I was just looking up the bio of the young woman who made the hilarious (and catchy and sexy) spoof Hillary campaign video, and she was reportedly born on July 16th.
New Space Blogger
Brian Swiderski has taken our advice, and started a blog on space. Like most of his previous commentary on space (and little of his “progressive” commentary on anything else), it’s worth a read. It could be particularly useful for him and Ferris Valyn to educate the left on the benefits of space and spaceflight, and shoot down a lot of the egregious nonsense about it from that sector, by people who can speak their language:
Everything is a playground for the rich–that’s why most people find becoming rich desirable. However, in this case “conspicuous consumption” may result in a virtuous circle of cost reductions and greater investment, which would increasingly open space to the general public. To have the wealthy pay for the infrastructure of future generations is at the core of progressive economic values, and it makes little sense to be offended when doing so occurs voluntarily.
Mystery Departure
No, I have no idea why Horowitz is leaving the agency. I do know, though, that the story about “spending more time with the family” is usually code for something else. He obviously knows things about The Shaft that the rest of us don’t, but it’s not obvious that he’s a rat leaving a sinking ship. On the other hand, it’s certainly possible.
Also, I’ve heard rumors that one of the names in the DC madam’s little black book was a high-ranking NASA official, but again, no particular reason to believe that it’s him, even if they’re true.
Either way, as Thomas James notes, it would be nice if he’d take his toy with him, but it’s unlikely.
[Update a few minutes later]
Chair Force Engineer, who has been speculating about Orion’s mass issues, has further thoughts.
He’s Dead, Jim
I’ve long thought that, despite CIA claims to the contrary (I mean, it’s not like the CIA is a reliable source), Osama has been dead for years. Here’s a Koranic interpretation of the latest “new” (really old) video, that speculates that it’s preparatory to an announcement that he’s gotten his virgins.
He’s Dead, Jim
I’ve long thought that, despite CIA claims to the contrary (I mean, it’s not like the CIA is a reliable source), Osama has been dead for years. Here’s a Koranic interpretation of the latest “new” (really old) video, that speculates that it’s preparatory to an announcement that he’s gotten his virgins.
He’s Dead, Jim
I’ve long thought that, despite CIA claims to the contrary (I mean, it’s not like the CIA is a reliable source), Osama has been dead for years. Here’s a Koranic interpretation of the latest “new” (really old) video, that speculates that it’s preparatory to an announcement that he’s gotten his virgins.
Anti-Everything
Adriana Lukas writes about the ideology of the BBC (and no doubt many of their counterparts in the US):
“…we were not just anti-Macmillan; we were anti-industry, anti-capitalism, anti-advertising, anti-selling, anti-profit, anti-patriotism, anti-monarchy, anti-Empire, anti-police, anti-armed forces, anti-bomb, anti-authority. Almost anything that made the world a freer, safer and more prosperous place, you name it, we were anti it.”
Apropos My Last Entry
The one here. I thought this an appropriate topic relating to the most overrated and overpriced vacation spot in the country (in my humble opinion, of course).
Ernest Hemingway, who lived for a time in Key West as a trophy husband (and yes, he did have polydactyl cats, many of whose descendants remain there, both at his house which is now a museum, and on the island), was the most overrated writer in American literature. Note that I’m not saying the worst writer, just the most overrated one.
Discuss.
The Sun Also Sets
Key West is a sand-covered mountain, almost 2135 millimeters above sea level. It is said that it is one of the highest mountains in the range called the Florida Keys. They jut up far above the Atlantic, and can be seen from hundreds of yards away by the approaching sailors. But only when the pull of the moon is low, and the seas are calm, and the two-foot waves don’t blot out the view.
Key West is the furthest southern point in the land they call the United States of America. Except for Hawaii. At that southern point, there is a buoy that says “Havana–ninety miles.” Havana, where the young women roll the cigars between their dusky, unshaven thighs, after tromping the leaves with their muy sexy unshod feet.
Lying in the road by the buoy is a dead six-toed cat. It has been there for days. No one knows what the cat was seeking at that latitude.
We went to Key West. The woman and I walked the streets that he walked.
Key West was hot. It was very hot. Imagine the hottest place that you have ever been. Then imagine ten times that hot. Then imagine harder. You still will have no conception of how hot it was.
The sweat dripped down our faces, searing our eyes with the salt of our dessicating bodies. The sweat poured down. It poured down like the thick, rich red blood gushing out of the buttocks of a fat tourist, who did not outrun the bull in Pamplona.
The sun blazed above us, like a giant ball of flaming gases, burning at temperatures of millions of degrees.
It burned our skin. It burned our skin in such a way that even the soothing balm of aloe from the CVS could not cure. It reddened it, reddened it like the lobsters on which we supped in the evenings, after the sun had dropped into the sea, with the sweat still running down us. The lobsters were out of season, so they were fresh-frozen. But they were lobsters.
We drank drinks. Strong drinks. Manly drinks, though she was, and still is, despite the fact that we were in Key West, a woman. Not a fresh-frozen woman, though the women were out of season as well.
We also drank sweet drinks. Drinks with umbrellas in them, to forget. To forget what?
We don’t know. We forgot.
Was it the drinks? Was it the low ceiling in the converted attic in which we stayed and for which we paid over two hundred bucks a night? And because we were not munchkins, or hunchbacks, continually confused walls and ceilings, and disrupted them with our noggins, and bled profusely from our scalps?
It could be the concussions talking, but we forgot.
It made us rethink our lives, and their purpose. It made us rethink our vacation planning methods. And then, with the skin peeling from the backs of our arms, and the backs of our legs, and backs of…well…our backs…we left.
Off Line
We’re going down to Key West for the weekend. I’m leaving the laptop at home.
I can quit any time I want.
And play nice in the comments sections.