Janet Daley thinks that London needs a Rudy Giuliani to clean up the crime. Her column doesn’t mention the real issue, though, which is that the British policy against self defense has created incentives for the human predators that infest their nation.
Perry DeHavilland has much more insight into the problem, as he relates a tragedy that happened to his neighbor.
Over at the corner, KLo complains about cloning and a judge that rules that anencephalic babies should be aborted:
Besides the culture of death embraced by New Jersey and California on human cloning (we can clone as long as we kill that new life), the courts insistence on legal infanticide re disallowing partial-birth-abortion bans, and, of course, Roe, Shannen Coffin reminds me that two federal judges here ruled that the government had to pay for abortions of anencephalic babies because they had no chance of survival, i.e., no value to life. (Fortunately, some cooler heads prevailed in the court of appeals where one of those two decisions was reversed (another is pending in the dreaded Ninth Circuit.) How far off are we, really?
At the risk of creeping people out (hey, I have to (re)establish my non-conservative bona fides occasionally here, what with all the complaints about this being a “right-wing” site), I have to say that she sets much too much store by DNA. This all really begs the question of what is human, and what represents human life (an essay that I’ve been meaning to write for years, but never get around to, primarily because it’s a tough problem). The short version is that I don’t believe that having human DNA is either necessary or sufficient to be human, or at least to be a person with rights.
While I can see the conservative objection to aborting “human” clones (it’s at least consistent with aborting in general), I’ve never understood the convervative objection to cloning in general (other than the Leon Kass “Yuck factor“).
I use the word “human” in quotes because I’m on the fence as to when an embryo actually attains that state. I don’t believe that it’s at conception, but I do believe that by the time there’s a brain stem there, you’ve got something that shouldn’t be deliberately killed without a damn good reason. Which brings us to her second complaint, about aborting “babies” that literally have no minds.
These are creatures with human DNA, but can they really be said to be truly human? I think that much of what makes us human resides in our minds, and that absent a brain, there’s no possibility of humanity. For a person in a coma, it can be argued whether or not they are really “there,” even if there’s no measurable brain activity, but if there’s not only no activity, but literally no brain at all (at least none with any higher functions) and no prospects for developing one, what are the prospects for a meaningful life, and what indeed, is the value of such a mass of tissue?
Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:
However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.
The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.
Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.
Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)
Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:
However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.
The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.
Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.
Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)
Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:
However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.
The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.
Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.
Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)
That’s what the headline of this story should have been. Strange that the UPI reporter is either unaware of M. Chirac’s legal problems, or chose not to mention them. They would seem quite relevant to his motivation for another term.
I’ve written on this subject before, but I agree with this editorial. Why in the world is the administration supporting the Law of the Sea Treaty? Is it Powell’s State Department, and no one else is paying attention?
Provo, Utah, doesn’t have to worry about cats and dogs living together. It’s illegal.
I wonder what the rationale was for this dumb law?
Provo, Utah, doesn’t have to worry about cats and dogs living together. It’s illegal.
I wonder what the rationale was for this dumb law?
Provo, Utah, doesn’t have to worry about cats and dogs living together. It’s illegal.
I wonder what the rationale was for this dumb law?