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Wed - September 7, 2005
Well, I think we're up and running over here.
My intention is to leave this url behind as a
kind of archive (my machine-based blog client, iBlog, has resolutely withstood
my best efforts at exporting previous content) and move all "fresh" content to
the www.neptunuslex.com domain. We're not entirely ready for visitors over
there, with some broken links, etc. but we'll make do somehow. I
suppose.
See you over there!
Tue - September 6, 2005
Small beer, tonight...
I'm elbows deep in webservers and MySQL
databases, obscure codes and cryptic incantations. It's a WordPress installation
(some of you who navigate here via http://www.neptunuslex.com will have noted a
certain, em... unfinishedness about my preparations, thet-a-way) and it's
consumed I am.
Turns out I'm far better at redirecting domain name servers than I am populating the redirected database with accessible fare. But efforts move forward on all fronts (this is a federal issue, after all) and I hope to resume normal blogging (cha!) any old day now. So it goes. In the meantime I invite your attention to John Leo, who has noticed that the legacy press is ignoring certain inconvenient facts about SWWNBN. Whom we haven't heard a great deal about, now that the dog days of a Crawford August are over and there's actual misery to flog, but it's all of a piece throughout, and I've no doubt we'll be hearing from her again after Shepard Smith dries his eyes ("I see dead people! No, really. I really, really do! Me!") On the topic of who is to blame, I recommend Protein Wisdom, not least because they're having great sport with a couple of trolls named Ken (who passed the bar, apparently) and "Azrael." Good sport, if that sort of thing appeals. Off you go then.
Mon - September 5, 2005
The next time a Hollywood celebrity tries to
impress you with his political acumen :
EFFORTS by Hollywood actor Sean
Penn to aid New Orleans victims stranded by Hurricane Katrina foundered badly
overnight, when the boat he was piloting to launch a rescue attempt sprang a
leak.
Mr Penn had planned to rescue children waylaid by Katrina's flood waters, but apparently forgot to plug a hole in the bottom of the vessel, which began taking water within seconds of its launch. Oh, I know. I shouldn't josh him for neglecting to put the drainage plug back in the boat before lowering it into the water. Anyone could make that mistake, if he'd never actually launched a boat before. At least he was trying, right? Right? - Asked what he had hoped to achieve
in the waterlogged city, the actor replied: "Whatever I can do to help."
-
With the boat loaded with members
of Penn's entourage, including a personal photographer, one bystander taunted
the actor: "How are you
going to get any people in that thing?"
-
You've got to bring a cameraman along if you're an
actor, because it's existentially true that if your heroism and altruism aren't
caught on film, then they never really ever happened...
-
I know it's unkind to poke fun at the silly
people, but still: Heh.
Well this is a nice touch, as well as being a
pleasant surprise:
KUWAIT CITY -- The oil-rich
Persian Gulf state of Kuwait said Sunday it will donate $500 million in aid to
U.S. relief efforts after Hurricane Katrina.
The offer is the largest known put forward since the hurricane ravaged Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama and follows a $100 million aid donation from the emir of a Mideast neighbor, Qatar. I take that kindly indeed, thank you from all of us. And as-salaam aleikum.
Sun - September 4, 2005
I know I'm late to the table on this one, but I
just turned in some spare cash to help out those in need because of Hurricane
Katrina. As you know, unlike many other countries where state-led donations
exceed individuals giving to charity, the reverse is usually true over here.
Neither way is better or worse, but if you're looking to give here are a couple
of good ways to go:
The American Red Cross is a popular way to help,
and clicking on the logo will take you right to their donations
page.
 I gave to the Epsicopal Relief and Development Fund myself - it's a place I know, and their are no "frictional losses" of your charity donations on the way to the designated recipients. Both are fully tax deductible, of course.  If neither of these two charities fire your cracker, FEMA has a list of voluntary organizations up receiving donations . As Lileks pointed out earlier in the week, the list of who's doing what is... instructional, perhaps. No word up yet on how to give from the folks at the Council for Secular Humanism , but we'll keep checking in. Probably just, you know: An oversight. (Previously)
The ball starts falling towards the center but it’s moving too fast, he’s going to shoot through the glideslope, he can hear the LSO key the mike, and he knows that “Paddles” is going to scream for “POWER” so before that can even happen he plugs the throttle into blower (just a bit? a bit more? how’s that?) and when the LSO finally does call “POWER!” on the radio what seems like an eternity later the pilot mentally shrugs, thinks to himself, you bet, that’s all I’ve got and there’s nothing at all left over, and he feels strangely calm knowing that he's done what he can do and there’s no card left to play. The ball sags below the datum lights and he hears the LSO key the mike again… (Part 1 begins here ) The radio speaker crackles, "304, Hornet ball,
2.7, single engine" and up in the tower, the lieutenant junior grade, having
done all that he can do but stand by and await events, looks up from his
performance charts to scan the landing area. The deck is all clear, and the four
arresting wires and their massive under-deck restraining engines are in battery
to catch eighteen tons of a half-flap Hornet moving at 160 mph on a hot day,
their readiness signaled by the green deck status lights right aft on the
fantail. The JG looks up to the pilot landing aid television, or PLAT to watch
the pilot's approach and landing. With its centerline mounted micro-cameras, the
PLAT, with its cross-hairs showing glideslope and line-up errors, will be more
accurate than his own vantage point in the tower.
Captivated as he is by the drama playing itself out just beyond the tower's thickly fortified glass, the JG doesn't hear the heavy blast hatch open and close behind him, and is not at first aware that the voice asking about 304's status is that of his squadron commanding officer, joining him. Without turning back, he murmurs, "He's on the ball." In a moment, the heat rises up his collar and he feels his ears turning pink as he recognizes the voice at last, casting an anxious glance of confirmation behind himself before appending, "Sir." The Air Boss is transfixed with the approach as well, and ignores the exchange entirely. Their eyes are drawn irresistibly to the PLAT display, and as one, the three of them frown slightly as the jet on final goes high and fast - a hard correction to make on a hot day, harder still when single engine. As they see the jet stop it's upward vector and start to head back down to glideslope, the left hands of the Air Boss, squadron CO and even the JG all tighten on unseen throttles as they urge 304 to catch it, catch it! The radio crackles again, with urgency this time as the LSO calls for "POWER!" and the three of them wince slightly as though they had been lashed. Kestrel 304 looms large in the TV screen with unsettled dynamics and each of them realizes that it will all be over one way or another in the next few moments. Each feels the unwelcome (and to the JG, all-too-familiar) sensation of being out of control of events and unsure where the next few seconds will take them, a feeling of dreadful potential bordering just on the edge of disaster. The radio crackles again, the LSOs again, talking together, almost tripping over each other: "Easy with it!" "Right for line-up," and "A little attitude," as they strive to get the FA-18, now starting to flatten out its descent again under the application of all remaining throttle, safely on deck and in the "spaghetti." At the moment of truth (the wire cannot tell a lie) the tail hook snatches the number three cross-deck pendant on the fly and the jet heaves and bucks as the wire pays out, slowing the Hornet down, stopping it, the lone motor screaming like a wounded beast, the 20 foot-long flame of a fully staged afterburner streaming behind like Vulcan's blowtorch. The radio crackles again, and it's the ship's CO, who like hundreds of other people throughout the massive flagship has only now realized that he was holding his breath, keys his handset and says, "Nice job, 304 - welcome back." The Air Boss changes a switch setting on his belt control to change his mike from external radio to internal communications and says with evident relief in his voice, "Super job paddles. On the flight deck we've got two more to catch, lets get 304 chocked and get a tow bar on him. Move people." Flight deck crewman swarm out to 304, still holding power up against the wire to keep his hook from spitting it's grip until the brown shirts can get chocks beneath his wheels, get a tow tractor attached, pull him clear. Sweat runs like rivers down their faces, between their shoulder blades and down their legs as senior petty officers shout and swear - two more to catch, get moving, let's go! Satisfied for the moment, the Air Boss at last looks behind him to see the JG staring thoughtfully at the flight deck and the swarm of effort surrounding 304. In turning back the Boss sees the squadron CO attempting to catch his eye: The CO raises one inquiring eyebrow and tilts his head towards the JG, silently asking, "How did he do?" As silently, the Boss purses his lips thoughtfully and nods his head affirmatively - "He did well." Both senior aviators turn their glances on the JG now, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, the age old machinery of leadership calculation grinding, sifting, weighing. Aware finally of the weigh of their collective attention, the JG turns to look at them. At first he blushes again and looks way, embarrassed by the attention. But only for a moment before he turns silently back to them, and returns their gaze directly. Although he is not aware of it, his chin is infinitesimally upthrust and his shoulders squared, his entire carriage displaying what is only just barely on propriety's side of the naval definition of defiance. The JG knows that this, at least, he has done well. Both of the older men hold his gaze for a moment thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, before nodding silently and turning away. The CO undogs the massive blast hatch and steps out of the tower and onto the weather deck, the JG following after. Stepping out of the air conditioned tower, the mid-day sun slaps at them with a blow of almost petulant physical brutality, and their pores stream open, itching. Just before the blast hatch slams shut, the JG catches the Air Boss's eye, hears him say, "Well done. See you on the ball tonight." The JG turns to follow his CO, momentarily gratified to have received such praise from a man not known for giving any. His pleasure gives way to mild dismay as he reflects that with a hundred pilots in the air wing, it is unfortunate that the Boss should not only know him by name, but also know that he'd be flying again that night. He sighs, shakes his head, dogs the hatch and goes below. Racing down the ladders with the careless athleticism of youth, he catches the CO two ladders down and holds back a respectful difference before deciding on a whim to change destinations and await 304's pilot on the flight deck, rather than heading immediately back down to the ready room. It's only 110 degrees in the shade behind the island as the last two aircraft recover, engines screaming, but the sweat pours off him even as he lurks guiltily, aware of the fact that he should be wearing flight deck protection but not caring for the moment. After a few minutes, 304's pilot walks wearily aft and the JG joins him in the starboard side catwalk, heading below deck and inboard. Once inside the skin of the ship, to temperatures that drop 10 degrees with every hatchway they traverse, the pilot turns to the JG, mops his face with a bandana and says, "Thanks, man. You really helped up there today. I was as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, and you made a huge difference." "Oh, it wasn't anything," the JG replies, nevertheless pleased - praise has been hard to come by lately - "But that was an awesome job you did getting her on deck - single engine, hot day, flight control cautions, single AOA. Wow." "You think so?" the pilot asks, "I felt like I was killing snakes in the cockpit. And anyways, you don't win any Air Medals for good landings after self-inflicted damage. Is the skipper pissed?" "At you? I don't know. I can't read the man. But seriously man, great work - how did you do it, what were you thinking about?" The pilot stops thinking about the trouble he's in for a moment and looks at the JG, evaluating what he's asking against what he really wants to know: "Why is it that you can you do this with your jet all messed up, when it seems that I can't do it all?" Three-oh-four's pilot doesn't consider himself given much to introspection, far less to rah-rah coachifying. But he also knows that the JG has been suffering recently, has watched the nightly circus show, sees the strain in the younger man's eyes, shrugs: "Dude, look - when you're all messed up - especially when it's your own fault? - all you can do is try your best and believe in yourself. Because you know what? That's not enough to make it happen, not by itself. But if you don't do that? You haven't got a chance. You've got nothing. I know you're trying. Trying is good, but you've got to do more than try. You've got to believe." "Easy for you to say." "And hard to do, I know. But you aren't the first guy ever to struggle at this. Most people do. It's hard, man. Sometimes it's harder than Chinese algebra. But it's like: The moment you think you can't do it? You can't. Flip side is that the moment you believe you can, you will. If you didn't have the monkey skills, you wouldn't have gotten this far. You've just got to, you know: Take the leap." The JG looks into the pilot's eyes warily. If only it was so easy... Just inboard of them, behind the vault-like doors of the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, a first class intelligence specialist monitoring a chat room in the Multi-Source Integration cell reads a few lines of text and sits bolt upright. "Sir," he says, calling to one of the targeteers, "I think you'd better have a look at this." The targeteer, an intelligence officer with the rank of lieutenant lets out a low whistle, beckons for a runner, "We need to convene the TST cell." He then picks up a red radio handset, keys the mike and says, "COPS, MSI - stand by for words on a time sensitive target." (To be continued... )
Sat
- September 3, 2005
A dove hunting trip to Imperial
County:
Resident licenses and upland bird stamps (x2):
$66.00
Four boxes shells: $40.00
Tank of gas (15 gals): $45.00
Double bed "suite" at the Calipatria Inn:
$110.00
Over-stimulated bird dog pacing the room all night,
whining: N/C
-
Taking a grand total of two dove over the course of
four hours in the baking heat of the California desert?
-
(Highlight the text below to find out)
$130.50, each, actually.
Fri - September 2, 2005
Margarita
Recipe:
1 1/2 oz. Tequila 3/4 oz. Triple Sec (or Cointreau) Splash of Sour Mix & a dash of Rose Lime juice Shake with ice & serve in a salt rimmed glass on the rocks or strain to serve up Add more liquid and blend with ice for a frozen variation Garnish with a lime wedge What is that you ask? Is that egg there on my face?
Why, yes. Yes it is. It isn't just the French who are offering to help, it's the whole damned United Nations . John Bolton or no. All my carefully constructed Mephistophelean archetypes are crumbling! Agh! Universe reordering in front of my astonished, uncomprehending eyes! Must. Seek. Order. Or not. Had an interesting discussion with Sim in the comments here . I think there is something to the idea that our internal political divide is starting to poison our international relationships, even apart from the divisions left over from 2003. I guess the real question is whether it could be any other way - for some folks, the fact that Europe (read: France and Germany) were not on side invalidated the whole effort. For others, it invalidated the opinions of France and Germany. Many Americans tend to hold an almost messianic belief in our own national rectitude - City on a Hill and all that. Even most of those who protest against the international policies of whichever faction happens to be in power at any given time do so out of a sense that they (the protesters) are the ones protecting the real national narrative while the empowered elites are hell-bent for leather on whipping the national stagecoach over the Precipice of Domestic Disaster and International Condemnation. (The fact that many of these protesters are joined and sometimes organized by what can only be described as whack-jobs on the uttermost fringe of the otherwise unemployable left is only because, whatever party happens to be in charge, it's mostly made up of grownups, and the anarchists can't stand that. Speaking of which, I wonder how many of these folks are hurrying down to join in the fun down in New Orleans. I mean, this is their utopia, no? The City in a Bowl?) This messianic strain combines at the popular level with an almost juvenile desire to be "liked" - Sally Fields ain't in it - vis all the tortured, "Why do they hate us?" hair shirts (Caligula would not have approved). And when you finally contrast all this by the (perceived? Fine, if you say so) necessity to act in ways that no one else can on the world stage (it was Clinton appointee Madeleine Albright, after all, who called the US "the indispensable nation"), these combine in often awkward and unpredictable ways because the exercise of that power inevitably creates enemies - you either pick a side when brokering disagreements and earn the enmity of the other team, or else you push both hotheads face down into the ice bath, and earn the enmity of both of them. And lots of other folks besides, each of whom has their own national axe to grind. And it used to be that we knew that we could count on the camaraderie of the Anglosphere, but then Canada went and took a powder on us, millions of Brits took to the street waving SWP banners and it's never quite been the same since. It isn't that the whole world has to fall in line or else be identified as Enemies of the State: Everyone has to act in their own national interest, and hopefully that lines up with "the right" in the way we've all come to understand it. But if we're dealing with intractable problems of great consequence and your answer is "We don't actually have a plan, but we know we don't like yours" then you have to expect a certain degree of hurt feelings all the way around. It's a trust thing. We've gotten so used to either giving up on the rest of the world, or else waiting until someone else is in power to try to make up to the rest of the world that we get a little shocked when a terrible disaster falls over us and other folks offer their help. There is a certain lamentable tendency to look at the world with hands scored from the blood of the endless domestic political duel and ask, "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" So, I was thinking: You know. Maybe we should stop it. And by the way, foreign people? Thanks. We appreciate it your help. --- And speaking of Clinton , I have to admit that the man showed a lot of class over here. Which are not, truth be told, clauses that I ever though I would find myself stringing together. But there it is. Clinton may well be the only two-term president whose legacy is improved by the conduct of his life after leaving office. --- Meanwhile, closer to home : LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - An angry San
Diego topless dancer pulled out a knife and stabbed a customer after he refused
a lap dance, police said on Thursday.
Lawanda Dixon, 24, was arrested for
assault with a deadly weapon shortly after the altercation with 33-year-old
Melik Jordan at the Dream Girls Cabaret early on Wednesday, San Diego police
Det. Gary Hassen said.
"He was in the club with some friends
watching the shows when she came up and asked if he wanted a lap dance," Hassen
said. "He said no, she got upset about it, they argued back and forth. She
pulled knife out of her bag and stabbed him."
Dixon was taken into custody and police
found methamphetamine in a small metal container in Dixon's bag, Hassen said,
adding that she may face drug charges. Officers also confiscated a small folding
knife.
Jordan was treated for his injuries and
released by a local hospital.
-
Man, I hope that guy is single, or else he is
so
screwed!
---
Which brings me (don't ask how) to the idea of the
social contract - I got a nice note from one of my readers (the other one being
sick) which generated this reply from me:
-
I'm with you in that I've got the sneaking feeling that we've been caught by a natural disaster with our drawers down and that it's taken far too long to get them pulled back up and buckled again. I think it's ironic that the things we've done post-9/11 to attempt to streamline disaster response may in fact have had the opposite effect. The military folks are bumping into the FEMA guys who are tripping all over the local authorities and national guardsmen. I would have hoped for a more coherent response, the feeling of a well-oiled machine leaping into action - instead I think we've discovered what we in the Navy call "seams" in the command and control structure. I also agree with you that there will be time later for finger-pointing and blame-naming - it's inevitable I guess, and clearly a favorite sport for a certain kind of muckraker that doesn't actually have any responsibilities apart from criticizing the "man in the arena," but takes that particular task very seriously, by God. Especially when the man in the arena represents the "other" political party. Ugh. But this has become an almost reflexive response for some folks, as natural to them as their heartbeats, and probably as little subject to cognitive control. The looting thing seems fairly straightforward to me as well: If you couldn't execute a person for the crime being committed after a coolly dispassionate court process, with time to examine evidence, take testimony and weigh motive, it's pretty hard to justify taking someone's life in the heat of the moment for taking a toaster which is probably in any case insured. There is a counter-vailing argument that goes against this notion saying in effect, "we ought to shoot looters so that the social compact might not be broken, and greater crimes commited" which of course means in effect that you should kill people for crimes they may or may not in the future influence or effect - kind of fails the reductio ad absurdum test, or else we'd kill all the people well in advance, to keep any of them from committing any serious crimes, or encouraging others to do so. I've got no problem killing people who would shoot at rescue helicopters though. Just need to be careful and precise in your targeting, or else the story will be one of the military shooting up pregnant women only trying to find water for their toddlers. Speaking of which, I wonder to what degree the media, conditioned over the last serveral years to find a way to present the bad news as all the news is contributing to the general sense of catastrophe in the making? We'll pull through. It'll be hard, but we'll pull through. ---
This whole thing has been an enormous kick in the
jimmy, and there will be plenty of blame to go all the way around. I don't know
that any other place in world history has gone so quickly from First World
sybaritic excess to Third World execrable need in so short a period of time.
Well, the aid is flowing in now, the country and the government (they are not
entirely the same thing) are mobilized and we'll soon make things better, a
little bit at a time. We will all continue to studiously ignore the elephant of
race and class that's squatting in the public square, in the hopes that maybe it
will either a) go away, or 2) no one else will notice it.
-
And someday, maybe, we'll all grow up enough to have
an adult conversation about what all of this meant, and what to do about
it.
---
And now, I go with SNO to the Imperial Valley, in
order to do a thing that we do every year, right about this time. Whenever I'm
not at sea.
test
test
Thu - September 1, 2005
I'm about ready to deliver a certain biology
teacher a richly deserved ass-beating.
Tried to help the Biscuit through some Biology
homework this evening - she only started freshman year yesterday - and ran afoul
of one of those teachers you occasionally hear about, but thankfully rarely
meet.
Wait - roll the clock back 24 hours: She comes back from her first day, and we ask, "How was it?" Trying to be excited for her. First day of high school and all. "It sucked." Ah. Faulty motivation, we wondered? "What happened?" "Oh. My biology teacher introduced himself and told us that most of us would probably fail the course and have to take it again next year." Say what? Dunno about you, but I'd feel like a pretty poor teacher if I couldn't get at least the middle and upper wedges of the bell curve across the finish line in the alloted time. But that just sets the stage - she had some pretty challenging work to do, and I felt good about myself being able to help. Had to take a break to go to the Kat's Parent-Teacher intro, back home by 2000. To find the Biscuit waiting, lab handbook in hand. Turns out there was an experiment to do. Her teacher had told her class that he wasn't interested in doing labs in the classroom unless they involved dangerous chemicals - they could do the rest of them on their own at home. This lab needed glycerine and a graduated cylinder, among other things, to make it work. So I bundled into the auto-voiture and went to the local science supply store for a graduated cylinder and some glycerine. What, you don't have a local science store in your neighborhood? Turns out that we don't either. Drove all over the place for the better part of an hour and couldn't find anyone who even knew what either product was. Which was about what I expected at the beginning of the hunt. So, I'm pretty steamed right now and you'll forgive me (I hope) if I'm off my stride for a normal post. More tomorrow, maybe. After I drop her off at school early to change teachers, and go looking for an explanation. |
Credo
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones "Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra" "And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche "Blogito Ergo Sum" - Neptunus Lex About Me Email me: Solidarity
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