News from the food police

While you--or most of us, anyway--have been stuffing our faces with unhealthy foods, the food police have been sitting around their Spartan vegan dinners and planning new rules for us.

A consumer group prodded the Food and Drug Administration yesterday to regulate salt as a food additive, arguing that excessive salt consumption by Americans may be responsible for more than 100,000 deaths a year.

Rachel takes umbrage at this. But why not? If carbon dioxide, one of the commonest substances in the world and part of the air we breathe, can be considered a pollutant, why can't salt be a dangerous substance?

The nanny-minded among us are discovering brave new worlds to conquer every day. There are no limits except for their own chutzpah. Let's hear it for Mayor Bloomberg, who decided to ban transfats. He's obviously a pioneer.

Want to break up with your significant other?

Here's a painless, high-tech way. No personal appearance or phone calls required.

No more physical therapy

Hooray! I got sprung from physical therapy today.

My last six sessions were in the water. There is a small pool which is used by one person at a time. Aside from feeling like a teabag floating in a very large cup, this suited me just fine. I could move my leg forward, backward, sideways, and bend it--a lot easier than on land. Jumping jacks, walking, running, skipping--all were great in the water. Not quite so good on terra firma.

Now if I could arrange to spend my life under water....

My favorite movies

I'm so glad you asked.



1. My Fair Lady. Script by George Bernard Shaw, costumes by Cecil Beaton, the unbeatable Rex Harrison and the radiant Audrey Hepburn--what's not to like?

2. Wife versus Secretary.

3. Sullivan's Travels.

4. The Quiet Man.

ht to Doug Harper.

Yes, I hate him

Which 2008 candidate do you hate the most?

The candidate you like least is Democrat Dennis Kucinich. He opposes the death penalty, opposes building a border fence, opposes Iran sanctions, opposes a troop surge for Iraq, supports embryonic stem cell research -- this guy is your worst nightmare!

Take the quiz at Buttafly.com

and I don't think much of the others.

God bless us every one

Oops! Wrong holiday! However, the sentiment remains the same.

God bless everyone; however, I hope Jimmy Carter's wishbone is broken.

Jack Reacher redux

Rachel has written a sarcastic comment regarding my invention of an attache case for this fictitious hero:

Jack Reacher don't need no stinkin' attache case.

I think Reacher rinses his undies out every night before he goes to bed. Or he goes commando.

Well, missy, I'm not going to take that lying down.

Imagine Jack Reacher, coming home to his bleak hotel room tired out from saving the world, and satisfying the lust of some gorgeous chick. He sneaks out of his lover's embrace, then goes to the sink and rinses out his undies, which are made of quick-drying flimsy material and have lace trim. I suppose his socks have ruffles? Is this the tough superhero we know and love?

Sorry, the attache case is the only decent way out. At the very least, he needs a backpack.

A mixed up family

at Thanksgiving dinner.

spam

This piece-of-crap ad comes up whenever I attempt to access my website.

Knock it off!

I am not interested in flacking for blogxchang, whatever it might be.

Jack Reacher's underwear

I've been reading Lee Child's books about Jack Reacher. His latest, Bad Luck and Trouble, is pretty good if you like that sort of thing, which I do. Lots of action, not much Inquiry into the Meaning of Life. He gets on with it.

You should know that Jack Reacher is a nomadic character, who goes wherever he listeth, carrying only a collapsible toothbrush. Wherever he goes, he finds intrigue and devilry and, after heroic effort, puts things right. He's a lone wolf, needless to say.

He has no spare clothing, wearing what he stand up in until he buys another outfit, and then discarding outfit A for outfit B. What bothers me is that toothbrush, or actually, what he doesn't carry besides it.

I mean, what does the man do for underwear? He sleeps with his clothes under the mattress, by which I gather that he is in the nude. But when he gets up and takes a shower, does he put on yesterday's dirty undies? Ugh! Or does he go commando? Also ugh, except not perhaps so much.

Also, in a related matter, what does he put on the toothbrush?

In my imagination, I have solved this problem. I have endowed Jack Reacher with a small attache case, containing a change of undies, toothpaste, deodorant, and a shaver.

It's so much neater that way.

Now it can be told...

The real truth about 9/11.

Quick and handy guide to George W Bush

My George Bush Conspiracy Theory

George W. Bush made Rosie leave The View so that Ann Coulter, the Christian Coalition, Rush Limbaugh, the Jews, and big corporations could offend minorities.

Create your own at Buttafly.com

He's also mean to children. Because he hates them.

h/t Rachel.

I knew this would happen if Bush were elected

Dissent is being stifled.

Last week, in my weekly Sun Media column, I argued that it’s really not that big of a deal to make terror suspects like 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed essentially do what any kid does at Halloween when he bobs for apples...
That column triggered an email campaign spearheaded by the Daily Kos -- the largest far-left blog in America – which appealed to the Sun’s new editor-in-chief from the Toronto Star, Canada’s largest leftist newspaper. As a result, after 2 years with the Sun and a hundred columns, my writing is now in search of a new home.

See how Bush tramples on our civil liberties? Oops! Same church, different pew.

Reflections on Norman Mailer

The only thing I ever read of Mailer's was The White Negro, an essay extolling the courage of a bunch of thugs who beat up and murdered an elderly white shopkeeper.

It made a deep impression on me, as I can still remember its impact, and the crazy, troubled way it made me feel. Was good bad? Was up down? Could it possibly be that beating up on an elderly, innocent person was an act of merit? Clearly I could not appreciate the subtlety of Mailer's ideas. He must have meant something far, far different from the words on the page. Didn't he?

One of us (me or Norm) was obviously crazy, and since he was rich and famous and I was nobody, I assumed it had to be me. The essay did have the effect of giving me a pass, an excuse not to ever read anything else by him, and I exercised this option to the max.

And I've never been sorry.

Saluting veterans

My inner European

Your Inner European is Italian!

Passionate and colorful. You show the world what culture really is.

Who's Your Inner European?

I don't come from anywhere

What American accent do you have? (Best version so far) Neutral You're not Northern, Southern, or Western, you're just plain -American-. Your national identity is more important than your local identity, because you don't really have a local identity. You might be from the region in that map, which is defined by this kind of accent, but you could easily not be. Or maybe you just moved around a lot growing up.

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

People I least want to hear, read, or think about

These people should get the hook indefinitely. The American people have suffered enough.

9. Ron Paul

8. Dennis Kucinich

7. Paris Hilton

6. Duane "Dog" Chapman

5. Ellen deGeneris

4. Rosie O'Donnell

3. Britney Spears

2. Heather Mills

1. And the once and always champion, Jimmah (malaise) Carter, friend to dictators everywhere.

Let's have a moratorium on any news about them. Unless, of course, one of them dies. Their obituaries will be welcome.

A really good discussion of biofuels

The verdict: They're no damn good.

Click the link and read. Must I do everything around here?

Today is Guy Fawkes Day

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up King and Parliament.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Daniel Hannan, who must be a British MP, has a graceful tribute:

Guy Fawkes Night is a big event in my constituency, especially in Sussex and Kent. These counties were strong for Protestantism in the 16th century and for Parliament in the 17th. To this day, there are bonfire societies in almost every village, and you can see orange sparks rising from crests of the Downs, not just on the 5th, but throughout October and November.

Guy Fawkes Night is a big event in Sussex and Kent.


Nor is it just Guy Fawkes who is burnt. I have seen effigies of Tony Blair, Romano Prodi, unpopular local politicians and, of course, the Pope.

The torching of the Pontiff understandably makes people uneasy – although, in my experience, Left-wing atheists are more offended by the rite than are practicing Catholics. Still, at a time when Catholic leaders are uneasy about the triumphalism of the new Elizabeth film, do we want to be setting fire to the Holy Father?...

[H]aving attended dozens of bonfire nights in my constituency, I can honestly say that I’ve never found the slightest hint of anti-popery in the crowds. Most people are there to enjoy the fireworks. To the extent that there is any ideology present at all, it can be found in the celebration of patriotism, of tradition and of English particularism: the sense that we are marking one of the things that makes our country distinctive.

One year, in Lewes, I watched a large crowd cheering the immolation of Jacques Delors and a large dinosaur that represented the Maastricht Treaty. The good people of East Sussex had realised that, these days, the threat to our way of life comes, not from the Bishop of Rome, but from the Treaty of Rome.

Is there an American politician who can put together an article as well written and articulate as that? Imagine Harry Reid writing an Op Ed about the Fourth of July. Don't be ridiculous. The last American politician who could string words together to make coherent statements was Daniel Patrick Moynihan. And he's dead.

Teddy Roosevelt wrote books, one of which, a history of the War of 1812, is still read. Compare that to the drivel published under the name of, and perhaps written by, Bill Clinton.

Widows

They just don't make widows like they used to. Bubbe didn't have many friends: she was too busy managing the family, in the same sense that Queen Victoria managed the British Empire. She didn't gossip. She didn't call people on the phone just to chat.

But there were a few ladies who showed up from time to time. They had names like Minnie, Flossie, or Fanny. I, as a young person, however, would not call these august personages by familiar names. They were Mrs. Cohen (Shapiro, Grossman) to me.

These ladies, most of them widows, had one kind of figure: full. From collarbone to waistline was a large bolster, and from there on down, another, smaller one. They were generally short. They dressed in dark colored dresses ornamented decorously with a few discreet flowers--nothing gaudy, mind you. Lisle stockings--think stockings made of Ace bandages--encased their legs, and they wore old lady shoes: 2-inch heeled oxfords.

According to the widows, they each and every one had been married to a man of sterling attributes; a kind and generous fellow whose loss made their lives an empty shell. Wow! There must have been a lot of really fine Jewish guys around Columbus, Ohio before my time! By the time I came along, the quality of men in the area had deteriorated seriously, because I never met one of these living saints my own age.

The few who still had husbands had not done nearly as well in the matrimonial market: The surviving husbands were just ordinary chaps, with their full share of annoying and exasperating qualities. The widows had gotten all the good ones, apparently.

Bubbe's friends all had mysterious ailments: gall bladders, varicose veins, arthritis generally. I am now more in sympathy with their aches and pains, having grown old enough to have pains of my own. But some of their ailments were more picturesque. One of Bubbe's friends told me that she had dropped organs: all her organs had slid down her body and were about 6 inches lower than they should have been, causing her untold grief and sorrow.

Private blogs

I just clicked on one of the blogs on my blogroll, and was directed to a message from Blogger that this blog was for invited readers only. Well hoop-de-do! I felt like I was trying to crash a party to which I was not invited.

I can't afford to be so fussy. I'm so busy whoring for comments, links, or any sign that there are sentient beings out there and that I'm not just wasting my brilliant apercus by shouting them down an empty well, with no response but a hollow echo.

Thanks to those who regularly stop by. You know who you are.

My mother the lawyer

(recycled)

 

My mother hated to be photographed. She always wanted to put it off until she lost 10, or 20, or 30 pounds. Consequently we have very few pictures of her. This is one I like.

Thanksgiving always makes me think of my mother. Thanksgiving was a big deal to us. We used to celebrate her birthday, and my Uncle Moe's on Thanksgiving. It was a Russian custom, or a Jewish custom, or just our family custom to celebrate birthdays in conjunction with some holiday. Mine was Purim, my cousin was Rosh Hashonah. Perhaps the family were just bad at remembering dates.

shopping with Mother and Bubbe

(recycled)
I really dreaded going shopping with my mother and her mother, my bubbe, especially in classy, high-toned stores. For one thing, mother and bubbe used to talk Yiddish very loudly to one another, deprecating the merchandise on offer and the manners, morals, and appearance of the other shoppers.

I hated to be seen in public with these back numbers who spoke a foreign language which I was sure sounded low-class to everyone else (why couldn't they speak French?). I also feared that someone would understand what they were saying about the fat lady in the tight pants who was in front of us in the escalator. It was a lose-lose situation. Either we appeared to the other, high-toned shoppers like a bunch of huddled masses waiting to be processed at Ellis Island, or someone would actually understand what they were saying and see what low minds we had.

Also, bubbe appeared to believe that she was in a souk, when in reality she was in one of Columbus Ohio's premier specialty shops. She showed no respect.

For instance: we are looking for a blouse. The saleslady brings out a few, I try them on and decide on one. Bubbe grabs it and scrutinizes every inch of it, looking for flaws. She finds a speck of dirt on the collar and attempts to bargain with the snooty saleslady while my face turns red down to my toes. I try to pretend I'm interested in the scarves in the next display case, but in any case, try to look like I'm not with them.

Then, horror of horrors, she pretends to walk away! I could die! (I'm around fifteen at the time.) The snooty saleslady calls her manager, and they do a deal, but by this time, my self-esteem in destroyed. What if someone I knew had seen us? I'll never live it down.

When I was smaller and couldn't protest, bubbe and mother bought my clothes much too big in the hopes I would grow into them. Then they took them home and altered them to fit me, sort of. The idea being that the clothes could be let out next year. They never were, though. I wore them out first. But I went through childhood looking like I had borrowed my wardrobe from a larger child.

Of course, with maturity I could see where she was coming from. This was a woman who split one can of sardines among her three children, while she and her husband made do with dry toast and tea for supper. Fancy salesladies held no terror for her.

Italians to Romanians: get out...

and don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Physical therapists here and there

When I had my last knee operation, I went to a rehab in New Jersey. This time I am going to a rehab in Delaware. What a difference in therapists!

The therapists in New Jersey were hardbodies, mostly around the age of 28 or 32. Not an ounce of fat on any of them. I thought at first I had stumbled into a practice session of the Olympic gymnastic team. By the look of them, they were studying hard to be tri-athletes. They spent their weekends running half-marathons, hiking difficult trails, or rock-climbing. In the evenings they relaxed by lifting weights and doing push-ups. We, the patients, were a sad lot compared to them.

The therapists in Delaware are older and softer. They look just like regular folks--spare tire and all. They spend their weekends taking the kids to visit grandma, and in the evenings they hunker down in front of the tv with a brewski.

The therapists in New Jersey were tough. They would tear your leg right out of its socket for your own good. But whatever they did, it worked. The Delaware therapists are much gentler, but they seem to get results too.

Are we paying the Palestinians to be violent?

Just asking.

Indoctrination--your tax dollars at work

Apparently, students matriculating at the University of Delaware and living in the residence halls have forfeited their right to be left alone.

Getting the power thing right

(recycled)

I mean, I know we Jews have our agents (known in tradecraft as neo-cons) controlling the highest ranks of government, international banking, labor unions, socialist agitators, Thomas the Tank Engine, etc. We also direct the media. Two very learned professors, one at Harvard, say so.

So what's gone wrong? We've got to get it together if we really, sincerely want to take over the world. No more calling in sick, long lunch hours, flirting around the water cooler, vacations in Aruba, or playing games on your computer. Keep your noses to the grindstone, and hatch out some more of our trademark fiendish plans. In the time you waste chatting up your friends on the cell phone, you could be finalizing plans to take over Iran and make slaves of the Iranians. Or ousting Hugo Chavez. Or terrorizing the Syrians with hailstones and frogs. Maybe foment a riot in Cuba. The possibilites are endless. You're bone lazy, that's your problem.

Get to work.