Add your own example(s) of things The President is responsible for. Sarcasm is assumed. Linking to sillines is encouraged.

Needed something light and meaningless. From Ravenwood.

A List of Things Every Man Should Do Before He Dies

1. Shoot a gun larger than a .22. (Yep)
2. Teach a kid to shoot. (Define “kid.” Boyo hasn’t been shooting yet and guns aren’t allowed where we’re going so I’m gonna have to hold out.)
3. Cook a meal out in the open. (Done many times and not just “grilling” either.)
4. Kill an animal which can kill you. (No, and hopefully never will.)
5. Taste a good brandy (no French cognacs need apply) and a fine single malt Scotch. (I’ve overachieved this one.)
6. Visit at least eight countries outside your own continent, none of which speak your home language. (Only four so far.)
7. Read any six Shakespeare plays. (I’ve read them all at least once…some of them really shouldn’t be read.)
8. Win a solo sporting competition—anything that involves physical exercise. (When I was MUCH younger.)
9. Be part of a winning sports team. (Does bowling count?)
10. Make love with a woman in a forbidden place. (Yep.)
11. Have a strange woman invite you home with her; and refuse her, because you’re married. (Done more than once.)
12. Build something tangible—out of wood, steel, brick, whatever. (Done. That reminds me, we need new bookcases.)
13. Sit up all night comforting a sick child. (One of the times I KNEW I was a Dad.)
14. Tell the truth, where a lie would both be undiscoverable, and keep you out of trouble. (The truth’s just easier on my karma, besides being honest in these cases really freaks out some people so…bonus!)
15. Watch at least one real virtuoso play a musical instrument—in any kind of music. (I consider Eric Clapton such a man, done.)
16. Perform on stage (music, theater, whatever), to a large (500+) audience. (Many times.)
17. Play at least one musical instrument competently. (I fail miserably here, but still want to learn how to play the guitar.)
18. Make love to a woman at least ten years older than you are. (And that was long ago and far away as well.)
19. Tell a government bureaucrat to fuck off. (Do it all the time I’ve just learned to use words that won’t get me court martialled.)
20. And finally: tell a true story to your grandchildren. (Boyo technically is my grandchild but I’ll wait until he has kids to call this one done.)

Greyhawk has the answer.

I know we’ve got a seriously generous group of readers. You’ve proven it many times in the past, time to do it again.

I did my very last TDY at the little Naval station in Gulfport ten years ago to the month. It was a charming, sleepy place, flat as a pancake inland— as near as I could tell with my hill-bred senses—all around and between Gulfport and Biloxi. The highest bit of real estate anywhere around seemed to be a great artificially built ridge on Gulfport Naval Station, called the “Bauxite Mound”. We were sent there, and set up there, for a vast aerial war-game, involving the ANG camp by the airport, Keesler AFB, and an assortment of other units and bases.

I was there for two weeks or so, tasked to sit in a trailer on the Bauxite Mound, and hit “play/record” and “stop” on a videotape recorder twice daily. The VTR was connected to a Hi8 camera bungee-corded to a vantage-point in a mobile radar trailer, and focused on a radar screen. At the end of a two-hour exercise scenario session, I popped the tape out of the machine, another Combat Camera TDY expert did the same with the VTR that she monitored (from another camera, bungee-corded in another trailer) and we put them both in a padded envelope, and a runner with a security clearance came to collect them. I think they were Fedexed somewhere, for after action review and analysis. For this onerous duty twice daily for two weeks, the DOD paid airfare, travel and per diem. (Your tax dollars at work, people… the peacetime military had certain discrete charms.) Most of the unit videographers were on a real combat doc assignment elsewhere— those on this one were stray broadcasters, and a couple of engineers— I think they sent the unit graphic artist as well. The unit was essentially emptied of everyone but the commander and the admin NCO. We joked that they might as well pull down the blinds, turn on the answering machine and pretend that no one was home.

For all but the four hours or so that we were needed at the exercise, Monday through Friday, we were free. We had the use of a couple of rental vans, though, and by careful scheduling and cooperation, were also able to amuse ourselves in a mild way in what passed for the fleshpots of the Mississippi Gulf Coast— although I ought to make it clear that my own excursions were to a fabric store, services at an Anglican congregation in Gulfport on Sunday, and to funny little nursery and pottery where I bought some concrete and pottery animals for the garden.

People who don’t know better claim that Texas is a southern state. It isn’t. I found that out the first evening, a van full of us buying groceries at the largest upscale grocery in Gulfport. At six of an evening on a weekday night, it was all but deserted. Maybe one clerk, and a couple of other customers besides ourselves. At that time of day, that time of week, grocery stores in San Antonio are jumping. No, Texas hustles… Mississippi was lazy and languid and mellow. Except for the casino barges all along the coast to Biloxi, the sidewalks all rolled up at about 4 PM. (A clerk in the Navy Exchange told me that she had to finally take the afternoon off, when she wanted to buy a car. By the time she got off shift in the late afternoon, all the dealers were closed.)

Every local I met, on post or off— they were gracious, friendly, languid, unhurried. I was too much, I realized, the energetic and keyed-up Yankee to feel comfortable with that over a long period of time, not unless there was something mellowing in the water. I knew that otherwise, I would eventually snap and grab a local citizen by the shirt-front and begin screaming “Wake up! It’s the poppies, I tell you! Snap out of it!!” But since I knew that I would be going home long before I reached the exasperation point, I could accommodate the laid-back and casual attitude— well, for two weeks, at least— and enjoy the differences.

Back of the ocean front, the land seemed to be very flat, and lushly wooded, threaded by slow-moving creeks, ditches and canals. I loved to run a circuit around the back-forty of Gulfport NS, which featured a golf course and a picnic ground with a large lake. Turtles the size of soup plates basked in the sun, plopping hurriedly into the water almost as soon as I saw them. Egrets and other water birds haunted the woods and the tangle of canals, and one day I saw what I thought first was just a pathetically skinny, reddish little stray dog, grooming himself on the grass verge between a ditch and a paved road. But no, it had a sharp little muzzle and pointed ears edged in black; every time it looked down for a bit more grooming, I stepped closer to the fox. It would turn, and look at me uneasily, I would hold very still… and reassured, the fox would resume grooming, until I was almost close enough to touch it. I wouldn’t, of course. Besides fleas, parasites and rabies, it also had very sharp little teeth— but I had never seen a real fox, not up so close.

The coast between Gulfport and Biloxi was beautiful— not because the beaches were scenic like Big Sur—but because they were white sand, and the sea always smooth and calm, and Highway 90 was a four-lane motorway with a landscaped median that paralleled the shore, sweeping around every gentle curve and headland. On the inland side of it a graceful series of large and small houses overlooked the road and the endless beach. We drove along that highway a number of times, but the one that sticks in memory was coming back from dinner at one of the Biloxi casinos (the pirate ship one— I won $5.00 on a slot machine). It was just about sundown, daylight fading out of the sky. All along the coastal road, the beautiful homes sat, with their windows and curtains drawn open to the sea breeze, lights on inside the rooms. It was like looking into the windows of a series of elaborate doll houses, but ever in the back of my mind—even then— was the thought of how close the water was, how flat the country and how fragile those beautiful mansions and cottages would be, in the eye of a storm.

The news reports have the storm surge that hit Biloxi as being 30 feet, and I am wondering, without any way of ever knowing, how many of the lovely houses that I admired, and how many of the places that I spent my TDY money at, and how many of the people I met in passing— at the nursery, at the church service, or ringing up my groceries— are OK, and alive. Thirty feet of water, all at once…We think of our world as solid, immutable, but it is not— it has its own whims.

It looks sadly as if the worst-case scenario is happening in slow motion. New Orleans will be rebuilt, of course, but how, and maybe even where, and with what technologies… and what it will look like, a watery phoenix risen from the delta in ten years or twenty… well, who knows? It won’t be the city it was, last weekend, last decade, the century before.

But this is what it looked like, once. I offer it as something to hold in memory against the images of the last two days. (I will go on posting one of my antique postcards every other day or so)

30 B.C. - Cleopatra commits suicide.

1862 - The Battle of Richmond, Kentucky. Confederates under Edmund Kirby Smith rout a Union army at Richmond, Kentucky, in one of the most lopsided engagements of the Civil War.

1880 - Apache Chief Diablo is killed.

1945 - McArthur arrives in Japan. The first postwar Hudson rolls off the assembly line.

1961 - The world became a better place…for me anyway…finally had some room to stretch. Mom was skinny back then.

1963 - The U.S.-Soviet “Hotline” goes into operation.

1970 - Cameron Diaz is born.

1980 - Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again enters the charts.

History bullets provided by The History Channel.

Most of my regular readers know I am a huge jazz fan, and am again watching Ken Burns’ eponymous documentary. And, while I must say that, while this is a far better treatment of the subject than has ever been done before, it is still sorely wanting. What irks me most is that Burns is rather Afro-centric, and loses scope in the post-Bird era.

I mean, he pretty-much dismisses the whole west-coast “cool” jazz genre as being hardly worth listening to. And, while he gives passing recognition to Ornette Coleman, and Dave Brubeck, no mention at all is made of Les Paul. And should we even mention Toots Theilman? And surely, any of these four are more important to the evolution of modern jazz than Miles Davis, whom Burns dots on.

And what of the promoters? Only passing mention is made of Quincy Jones, and none of Hugh Hefner. These two men can, arguably, be credited with having “saved” jazz in the ’60s and ’70s.

Something is seriously lacking here.

Help me out here.

Am I the ONLY one who felt disappointed that New Orleans missed being destroyed yet again?

Don’t get me wrong. I love New Orleans. One of my best drunks ever was on Bourbon Street and there’s no better place to have a hangover breakfast. They understand the need for a serious Bloody Mary in that town.

But I was promised large scale destruction of a major city by mother nature and as messed up as I know it sounds, I feel completely ripped off.

I will now go hang my head in shame.

Can I blame MTV if I never watch it?

———–

Update: 30 Aug 05. Midafternoon. The above was commentary more on the media coverage of the event than it was of my true feelings on the matter…just in case anyone missed that. I realize that not everyone “gets” me sometimes.

All I can say today is pray if you got Him and think good thoughts in that direction if ya don’t. Those folks need all the help they can get.

Could it possibly be that King of the Hill isn’t the greatest sit-com ever?

You’re John Bender! ” the Criminal”
You’re rough around the edges and you’re known
to say whatever comes to mind, no matter how
raunchy it is. You make things dangerous but
fun. Even though it doesn’t always show, you
have a kind heart…

Which Breakfast Club Character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Like that was a suprise.

According to Michele’s bud, it’s been 20 years since The Breakfast Club.

OpinionJournal’s Best of the Web Today reports on this AP-Ipsos poll:

We analyzed Friday the meaning of the relatively high numbers overall who at the moment say the war was a “mistake,” but the finding that those closer to the war are more likely to support it underscores one of the more audacious inversions of the “antiwar” movement–namely the complaint that supporters of the war are not actually fighting it themselves or “sending” their “children” to fight it. These are the same people, of course, who think we should take seriously the advice of such military geniuses as Maureen Dowd, Bob Herbert, former Enron adviser Paul Krugman and Frank Rich.

Those you put too much stock in the words of Cindy Sheehan should take note.

Jackson Offers Support to Chavez

So there you have it. This is why Jesse Jackson is a walking joke, and an asshat. This is why I will never call him “Reverend.” As bad as Pat Robertson’s comment was, at least he’s on our side.

I know, you all thought I’d be watching the VMAs didn’t you? Let me clue you in on something. If the show is hosted by someone named “Diddy,” it’s probably not geared toward me, mmm’k?

Anyway, Rome on HBO. I have a new show that I have to watch. I’m not going to pretend that I can tell you how historically accurate it is. I’m not going to rave about how cool the costumes, scenery and fight scenes are. What I am going to tell you is that they didn’t pull any punches when it comes to the brutality and hedonism of that time and place. It was fascinating.

This is what people were like before Christianity started to “civalize” us. Mad at someone for betraying you? Kill them, or perhaps just destroy one of their favorite cities to show them you’re serious. And don’t forget that you’re children are to be used for any advantage including sending your son off into hostile territory to deliver a present to one leader while whoring your daughter out to the other. Atia, played by Polly Walker, will take anyone who has HBO away from Desperate Housewives with ease. You’ve never seen desperation like this and she’s going to make us forget every evil bitch we’ve ever seen before. Alexis Carrington was a declawed kitten by comparison.

Trying to keep up with all the twists and turns is going to take some concentration. You absolutely must pay attention to all the dialogue or you may find yourself wondering how come that city is burning and ask your wife, “What just happened?”

It’s on at 9 P.M. Eastern Sunday Nights with a repeat on Tuesday at 9 P.M..

Update: Reader Bob Fregin writes in the comments:

Kind of “Deadwood” with less clothes and better language. BTW: Have you ever noticed that the ancient Roman’s, Greeks, Spartan’s, Trojans all have strong British accents? How did that come about(?)

Thanks Bob, I meant to ask that and I did a cut but forgot to paste. Anyone? Buellor?

In response to my recent posts, concerning the F-14, and the movie Top Gun, reader Mike Williams sends this interesting email:

I started flying F-14s in 1973. I was an engineering test pilot at the Naval Air Test Center in Patuxent River, MD. I went on to a department head tour in one F-14 squadron, and to an XO/CO tour in another.

When you compare Navy and Air Force fighters, it’s a little apples and oranges because of the Navy’s carrier suitability requirements. And it’s not just the extra weight in beefed up structures for carrier takeoffs and landings: you also have to take into account the comparatively limited space available on even Nimitz-class carriers for maintenance and storage of spare parts.

As you probably know, the F-14A was originally designed to use the same engine as the F-15A. In fact, if memory serves, the number 7 F-14 was a “B” model with the F-15 engine. I forget the exact designation, but it had considerably more thrust than the “A” model’s PW TF-30, which was a variant of the F-111’s engine.

What some people forget is that both the TF-30 and the F-15A engines were high-energy afterburning turbofans, and that while the TF-30 was operational in the F-111, the F-15A engine was at that time pushing the state of the art. Certainly the F-14A was underpowered for a front-line fighter, and guys like me began referring to it as the twin-tailed turkey. I was a lieutenant (O-3) at the time, but that didn’t stop me from venting my frustrations with the rear admiral who was the F-14 program manager at the Naval Air Systems Command. He listened politely to my rants, and then he said this: You’re right, of course, but when the F-15A engine blew up in afterburner on the test stand for the third time at less than 100 hours, I had to make a hard decision about waiting for the engine to catch up, or getting the F-14 out to the fleet on time.

The difference here is that where the Air Force has the hangar space to yank engines every 100 hours for hot section inspections and to store replacements, aircraft carriers don’t.

Now, as you and some of your readers have pointed out, the Air Force flew the F-111 more as a bomber than a fighter. Not so the Navy with the F-14A. Pilots routinely pushed it to the edges of the envelope – and beyond. And initially we had a lot of compressor stall problems with the TF-30 engines that the F-111 pilots didn’t encounter. It took a while, but over the years we managed to engineer enough upgrades to work these problems out. The downside was that there wasn’t enough money left over to upgrade to the F-15A engine when it finally got beyond 100 hours for a hot section inspection.

I can tell you from experience that the F-14A was a very forgiving fighter. Many is the time I’ve run out of airspeed and ideas in a dog fight, often when the jet was pointed nearly straight up. The problem here was that the F-14 has an unrecoverable flat spin mode, and that an engine stall at high angle of attack increases the susceptibility. The spin axis is somewhere between the NFO’s cockpit and the vertical stabilizers, and the transverse G’s during the spin are enough to incapacitate the pilot. So, if you got into a flat spin, your only alternative was to eject, and you were dependent on the NFO (who was not incapacitated by the transverse G’s) to initiate a command ejection.

The NFO’s concern was the canopy: the command eject sequence was the canopy, the NFO and then the pilot. Because you wanted your pilots and NFOs to survive carrier takeoff and landing mishaps, the time intervals were fairly compressed. Unfortunately, the canopy tended to hover over the aircraft during a flat spin, and there was a chance that the NFO would strike it during ejection – a guaranteed fatality.

To be sure, all the fixes to the TF-30’s compressor stall problem weren’t just for air combat. A compressor stall on a combat-loaded F-14 during a catapult takeoff could also be a big problem. The engines are far enough apart so that with one stalled, and the other blazing away in full after burner, enough roll-to-yaw could be generated in short order to put you on your back. Those Martin-Baker seats might have been zero-zero, but as the airplane rapidly rolled from wings-level to inverted, your odds of surviving an ejection decreased exponentially.

Now about Top Gun. During Vietnam we were focused primarily on MIG-17s and MIG-21s. It turns out that the A-4 is a very good MIG-17 simulator, and the F-5 is a very good MIG-21 simulator.

But let’s digress here a minute and talk about the air war in Korea. At the start of the war, the MIG-15 was the superior air-to-air machine, even compared to early versions of the F-86. But later on, the US put bigger engines in the F-86 and bolted up the leading edge slats. Then the F-86 ruled the skies.

The same thing happened to the Top Gun A-4’s: The Navy bolted up the slats and installed big engines. The durn things were small and hard-to-see, had a thrust-to-weight close to 1:1, and could turn on a dime. In an F-14A, you could get in real trouble in a knife-fight with one of those hopped up A-4s. So – you tried to set the fight up to play to your strengths – which were your radar and missiles – and his weaknesses (but you always conceded GCI, which for him was like radar and an extra set of eyeballs).

We’ll I’m sure you’re bored by now with an old man’s reminisces. In closing, my advice would be to let bygones be bygones, and to look to the future. The F-22 is deploying to Langley AFB as we speak, and Russia and China are partnering up in defense technology. The JSF is coming along, and you could reasonably conclude we’re in another Cold War-style arms race. The GWOT is critical right now, but it’s not the only game in town.

I have a old Kinney shoebox full of antique postcards: this is one of about fifteen of various places in New Orleans— Jackson Square, the FrenchMarket, the Cabildo, the St. Louis Cemetary— all the touristy places. There is no date on most of them, but the mix of automobiles and horse-drawn carts and trams have a look of the 1920ies. Most of the rest of the postcards in the box are about the same vintage, most of them never used, and bought by the hasty handful to amuse a little invalid boy by his parents on their travels around the world. (Nice and Cap Jean Ferrat, castles of Britian, monuments in Japan and Paris, Italy and the Pacific Northwest— glamorous relics of the days of liesurely travel on luxuriously appointed ocean liners.) The little invalid boy was the youngest son of the family Grandpa Jim worked for, as the estate gardener. He died in his teens, and many decades later the estate was sold off, all the furniture and valuables removed. There were a lot of odds and ends stored up in one of the garages, and Grandpa Jim was allowed one day to bring us— Mom, JP and I— to look it over and see if there was anything we would like. I don’t know what JP took away, if anything, but Mom liked a cast-iron garden chair covered with three decades of paint (and regretted not taking the love seat that matched it, but was terribly heavy) and I was enchanted by the wealth of postcards. They have been in my posession ever since. Since I took them away from the deserted estate, I have been to some of the places pictured.
But New Orleans is not one of them, and I rather regret that I didn’t take the one chance I did have to see it, when I was TDY to Gulfport, Mississippi a decade or so ago. Unless we are terribly, terribly lucky, New Orleans will not look much like my postcards for a long, long time.

(Cpl. Blondie’s boyfriend left from New Orleans about mid-morning. His family planned to leave from Metairie last night, but put off leaving until this morning. The roads going out to the west were impossibly jammed, so they are all heading for Atlanta. Blondie can reach the BF on his cellphone, but he can’t make outgoing calls. He was out of the city on back roads by midday. She’s keeping in touch with him, as much as she can.
Nearly a year ago, I wrote about another gulf city, and another hurricane here.)

Stolen from Michele.

A.) Go to musicoutfitters.com.
B.) Enter the year you graduated from high school in the search function at the upper left and get the list of 100 most popular songs of that year.
C.) Bold the songs you liked, strike through the ones you hated underline your favorite. Do nothing to the ones you don’t remember (or don’t care about).

1979
1. My Sharona, The Knack
2. Bad Girls, Donna Summer
3. Le Freak, Chic
4. Da Ya Think I’m Sexy, Rod Stewart
5. Reunited, Peaches and Herb
6. I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor
7. Hot Stuff, Donna Summer
8. Y.M.C.A., Village People
9. Ring My Bell, Anita Ward
10. Sad Eyes, Robert John
11. Too Much Heaven, Bee Gees
12. MacArthur Park, Donna Summer
13. When You’re In Love With A Beautiful Woman, Dr. Hook
14. Makin’ It, David Naughton
15. Fire, Pointer Sisters
16. Tragedy, Bee Gees
17. A Little More Love, Olivia Newton-John
18. Heart Of Glass, Blondie
19. What A Fool Believes, Doobie Brothers
20. Good Times, Chic
21. You Don’t Bring Me Flowers, Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond
22. Knock On Wood, Amii Stewart
23. Stumblin’ In, Suzi Quatro and Chris Norman
24. Lead Me On, Maxine Nightingale
25. Shake Your Body, Jacksons
26. Don’t Cry Out Loud, Melissa Manchester
27. The Logical Song, Supertramp
28. My Life, Billy Joel
29. Just When I Needed You Most, Randy Vanwarmer
30. You Can’t Change That, Raydio
31. Shake Your Groove Thing, Peaches and Herb
32. I’ll Never Love This Way Again, Dionne Warwick
33. Love You Inside Out, Bee Gees
34. I Want You To Want Me, Cheap Trick
35. The Main Event (Fight), Barbra Streisand
36. Mama Can’t Buy You Love, Elton John
37. I Was Made For Dancin’, Leif Garrett
38. After The Love Has Gone, Earth, Wind and Fire
39. Heaven Knows, Donna Summer and Brooklyn Dreams
40. The Gambler, Kenny Rogers
41. Lotta Love, Nicolette Larson
42. Lady, Little River Band
43. Heaven Must Have Sent You, Bonnie Pointer
44. Hold The Line, Toto
45. He’s The Greatest Dancer, Sister Sledge
46. Sharing The Night Together, Dr. Hook
47. She Believes In Me, Kenny Rogers
48. In The Navy, Village People
49. Music Box Dancer, Frank Mills
50. The Devil Went Down To Georgia, Charlie Daniels Band
51. Gold, John Stewart
52. Goodnight Tonight, Wings
53. We Are Family, Sister Sledge
54. Rock ‘N’ Roll Fantasy, Bad Company
55. Every 1’s A Winner, Hot Chocolate
56. Take Me Home, Cher
57. Boogie Wonderland, Earth, Wind and Fire
58. (Our Love) Don’t Throw It All Away, Andy Gibb
59. What You Won’t Do For Love, Bobby Caldwell
60. New York Groove, Ace Frehley
61. Sultans Of Swing, Dire Straits
62. I Want Your Love, Chic
63. Chuck E’s In Love, Rickie Lee Jones
64. I Love The Night Life, Alicia Bridges
65. Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now, McFadden and Whitehead
66. Lonesome Loser, Little River Band
67. Renegade, Styx
68. Love Is The Answer, England Dan and John Ford Coley
69. Got To Be Real, Cheryl Lynn
70. Born To Be Alive, Patrick Hernandez
71. Shine A Little Love, Electric Light Orchestra
72. I Just Fall In Love Again, Anne Murray
73. Shake It, Ian Matthews
74. I Was Made For Lovin’ You, Kiss
75. I Just Wanna Stop, Gino Vannelli
76. Disco Nights, G.Q.
77. Ooh Baby Baby, Linda Ronstadt
78. September, Earth, Wind and Fire
79. Time Passages, Al Stewart
80. Rise, Herb Alpert
81. Don’t Bring Me Down, Electric Light Orchestra
82. Promises, Eric Clapton
83. Get Used To It, Roger Voudouris
84. How Much I Feel, Ambrosia
85. Suspicions, Eddie Rabbitt
86. You Take My Breath Away, Rex Smith
87. How You Gonna See Me Now, Alice Cooper
88. Double Vision, Foreigner
89. Every Time I Think Of You, Babys
90. I Got My Mind Made Up, Instant Funk
91. Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough, Michael Jackson
92. Bad Case Of Lovin’ You, Robert Palmer
93. Somewhere In The Night, Barry Manilow
94. We’ve Got Tonite, Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band
95. Dance The Night Away, Van Halen
96. Dancing Shoes, Nigel Olsson
97. The Boss, Diana Ross
98. Sail On, Commodores
99. I Do Love You, G.Q.
100. Strange Way, Firefall

The most bizarre part of this exercise is the fact that I simply don’t recall most of these songs. These were not the top 100 songs that I was listening to, but then again I was listening to college radio and the “alternative” stations when I was 14 so…

On last night’s HBO Real Time With Bill Mahr, our principal claimed boldly that National Guard members signed up only to “play paintball on weekends.” I dare him to go to Iraq, and say that (without a security entourage) to ANY NG squad.

Zombyboy at Resurrection Song.

How wrong would it be to suggest that Casey Sheehan’s death was the best thing that ever happened to his mother, Cindy? To see her reveling in her new celebrity is to see a woman who has found her place and calling in life, no matter that it came not only at the cost of her child but also in spite of whatever the volunteer would have wanted to have said in his own memory. See, no one–not even his mother–can claim divine knowledge of what Casey would want to say to us if he could still speak.

Michele smells somethin’ cookin’.

I smell impending disaster.
Or at least something worth grabbing a bucket of popcorn and turning on CNN for.

Rob at Wizbang turns the tables.

Why won’t Cindy meet with Qualls?
Why does Cindy have all sorts of time for political big-wigs like Al Sharpton and celebrities like Joan Baez but not one minute for Qualls?

Jeff is…well, being Jeff, and what more do we want really?

And of course, make sure the cameras aren’t trained on the White Supremacists when “soft-spoken, grieving anti-war Mom CINDY!” launches into her conspiracy fantasies about “neocons” hijacking foreign policy to benefit their true masters—Israel—at the expense of their puppet proxy, the US government. Because chants of “death to the Kikes”? Might make Barbra and her big-monied Jew friends uncomfortable.

Oh, and any sympathy I may have expressed for Mrs. Sheehan a couple weeks ago, has been completely sucked away by her words, actions and the company she’s chosen to keep.

The good news is, the crumple zones work real well on a Hyundai Elantra…the bad news is I found out that the crumple zones work real well on a Hyundai Elantra. Got my bell rung a bit but I’m okay, but it looks like the entire front end of the car under the hood shifted about 2 inches toward the passenger side. The SP Airman who hit me was as apologetic as could be so I don’t think I was crazy, I think she was going to turn and then changed her mind. Either that or I’m scarier looking than I think I am. Hard to say. Not that it matters, I was coming out of a parking lot, my bad no matter how ya look at it.

Adreniline is wearing off so I’m going to chill for awhile.

Air show this weekend, will try to get some pics.