It was slow at the office, so I'm home from work a bit early tonight.
Tonight's dinner menu: microwave burritos, enhanced with cheese and black olives, with salsa fresca (none too fresca) and sour cream.
Hey, not every night can be pan-seared ribeye with snap peas and a fresh green salad night.
But I wish it could be.
There's something you don't see every day... a pack of squirrels are out on the window ledge here at the office, doing what appears to be a performance of the "All-Rodent KC and the Sunshine Band Tribute Revue."
Right now they're in the middle of "That's The Way I Like It." Their brass section is phenomenal.
Now that my broken foot is pretty much healed up, maybe I should consider cutting back on the pain meds.
But not until the squirrels do "Get Down Tonight."
It seems to me that if there is one lesson to be learned from Jeff Goldstein's current episode with the demented Dr. Deb Frisch, it is not in relation to blogs and blogging, nor is it about the state of political discourse on the web. Rather, it is to parents who give their kids unfettered access to the internet.
There are sick freaks everywhere, and given the opportunity, they will prey on your kids. Blogspace is no exception.
Parents: know what your kids are doing online. Don't guess — find out. And take threats seriously.
As my quote of the day today, I was going to go with something from John Wayne, as Jacob 'Big Jake' McCandles. Maybe you know the one — "your fault, my fault, nobody's fault" — one of the all-time great movie quotes.
Probably not a good idea today, though, lest charges of making threats ensue. Pity.
Gotta have a picture of Mycah.
"What are you lookin' at?"
At the Modulator's place, see the Friday Ark.
As of Sunday, the Carnival of the Cats is at The Scratching Post. Nicely done.
[If purrchance you missed last week's Carnival submission due to non-functional linkage, here's Mycah's Weewee Adventure.]
Mycah has a slightly different take on the real meaning of "sunburn":
Jeff Goldstein and his family are under attack again. Known nutcase Deb Frisch is the presumptive malefactor.
The far fringes of the Left cannot out-argue Jeff on the points, so instead they try to silence him in other ways. One has, for the moment, succeeded... I hope it's only for the very short term.
Warning: there may be some extremely vile language in some of these links. Deb is not a rational person, and tends to inspire, shall we say, strong feelings in the comments of people who disagree with her.
I did a traceroute based on the IP address Ace posted - see a similar result at DNSstuff.com.
Hop number 14 in the traceroute linked above is at a device called eugn-dsl-gw01-97.eugn.qwest.net, which to those of us in the networking business shows that the destination address connects to a DSL gateway router in Eugene, Oregon. Surprise, surprise... this is the area of the country in which the ex-professor Frisch has said she resides.
Coincidentally, this is the same gateway that Deb was connected to the last time she pulled this crap, immediately before her departure from the University of Arizona. [I helped Jeff with the IP, DNS and other lookups at that time.]
It's time for Deb Frisch to disappear into the confines of a cell, padded or otherwise, and down the memory hole as well.
Internet verb, indeed.
Update(s) below the fold...
Interestingly, as of 4:30am EDT (hey, I work nights, so sue me) references to professor Deb have disappeared from Technorati, at least for the moment.
Update, 1:50pm: it's working now.
Update, 2am Saturday: It's been a busy day at the office (BGP can be such a pain) but allow me to note some of the other folks posting about this dust-up.
Also worth noting: Dr. Demented Deb hasn't succeeded in driving Jeff away from the 'net, as the non-dancing armadillo will attest.
Finally (?), my brief thoughts about a lesson to be learned from this episode.
At Patterico's Pontifications, Patrick Frey documents, at length and with class and humor, the full tale of Glenn Greenwald's sock-puppetry.
Sock puppetry — the use of pseudonymous commenters to defend one's self or to advance one's own talking points, thus implying that there are actually people who agree with you — is a bloggery misdemeanor* that, while not itself necessarily invalidating any arguments the blogger/puppeteer makes, does indeed speak to the honesty of the blogger/puppeteer.
In a media where personal credibility is all-important, evident dishonesty is perhaps good cause to question any or all of the blogger's product.
* As opposed to, say, using blog posts and/or comments to threaten people with whom you disagree — a blogging (and, y'know, probably an actual) felony.
In the last 24 hours, there have been almost 700 attempts to spam-comment this site.
Not a single one got through.
For those of you blogging using MT3, I highly recommend the MT-Keystrokes plugin.
Captain Ed explores the "knife/gunfight" paradigm.
Marcus Cole might put it differently:
It's like I've always said: You can get more with a kind word and a two-by-four than you can with just a kind word.
There's a time for diplomacy, yes, but sometimes you have to kick the other guy in the teeth to get his attention.
It's not often that I wish my night at the office was over with as much intensity as I do tonight.
Actually, that's not true. Almost every night, I wish it was over. Just, I don't usually start thinking about it until 11:45 or so.
It's been about five months since Mycah was diagnosed with diabetes. Tuesday she had an all-day stay with the vet, where she had the second of her periodic checkups, during which she was sampled hourly to chart her blood glucose levels. They take readings off the edge of the ear, as I understand it.
A urine sample was also needed. Keep the cat in a pen, give her water, and wait for the magic to happen. Not a problem, you might think.
Of the cats I've known, Mycah is absolutely the pickiest about her litterbox. She likes the fine-grained litter, the clumping scoopable kind. And you'd best scoop twice daily, or be prepared to get a surprise on the carpet.
She's a cat. She's picky. So sue her.
For the vet to get a wee sample, clumping scoopable litter is counterproductive, so they use a non-absorbent pellet-like material. The piddle drains through to the bottom and can be collected and bottled later.
Mycah, however, was utterly uncooperative, and rather than use the "substandard" litter, refused to go at all.
When I picked her up that afternoon, the vet mentioned that Mycah had refused to participate in Operation Golden Flow; we agreed that I would bring her back next week to attempt to collect a sample. I parked her (in her carrier) in the passenger seat of my truck, and off we went.
She meowed the same as she always does when she's in the carrier, but I didn't notice her dancing and crossing her legs. As I pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic, the meowing stopped. I looked, and she was standing stiff and motionless in the carrier.
In fact, oh yes, she was pizzling in her carrier. As luck would have it, the carrier is plastic, and it was tilted so that the door opening was uphill... the effluvium gathered at the back end of the carrier, while Mycah attempted to scrunch up against the door, as far away from the pool as possible, meowing what was undoubtedly the feline equivalent of "Get me out of here!"
I pulled off the road and let her out, then called the vet — could they use whiz collected in a non-standard container? They said "yes," so I headed back to the vet's office, being careful not to upset the carrier. Mycah meatloafed herself on the center console as though nothing had happened, with no hint that she'd done anything improper.
Obviously, someone else had flooded her carrier. Her? Oh, no, not her.
I delivered the toxic waste to the vet. We had a good chuckle, and the staff were kind enough to wash out the carrier; cat pee can, after all, be rather aromatic. I briefly toyed with the idea of leaving it soiled and stuffing Mycah back in, but no, my conscience wouldn't let me.
Mycah, of course, was utterly indifferent. As soon as we got home and she got fed (she'd had to fast before the blood test), she immediately stretched out for a nap as though the day's misadventure hadn't happened.
I wish I could relax so thoroughly, with such a clear conscience. But I'm not a cat.
By the way, the test results came back Thursday — Mycah is doing very well, no insulin is required, and she doesn't need retesting for another six months.
Let's not forget the Friday Ark at The Modulator, shall we?
Update, 25Jul06: It's Tummy Tuesday!
Spam... phishing... trolls... and now the Internet has sock puppets.
This Dave guy — he's a genius, and so good to his daughter.
No, this isn't something new, except perhaps to those few of you who visit here regularly. It's been making the rounds, and it's good enough for another link: Carlos Mencia.
[There are some bleeps, but Potty Language Warning is in effect for the particularly delicate.]
I may have to give Mind of Mencia on Comedy Central a look.
Shamelessly stolen from via The Jawa Report]
These boys and girls are not spare parts.
President Bush, explaining his veto of Federal funding of embryonic stem cell research.
The tv guide's description for tonight's episode of "Digging for the Truth" on the History Channel:
Homer's "Iliad" may be fact or fiction.
You don't say?
My dad used to enjoy telling us how, when he played football for San Francisco State back in the '50s, one of the approved-for-athletes courses he took was — I kid you not — Square-Dance Calling.
So, I just don't see how this story could really come as much of a surprise to anyone who's ever been exposed to college athletics.
The bigger question, I suppose, is: with all those former football player college-educated square-dance callers out in the job market, why is it that the guys you see doing it are always scrawny septugenarians?
Just when you thought it was safe to go back near the litterbox...
Coming sooner than you think.
Another* Mycah the Cat production.
Bad dog. Bad, bad dog.
Still, Ranger has a long way to go before Toonces will need to worry about the competition.
Following columnist Robert Novak's revelation earlier this week that the source for the "outing" of Valerie Plame was not in fact Vice President Cheney, Karl Rove, or any of the usual people lefties wish to see in handcuffs and shackles, Plame and her husband "Lying Joe" Wilson have filed a civil suit against those same people.
It seems that the very people who are not being prosecuted by the government for leaking are being sued for the damage their not-leaking may have done.
Suing people for damaging your reputation would be a legitimate thing to do, but in Joe Wilson's case, perhaps it might be best to disappear off the radar of publicity. The idea of such a suit is to gain back your reputation, but this case will almost certainly destroy Wilson's. If this suit ever goes to trial, old Joe is going to have his ass handed to him. There will undoubtedly be uncomfortable questions a-plenty.
Personally, I'd rather like to hear his explanation of how he could report one set of Niger facts to congress, and then publicly use a contradictory set of facts (read: "lie") in the NY Times in an attempt to damage the President. Now that is something that ought to be lawsuit-worthy....
Joe Wilson seems determined to go down in history as the man who put the "ass" in "ambassador."
Mycah engages in scientific inquiry:
Jeff Goldstein (the thinking man's Argus Hamilton), having had his family threatened, and subsequently having been the target of repeated Denial-of-Service attacks, has now achieved a status that in future will undoubtedly earn him great deference from the Left: he is now a victim.
To members of the political Left, being a victim is like having a Platinum AmEx card and never having to pay it off. It's like Chobham armor. It's as good as having a fusion-powered bullhorn.
It is henceforth forbidden to gainsay Jeff. He is a victim.
His opinions on all matters must be respected. He is a victim.
Those who criticize Jeff for any reason at all may be mere insensitive cretins, but odds are they're card-carrying Nazis. Because, of course, Jeff is a victim: blameless and praiseworthy.
. . . .
What's that you say? He's one of those "neo-cons"?
• An old friend of mine from college days, Colonel Mark Inch, recently assumed command of the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth. There couldn't be a better man for the job.
• It has occurred to me that I had better not be required to evacuate a building in a hurry any time soon. The broken foot is something of a hindrance.
• Bill Whittle keeps teasing us. Have patience, grasshopper.
• How about "My boot. Apply directly to your ass." I'm with Beth: yet another product I refuse to buy because their commercials suck.
• Victory is sweeeet.
• Steve has too much money. Or time. Or both.
The terrifying motion picture from the terrifying No. 1 best seller.
Don't go near the litterbox.
When I’m done with you, Deb, you’re going to be an internet verb.
Jeff Goldstein, righteously pissed off.*
Robert Fisk became a verb. So let's work on a definition, shall we? Here's my contribution:
frisch: to lose one's job or prospects thereof due to public utterances which cross the thresholds of legality, sanity, or both. "Bob really frisched himself with that letter to the editor."
Hmm. Needs work. Help me out here, folks.
* This all assumes, of course, that he's not being spoofed by a Deb Frisch imitator.
Update 2: GMTA.
I met a really nice person today... who happens to have the same name as a noted-by-the-24-hour-news-cycle murderer of recent years.
That would put a cramp in your style, I'm thinking.
Where food is involved, Mycah is definitely opinionated.
When Laurence Simon asks the cats about Code Pink's hunger strike, you know she'll be there.
Pearl Jam - "Ten"
I suspect this band's continued success is due solely to hordes of stoned second-generation Deadheads looking for something new, something "deep."
Deep, allright. Deeply unimpressive.
In my Copious Free Time™, I've begun work on a bit of a project.
Since it doesn't inherently involve computers or the web, I've decided to blog the project: Black Prince.
I've no idea how long it will take to complete, or how regularly I'll work on it. Or whether I'll keep up the blogging on it.
But for a guy who works nights, this sort of hobby does have an advantage over furniture-making, in that it's very quiet, and doesn't irritate the neighbors.
You know, if you have a broken foot, it might be a wise thing to do to not leave clodhopper shoes laying about in places where they are not usually stored.
Half an hour ago I accidentally walked into one such shoe. I think I saw stars.
I should probably be institutionalized for my own protection.
My Dad passed away nine years ago today. I look back, and cannot believe it's been so long.
In memory of him, Mom had some flowers done up for display at her church today.
Yep — they're red white and blue. Dad was a serious patriot.
Broken foot, no cast. No prescription painkillers, just large doses of ibuprofen. My foot still hurts like the devil. And I'm at the office, working, like any normal Saturday.
This could seriously increase my Team Player and Tough Guy attributes in the eyes of my colleagues. I figure it'd be a 2d12 increase for each.
But I'll have to make saving throws, or take damage for Perceived As Idiot and, even worse, Known Attention-Whore.