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Haven't quite finished part II of my mock-pastoral series, so I'll substitute this. Abu Aardvark links to an interesting interview with Dave Sim. Stuff about feminism is bad blah, blah. The riddle within an enigma of the fake fake Regency Elf and the little round glowing white strange thing. "Do you believe in fake fairies?" Some interesting musings on Rick.
Continue reading "What or where is the queer, evil castle of science? " »
What's the silliest book blurb you've ever encountered? I think this one is pretty damning in the faint praise department.
Phil Carter has an interesting post containing modest but not unpointed speculations about a photo he's found of Paul Wolfowitz at Abu Ghraib, apparently taken in the summer of '03.
A long-range idea was maturing in his mind; there merged and forged a chain of ideas he had had for a long time. Why did Father smile to himself, why did his eyes turn up, misty, in a parody of mock admiration? Who can tell? Did he foresee the coarse trick, the vulgar intrigue, the transparent machinations behind the amazing manifestations of the secret force?
- Bruno Schulz, The Street of Crocodiles
There's a funny article in Slate about iTunes celebrity mixes, which includes this gem from Avril Lavigne (expatiating on the merit of Alanis Morrisette's classic "Ironic"): "I love how this song was written with all the different examples Alanis uses of things being ironic."
Y'know, Avril? I love how that song was written with all the different examples of things that aren't, strictly speaking, ironic at all. Yeah. I also love how punk rock you are. Seriously. Gurrrl Power!!!!!!!
OMG I want this so bad. It is so creepy. A set of 38 black and white photos from the 1950's of doll house interiors, with the dolls going about their daily business. It'll probably be too expensive, though. But, um, John, it's almost my birthday and our anniversary. Just mentioning it.
John & Belle just got our 200,000th hit since switching to TypePad. It was, appropriately, a search engine hit for "the goggles, they do nothing", for which we have googlewashed the number 8 spot.
This one is pretty much for the grandparents back in Ameriky.
There's an Orwell "As I Please" piece from 1943 that I don't quite get. Actually, it's just one line Orwell quotes from Chesterton I don't get. I'll just quote and maybe you'll explain it to me:
Attacking me in the Weekly Review for attacking Douglas Reed, Mr. A. K. Chesterton remarks, "'My country - right or wrong' is a maxim which apparently has no place in Mr. Orwell's philosophy." He also states that "all of us believe that whatever her condition Britain must win this war, or for that matter any other war in which she is engaged."The operative phrase is any other war. There are plenty of us who would defend our own country, under no matter what government, if it seemed that we were in danger of actual invasion and conquest. But "any war" is a different matter. How about the Boer War, for instance? There is a neat little bit of historical irony here. Mr. A. K. Chesterton is the nephew of G. K. Chesterton, who courageously opposed the Boer War, and once remarked that "My country, right or wrong" was on the same moral level as "My mother, drunk or sober."
The thing I don't get is how 'my mother, drunk or sober' is supposed to help. I find 'my country, right or wrong' to be the transparent moral nonsense Orwell obviously finds it to be, so I'm not in need of much help, mind you. But 'my mother, drunk or sober' seems less transparently absurd, hence its parallelism with the offending 'my country' claim hardly casts it in a worse light. If a family member is inebriated, you assist and stand by, as you might not assist and stand by a stranger. I'm not sure that's a categorical imperative or anything; but it's not obvious moral nonsense.
Yes, of course: stick by your country if it's going through a bad patch. But being drunk suggests such relatively innocuous trouble - not always, of course, but paradigmatically. Thinking about your country in the wrong, in war, leads quickly to fears of losing more than dignity, or the contents of your stomach. So what is it about thinking about my drunk mother that is supposed to haul me back to my moral senses? Is the point supposed to be: you would try to sober your mother up; likewise you should try to correct your country's wrong ways even while you support it?
I guess I'm not sure what 'my mother, drunk or sober' is supposed to say, whereas I know exactly what 'my country, right or wrong' says. Maybe 'my mother, drunk or sober' just states the obvious truth that motherhood is not a function of alcohol intake, one way or the other. So the thought is silly. So I'm supposed to see that the other thought is silly, too? Exactly how is Chesterton operating here?
You may guess what recent events have set me thinking about this old thing. Recrudescences of 'my country, right or wrong'. Hope I'm wrong about that.
And you know what else there is? Incompetence. Coming from behind, threatening to show, place or even win as true Horseman of the Apocalypse.
You want blonde, Jeremy? We got blonde.
These men need pseudonyms to escape the ridicule of their peers. Why? Because they are extreme ironists. No, not like John. The other kind. The kind that combine rockclimbing with ironing.
Sometimes the ironists lug electrical generators, but other times they heat their irons on portable gas stoves. A German ironist, Dr. Iron Q, has treated an iron with a chemical that heats up when water is applied.Shirts have been pressed from Everest to the Brazilian rain forest, on bicycles and scuba dives. One of the few American ironists once cut an iron-shaped hole in a frozen lake in Wisconsin and, with a Black and Decker Quick N Easy 410, "ironed" a shirt underwater. But his shirt, upon surfacing, froze.
Next week, Mr. Shaw's crew will iron on Mount Rushmore and among alligators and bison.
Boosters hope to make extreme ironing an Olympic sport, on the grounds that such "sports" as curling and water ballet are included. I, um. Big whatevs to Olympic ironing.
Fellow CT'er Kieran Healy and wife Laurie touched down in Singapore on their way round the world. Many Crooked Twigs in evidence. Young Aiofe Healy and Violet Holbo, clinging to their respective parents.
And Zoë and daddy, off to the right:
I'd show you Laurie, but she had her eyes closed in one, got cut off in another, looked pretty serious in a third.
Yesterday I learned about the weirdest undersea creatures ever: siphonophores. I first saw them mentioned in this New Yorker interview with a giant squid hunter. Check this shit out: "whether siphonophores are single individuals or colonies of well-integrated polymorphic hydroid and medusoid individuals is a matter of debate among specialists." No one can decide whether they are colony organisms made up of very well-coordinated creatures or individuals with strangely differentiated body parts! They're like those snakey things in Anvil of Stars, man! They can be over 100 feet long! They're often bioluminescent! Read and marvel:
All siphonophores are predators and typically spread a veil of nematocyst-laden tentacles for capturing unsuspecting prey. Some of the "individuals" along the length of the stem provide tentacles for defense (dactylozooids) and food capture. Depending on the type of siphonophore, others may function as swimming bells (nectophores), aid flotation (pneumatophore), provide additional defense (bracts), digest prey (gastrozooids), or serve for reproductive functions (gonozooids). The central stem to which all these units are attached is hollow. The gastrovascular cavity passes throughout the stem, and extends into the float (if present), swimming bells, tentacles, bracts, gastrozooids and gonozooids.
How fricking weird is that? The big ones live deep in the sea, so that often all that is seen closer to the ocean surface is broken up bits of siphonophore chains. This happens off the coast of South Carolina in the summer, and we call it "hot jelly". You are liable to get stung, not by a whole jellyfish, but by little stinging segments of jelly. Now I learn that "hot jelly" is really siphonophore dactylozooids gone astray!
And their reproductive method is also bizarre: the (apparently hermaphroditic) gonozooids do their egg fertilizing thang, and the fertilized eggs develop into larvae, and then into one of the main structures, like the diving bell. Then the rest of the specialised sub-units form by budding!? WTF?
The most famous siphonophore is the Portuguese Man o' War. I have been stung by one (or rather, by one of its dactylozooids) before and boy howdy was that painful. I got a fever and everything, and my right leg looked as if a poisonous whip had curled around it several times, leaving a track of pinhead blisters embedded in the swollen flesh. In time these faded to white dots, and so for a while the whole thing seemed worth it because I had the coolest scar ever. Sadly, it too faded after a year or so.
Anyway, let's all give a hand to my new favorite order of gelatinous zooplankton: siphonophorae.
This post by Ogged (I think he's mostly* right, by the way) reminded me of my own tragic experience with translucent garments. I have two skirts, one pale green and one lavender. Each is made of two thin layers, the top layer having a delicate floral print. I bought the green one first, and liked it so much I went back for the lavender. I knew they were both nude thong material, i.e. somewhat see-through. I didn't realize that the lavender one was much more so until one day when I was walking uphill in Berkeley in the late afternoon, with the setting sun right behind me. This inspired two elderly men walking towards me to start a loud debate on whether I was wearing underwear or not. I stopped at the Wells Fargo ATM and they walked behind me. "Nope," said one to the other. "You were right." I supressed the urge to turn around and shout, "I'm wearing a thong!", as it seemed incompatible with my dignity. Damn geezers.
*Only mostly right because Ms. Kerry had to be aware the dress was a bit see-through; it was probably this that inspired her to forego the bra. But I agree it must have looked much less revealing in the light of her room. Otherwise, as Ogged points out, better underwear, Q.E.D.
We have an ice cream maker now, thanks to my mom who braved the wilds of Mustafa Centre to acquire it. This means much more ice cream in our future; at present we don't get much since Häagen-Daaz costs about $10 a container, and rarely arrives here unmelted. So far I have made mango sorbet. The flavor was great but the texture a little icy. I understand this can be ameliorated with egg white, as in gelato? Today I made a real custard one (now cooling in the fridge), and we'll see how it goes. I've decided to run the maker in one of the (air-conditioned) bedrooms rather than the kitchen. It has been so hot in Singapore these last few days that I fear the frozen ice bucket thingy will thaw completely out before the mixture inside is frozen unkess I take drastic measures. I really want to learn to make mint-chocolate chip, and I thnk this recipe sounds promising. Any of our readers have any good recipes or suggestions?
Matthew Yglesias has this crazy idea that Clash lyrics explain all. At least about Iraq. This does bring the following to mind:
This is England We can chain you to the rail This is England We can kill you in a jail
Yes, she didn't kill anyone, just rode him around for four to six hours. Alright, you've got me. This, then, from "Something About England":
All the photos in the wallets on the battlefield
Digital, that is. On a CD, no less. Thousands, apparently.
Lately I've been waxing utilitarian about how I think the benefits can't possibly outweigh the costs. A certain Benthamic coldness may seem to attach to this sentiment. But in foreign policy - in fact, regarding most gatherings of more than ten - I have strongly utilitarian instincts. But never mind about making sure there's enough booze. I also have principles. I think that if there are more than two grains of truth to Sy Hersh's latest, every American citizen has a moral duty to vote against Bush. Because it's Rumsfeld's baby. He admits he's responsible. And Bush hasn't fired him. That means that the moral responsibility passes to Bush. And (as the indispensible Yglesias points out) the Bush administration has stood, legally no less, on the ground that it is the job of Eddie Punchballot and Suzy Absentee Voter to right moral wrongs in this area. We can't vote Rummy out. At any rate, someone MUST be responsible for something this wrong. And if no one is, then someone must be responsible for the very fact that no one is responsible.
This toxic spread of what apparently started as a tidy little earner of a black op reminds me of a debate I had with a friend in high school. If James Bond has a license to kill, and if that license in effect allows him to do whatever is necessary in pursuit of success on his missions, then he has a license to license [others] to kill. (Have you ever seen an accomplice Bond girl with blood on her hands arraigned for her crimes?) But a license to license to kill makes a mockery of the fact that there are so few double-0 agents, doesn't it? Maybe it's just a license to license people to behave in an abusively licentious manner, as suggested by pfc. England's sorry example.
Seriously, I always knew there was some downside to that 'license to kill' thing.
Yes, I know. We don't know yet whether a significant number of Iraqi prisoners died from this stuff. But I take it you apprehend the structure of my point. Inserting people who have the right to break the rules into groups of people who most definitely do not produces trouble when the former start loosing the latter. And what is to stop them? Someone MUST be held responsible, on behalf of the Republic. If not Rummy, who?
Zoë, stop whining at daddy.
But I want to whine at daddy because I want him to concentwate on me.
[falls down laughing]
Holy shit, look at Courtney Love. That is sad. (Warning: this is David Gest's plastic head level of badness. Don't blame me if the goggles do nothing.)
Amanda Butler, over at Crescat Sententia, has some scaaary cake recipes. I'm as white trashy as the next girl; for example, I make a mean ham baked in Coke. But, margarine and artifical butter flavoring? For god's sake, woman, just substitute butter!! Crisco has its place in certain baked goods, because it gives a flaky lightness. But not cakes, please. Please. I know loyal reader Mitch Mills eschews Crisco, but I stand firm on this. Half butter and half Crisco makes a superior pie crust. I'd happily use leaf lard, if anyone would sell it to me, but I find packaged lard too porky for sweet baking. (Leaf lard is rendered from the fat surrounding the internal organs, and is reputed to have the most delicate flavor, but I wouldn't know.) The tomato soup cake (which I've never made either) is a reaction to WWII shortages of eggs and butter, I think, and since we don't have those problems now it should be retired, along with all the mid-century Joy of Cooking eggless, butterless cakes based on packaged mayonnaise. It reminds me of the "Mock Apple Pie" recipe from the back of old Ritz boxes (in which delicious, buttery Ritz crackers do the duty of apples). Five times as expensive as real apples, and the flavor....? My dad made it once, because he has a pioneering and experimental spirit. Verdict: that is one nasty-ass pie full of salty crackers.
This really does turn it up to eleven. P-idealistic Mind at the end of its tether. Jimmy Carter, the sirens of latte, and the New Historicism. Who knew?
Chun, take it away.
From the Washington Post today, Donald Rumsfeld: "... I look at Iraq, and all I can say is I hope it comes out well." That's reassuring.
Let me see if I can deprive Andrew Sullivan of the straw at which he still clutches. He writes:
The question I have asked myself in the wake of Abu Ghraib is simply the following: if I knew before the war what I know now, would I still have supported it? I cannot deny that the terrible mismanagement of the post-war - something that no reasonable person can now ignore - has, perhaps fatally, wrecked the mission. But does it make the case for war in retrospect invalid? My tentative answer - and this is a blog, written day by day and hour by hour, not a carefully collected summary of my views - is yes, I still would have supported the war. But only just. And whether the "just" turns into a "no" depends on how we deal with the huge challenge now in front of us.
There are two distinct questions Sullivan might be asking and answering.
1. Is there any excuse for having supported this failure?
Retrospectively, was there a sufficient case for war to make it at least reasonable to advocate it? In Sullivan’s terms: ‘was the case for war valid?’ Answering ‘yes’ is obviously consistent with saying the war has, in the event, proved a terrible, unrecoverable strategic error, i.e. we are no longer hoping to ‘succeed’ – politically, militarily, morally, otherwise - but are at best cutting losses. History – military history in particular – is littered with the sorry spectacle of reasonable, ‘valid’ cases gone to hell. But losers like to console themselves with excuses, and strict fairness affords them this wound-licking privilege. Far be it from me to dock it, if justly invoked.
2. Is there still hope for success?
In light of all that has happened, is there any way to aim from this point on at a weighing of rights and wrongs, goods and bads, such that there will be more right and good than wrong and bad? Can the benefits still outweigh the costs? If not, there is no hope for success (understood in a perfectly natural way. Dunkirk was a success, but we aren’t presently taking the term in such a way as to cover ‘grand loss-cutting measures.’)
Sullivan is answering ‘yes’ to 1, and I think he is answering ‘yes’ to 2. His ‘just barely’ covers 2 as well as 1. But the answer to 2 is ‘no’. This has been clear for some time, and Abu Ghraib is really just extra coffin nails. The only reason to answer 'yes' to 2 is if you mistake it for 1.
In fact it seems to me 1 is hard to answer 'yes' to, but maybe I'm unhealthily recoiling away from it after a long and unhealthy infatuation. I see that Jacob Levy and even Matthew Yglesias are willing to undertake conditional defenses of 1. I'll bow to their wisdom. But a ‘yes’ answer to 2 is wrong, because we cannot FROM HERE ON OUT reasonably hope that benefits will outweigh costs. The most we can hope – I hope we all hope it – is that the Iraqi people will be better off after all this is over. Those who aren’t dead or tortured will have more freedom, dignity, prosperity and hope than they would have had without the war. (This is not a foregone conclusion. The place may descend into civil war and chaos. It is very hard to do worse than Iraqis did under Saddam. But in time of civil war it would not be impossible.)
But isn’t freedom for 25 million people (discounting for risk) a fine thing, a not inconsiderable sum to enter in the credit column?
Yes, but it doesn’t weigh up against a thousand coalition dead, and rising, and countless tens of thousands of Iraqi dead and maimed, $200 billion and counting, lost friends, sunk diplomatic capital, sunk honor and morality and dignity and a great deal else. Opportunity squandered is a very kind and merciful term for all this truly precious stuff that’s not coming back for a generation or more.
There is, after all, such a thing as opportunity cost, though the term has an unfortunate classroom air about it when part of what you are discussing is dead bodies stacked like cord wood. It is simply too obvious to bear arguing - is it not? - that $200 billion, and everything else thrown in, could very easily buy more than we have any reasonable hope to get for it from here on out.
I suspect most readers of this post will find this relatively obvious. But in the days and weeks to come, with folks like Sullivan peeling off of Bush, it will be useful to force the issue of 1 vs. 2 where applicable. Any tendency to pass off a vague sense that the whole thing was excusable as a vague argument that success is still possible, i.e. benefits may still exceed costs, ought to be exposed for the slip that it is.
So all this vast expenditure of blood and treasure, all this shedding of alliances and shrugging at international opinion, has brought us to Abu Ghraib, gravesite of an as yet undisclosed portion of our national honor. I am only choking down all this horror as it emerges, like everyone else, without anything much wise to add.
I'll just pass along that Phil Carter's blog is, and promises to continue to be, a valuable source, on account of the man's background. Just start at the top and scroll down. He has an article in Slate with a quite misleading title, "Doing the Right Thing - Keeping the ICC out of Abu Ghraib". The summary on the blog makes more sense: "The ultimate point is that the U.S. should act decisively here because it's the right thing to do. But if the U.S. does not do so, the threat of an ICC prosecution should induce the U.S. to take its investigative and prosecutorial obligations seriously." I don't know whether that's far-fetched or not. It sounds far-fetched. But it hadn't occurred to me that there was even the remote possibility that the ICC could have jurisdiction.
I guess I'll just tack on a brief, public notice of my ever-deepening regret at having been a bit of a fence-sitter in the run-up to war, rather than a vociferous opponent - as I trust it is quite clear we all should have been. There is no longer any argument against the proposition that it has been a massive strategic error (that is the kindest thing that can be said, since it omits a great many unkind things one probably should add. About Abu Ghraib and Donald Rumsfeld's responsibilities, among other things.) Like some others I was beguiled for too long by meteorological contemplation of threatening storms. Somehow the existence of sophisticated arguments in favor of war in Iraq obscured quite obviously sufficient arguments against. Notably, ones about our President's capacities: never send an incompetent to do a competent's job. (At any rate, it's never too late to botch the job, so why hurry.)
Even worse (or maybe it just comes to the same): I wasted my time - that is, any time - wondering whether there can be an honest left. My apologies to the long-suffering honest left.
I'd post this over at CT, but I figure it's more personal, i.e. probably useless: regret not the most useful of emotions, heard it all before. Other people have expressed similar thoughts about their intellectual and moral progress of late. Here's hoping for an honest right, by the way.
UPDATE: I know there's an honest right. It just isn't big enough. And it needs to get really big right about now.
I have another delightful feature of Singapore to tell you about, but one that doesn't raise any public policy issues, being purely cultural. Singaporeans think you should really be babied during your "confinement", that is, your first month post-partum. If you don't have a Chinese mom or mother-in-law to be making you endless black chicken and herbs soups, you can order traditional Chinese confinement meals to be delivered to your house. (And they had them in the hospital, too!). And you're meant to be drinking Benedictine every day, on account of it being so herbal and medicinal. Of course, under this scheme you are not supposed to wash your hair for a month, or take the baby outside, but since I am a "cafeteria" Buddhist/Taoist/Confucian like that awful John Kerry, I just ignore that part.
And on the Malay side, I just finished my five days of daily massage followed by binding with herbal wraps. I was very skeptical about the value of the binding, but I figured I could just enjoy the massages and then take the wraps off. To my surprise, they were not only comfy and supportive, but also actually seem to work in shrinking me down. What next, will it turn out that those various French passive cellulite-reducing massages and wraps work too? (Minor public policy note: I read in French Elle this month that the costs of some of those treatments are partially reimbursed by the French health care system. Now, that is gold-standard.)
We're doing very well. Zoë's looking a little worried and has been generally whimpling around the house. She's got the 'can we take her back now' blues.
But I think we'll keep her:
I've been trying to spend extra time with the older one. She's going through a serious superhero phase right now. Which is very much the royal route to daddy's heart. She's strictly from DC - courtesy of the Justice League cartoons. Daddy is strictly from Marvel. That's all right. Our house is big enough.
Zoë: [confidental but emphatic tone that brooks no denial] Daddy, superheroes are the greatest.Daddy: Yes, Zoë. Yes, they are.
Belle gets these periodic 'what can your baby do this month' emails, courtesy of some or other service. I sort of suspect they've dumbed down the cognitive stages to make parents feel good about themselves. About a month ago it was 'your child may be able to recognize four colors.' Oh, she may, may she?
Daddy: Zoë, can you name a green superhero?Zoë: Um, Gween Lawntewn and, um, Mawshun Manhuntew.
Daddy: Right. Very good. Can you name a red superhero?
Zoë: Fwash and, um, Spiydew-Mawn. Fwash has wightning earws.
Daddy: Excellent. Can you name a yellow superhero?
Zoë: Hawkgiw [Hawkgirl] and Agwamawn.
Daddy: I see what you mean. Can you name a blue superhero?
Zoë: Sewperman.
While mommy was still in the hospital, and after dad and daughter were rather mournfully leaving after our daily visit, off to the toystore and there it was - not to be denied. The earnest Indian guy behind the counter assured me it was 'very rare'. I didn't believe him. But the eBay seller seems to be hoping to sell that line, too. Does it look rare to you? Zoë is just preposterously Wonder Woman fixated. I suppose I should be worried but I'm not.
Daddy: Zoë, you're as wonderful as Wonder Woman.Zoë: Daddy, you're as handsome as Batman.
No, really.
But it's not all capes and tights. Zoë is still into Miffy and Bob the Builder and Caillou and other childish things. We've got these Japanese Miffy VCD's - different than the newer American version. The Japanese are definitely OK with bodily functions, which is OK. Because kids find them to be normal and generally interesting. Example: after the three puppies have eaten out of their three bowls, they announce 'we're full.' They turn right around. One, two, three little buttholes appear and, behold! I kid you not. Screengrabs don't lie:
You won't see that on an American kids show.
I finally got out of bed yesterday to do something fun: make brownies. These are the best (unless you like "cakey" brownies, in which case you are crazy).
Belle's Brownies
1 stick plus 3 T unsalted butter
6 heaping T natural cocoa (like Hershey's)
2 c sugar
2 eggs
1 c all-purpose flour
1 t vanilla extract
1 c chopped pecans (optional)
1. Preheat oven to 350, grease 8x8 pan.
2. Melt butter with cocoa over medium heat, stirring till blended.
3. Put sugar in mixing bowl, pour cocoa/butter mixture over and stir.
4. Add eggs, then flour, vanilla and pecans, if using. (I recently learned that Zoë is allergic to pecans, so I recommend leaving them out if anyone is going to get hives.)
5. Bake 35 mins. Cut into squares while warm, cleaning the knife between passes. This really amounts to breaking the thin crust over the molten interior, so don't think they're underdone. Mmmmmm, brownies.
John has installed wireless internet access in our home, and now I can lie in bed and feed Violet and blog -- all at the same time! I don't even have to feel guilty about surfing the "interweb thingy" for hours at a time, since I wouldn't be doing anything else anyway. I mean, besides lactating. Violet is a freakishly quiet child who has cried only once, at birth. Weird, but I'm cool with it. (Maybe she'll be a Fremen warrior when she grows up. Damn you, House Harkonnen!) Zoë is upset about the whole thing and has actually been crying more. Oh, well. There's no other way to obtain siblings.
Overall, the operation wasn't as creepy as I thought it might be, thanks to my foresight in requesting extra sedatives, and hasn't been as painful afterwards as I'd feared. So, newborn babies, they sure do eat a lot. And they're so funny and confused. She just looks around quietly, learning everything with those funny, slate-blue newborn eyes, a look that comes from a thousand miles away. Violet will get her first bath today. Anyway, we're back-ish, and thanks so much for all the kind wishes...
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