rights.  We were attacked because the United--over here because the United States' military and political presence is massive over there.  Bin Laden in his fatwah, his statement of declaration of war on the United States, said the infidels were standing on the sacred soil of Saudi Arabia.  They want us out of the Middle East.  They don't care whether we have a separation of church and state.

When us liberals spout this kind of sense, we're accused of being anti-American. So I guess we need to offer Pat Buchanan political asylum here in the Blue States of America (motto: Not Just a State of Mind!). It's not a bad gig--all the Merlot you can drink, the NY Times included with your sushi order, and a courtesy Volvo.

Someone, get that man a blog!

(Many thanks to Crooks and Liars for providing much-needed video links even Mac-using expats can enjoy.)

On the Island with Hugh Grant

I just watched my favorite movie again, for, oh, about the fifth time--and I rarely like a film enough to sit through it again. But About a Boy just keeps on charming, nearly three years after its release. In Spiderman's shadow, it made little splash, so if you missed it, it's definitely worth a trip to the back aisles of the video store.

This time, I recognized some places I'd been to: Regent's Park, the London Zoo, Sainsbury's. (I haven't seen Hugh Grant hanging round the canned goods, but it's probably only a matter of time.)

About a Boy is adapted from the book of the same name by Nick Hornby. Because I didn't much care for High Fidelity--too much thirty-something-white-guy angst for my taste--I didn't think I was a Nick Hornby fan. But here he adds dimension to the guy-flick, cleverly portraying one man's desperate attempts to be an island, the star of the Will Show; and one boy's equally desperate attempts to invade that island and save his mum. Fiona (Toni Collette), the suicidal vegetarian mother, reminds me of myself, without the pills. Fortunately, my children constantly remind me not to wear goofy hats, and refuse to eat Ancient Grains cereal, so they've been spared that awkward children-of-weirdos phase.

Will (Hugh Grant) is living every man's dream life: he's the cruise director of his own shallow-sailing ship, so he imagines, living purely for the entertainment value life offers, however pathetic. With no need for income, he watches Countdown on a widescreen TV all day and searches for porn on his Mac. Having his hair "carefully disheveled" is on the agenda, but becoming buds with a nerdy 12-year-old boy isn't, until Marcus (Nicholas Hoult) forces his way in, literally, to the tune of a throbbing U2 drumbeat.

Marcus has serious problems--his clothes are unhip, his haircut dorky, and he sings abruptly in class. And his mother cries all the time. Meanwhile, Will, desperate to get shagged, has figured out the way to meet women is to join a single parents' group. No matter he hasn't a son; one is quickly invented, and Fiona's friend Suzie (Victoria Smurfit) is duly charmed. During an outing with Suzie, Will covers for Marcus's inadvertent duck-slaying, and the two bond. Well, they sort of grin at each other--bonding takes a bit more time, as well it should. Both these guys have issues, neither is particularly likable, but both are entirely lovable.

The Black Moment for Will comes when his budding relationship with Rachel (Rachel Weisz) dissolves, and he realizes he actually misses his afternoon visits from Marcus. They've somehow become friends, despite Will's shallowness and Marcus's near-terminal dorkiness. (We novelists use Black Moments all the time, but the audience is rarely aware of them. This is the moment when the protagonist has hit rock bottom, and unless he or she takes some action to change things--we call this "Going into the Cave for the Elixer"--life will continue as is, and the movie will suck.)

This leads directly to my favorite movie moment of all time. I won't spoil the fun, but if you've never seen the movie, forget I warned you--just try to relax and let it slip up on you. (But you'll want to make sure you've been to the loo recently.)

About a Boy is a rare thing--a truly funny movie, that also has a message, even if it's a shallow "don't be shallow" one. There are no cheap laughs--okay, there are a few--but even they're funnier than just about anything with Reese Witherspoon. (The Importance of Being Earnest excepted.)

I'm also happy to report that no ducks were harmed in the making of this movie. (I promise, they're doing as well as ever, swimming in Boating Lake and fowling the paths. But I'll check again.)

If you rent the DVD, be sure and watch the music videos featuring Badly Drawn Boy and the duck. They're worth the price alone. About A Boy is rated PG-13, and contains words like "bugger" and "sod".

Addicted to Blog

Hello, my name is Kathy and I'm addicted to blog. It started small--at first, I'd visit Atrios, Washington Monthly, maybe DailyKos--for no more than a few minutes each day. A habit, but manageable. Then I found Booksquare (blog cleverly disguised as market research!) and one more didn't set off any warning bells. Local blog--NewMexiKen and DFNM--kept me in touch with the community--a good thing. Then I started dabbling in hardcore Euro/urban blog--Sadly, No! and Wolcott. From there it was on to the Kos Diaries, cheap blog available on any street corner. Looking back, I was out of control at that point, but no one tried to stop me.

I tried mainstream blog--Keith Olbermann, David Corn, but that was too tame, and I soon slunk back to the sleazy corners of AmericaBlog and Roger Ailes.

Now, I read blog from anywhere--it's amazing where links can take you. I recently spent a whole day mainlining Bérubé--all I remember is a purple, hazy glow. Another rainy afternoon I inhaled some WhyJerryWhy I'd scored from Booksquare, giggling hysterically at a description of a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang performance. (Bang Bang Blog--sweet!) I tried Crooked Timber and Oxblog back-to-back--but the tracks started to itch, so I stopped. Yesterday, I got hopped up on Fafblog, then became a disciple of Jesus.

I even journeyed to the mean streets of the comments sections, clicked on IDs for links--I clearly had a problem, but friends and family just looked the other way, not noticing the dilated eyes, the dying houseplants, the sickly smell of blog addiction.

It's hard living this way. Away from my iBook (running Enabler, 1.0), I get antsy. Its pulsing, glowing light calls to me from across the room--what if someone posts while I shower? I can't even go to the eye doctor without wondering, can I blog in the waiting room? Maybe a quick blog in the car...

I tried to distract myself. I opened up a book, a tome on British history, and wondered, why is this post so long? Can I click out of here? And where's the snark? Can't anyone think of a clever way to describe William the Conqueror? I mean, Daily Kossacks would be all over that guy! ("Check out these websites registered to this 'Conqueror' guy--'Swordsforhire.com' and 'SexyNormans4m'.")

I go outdoors, desperate to break my habit, and realize I should have checked the weather blog first.

I don't eat anymore--who needs food, when there's Foodies? I'm rocking a lot more, though, and that counts as exercise, I read on Kevin Drum's blog.

I need help, but even more, I need a faster connection.

Or a blog for addicts like me.

Prince Announces Nuptials; Single Women Could Care Less

Oh, we're all atwitter again, here in the UK. (Two twitters in one week--does that count as exercise?) If you're living on another continent and haven't heard, Charles and Camilla have announced, after years of living an inappropriate lifestyle, their engagement.

The blessed event will occur on April 8, at Windsor, which conveniently is located just down the road from your favorite blogger. (Okay, your favorite UK blogger. All right, the blogger you turn to when Atrios, Kos, and Sadly No are away at the Blogger Conference.)

Whatever, I intend to cover this story like white on rice, or at least like rice always sticks to the spoon, necessitating another spoon just to scoop it off. So forget CNN, Sky, and  Weekly World News. What Do I Know? is all over this.

The first controversy (conTROVersy if you're British, Annus Horribilis if you're a member of the Royal Family) involves what to call the new Mrs. Wales. The title "Princess of Wales" is already taken, even though the former Pr. of Wales is dead. (Might I suggest "HRH Posthumous Princess of Wales, in Perpetuity" instead?) And will Camilla eventually become "Queen Camilla" or will she simply be known as "Queenie"? And do Wills and Harry plan to call her "Mum", or run screaming whenever she walks into the room?

And, most importantly, what is the extent of David Blunkett's involvement?

Fortunately, a committed newshound such as myself can track down the answers to these questions and more, simply by sitting on a couch and listening to the Beeb (what we affectionately call the BBC here in the UK). Turns out Camilla will become HRH Duchess of Cornwall, and in the event Charles ascends to the throne, she'll become the Princess Consort. (Former King Edward VIII was unavailable for comment.) As for Wills and Harry, well, they hardly ever see their Da anymore, they're too busy punching reporters and posing for postcards.

And this just in: David Blunkett, it appears, plans nothing to do with this prominent society marriage, though husbands all over the City are still keeping a sharp lookout for London's blind Lothario and former Home Wrecker Secretary. Note to Charles: Keep the wife-snatcher under surveillance, and if he comes sniffing 'round, lock the tosser in the tower.

Finally, what does Queen Liz think of all this? "We are very pleased that at long last our son has decided to do right by that divorced woman, Camilla Parker Bowles, whom everyone knows he's been shagging for yeahs.*"

Now we turn to more important questions: What to wear, what to wear?

*Brits have a congenital inability to pronounce the letter "R". Therefore, "years" becomes "yeahs" and "carrots" becomes "cats."