A Show Of Good Faith

By now, most of you have learned the lesson that all of my friends learned long ago: That I am an asshole and you can't trust a word I say.

"No, I haven't seen your soccer camp t-shirt. And no, I will not take off my sweatshirt to show you what I'm wearing underneath. Fuck you. I don't have to prove anything to you."

"Sure, I'll be blogging again next week! I've just been busy!"

"I absolutely did not imagine your clothes coming off when you and your sister were wrestling on the ground. Come on now. You two are sisters. That would be wrong."

Ho ho.

So here I am, really and truly preparing to start posting again soon, but it seems that I now have a rapidly-dwindling audience consisting of people possessing minimal patience and R-rated thesauri. I suspect that a few of you may have a drinking problem as well - although, really, that's probably why you still come here. For healing.

Ho ho.

It would seem, then, that in order to prove -- or at least vaguely reinforce the theoretical existence of -- my good intentions, I must give you something to keep the fires burning. After all, I hardly want to start posting again only to find that I'm speaking to three people whose roommates told them about "some site that used to be cool, before the guy writing it became a lazy jerkoff."

Therefore, here are three emails that I sent to various friends of mine a few years ago. Normally, I wouldn't post correspondance like this; it's a violation of privacy, for one, and it reeks of vanity. But I've already made these particular emails semi-public amongst my various circles, for the same reason I'm posting them here - they still make me laugh, and I am incapable of entertaining the notion that other people don't find the same things funny that I do.

If you've ever wondered what it's like to be my friend (insert image of those who actually are my friends frantically waving you toward a better path, Jacob Marley-style, imploring you to avoid their fate), imagine receiving emails and phone calls and occasional drunken visits that roughly conform to the overall pattern of the following:

"...

Just for the record, I need to condemn the practice of drinking 40 ounces of mountain dew at 11 PM. I have been wired for hours with no end in sight. I have been IMing people like mad, trying to channel my energy into a conversation with someone, anyone. I ended up having discussions with five people at once on completely different topics, but managed to keep up with all of them just the same. This is madness. I even talked to _____ for...Jesus Christ, for two hours. And, looking back on the conversation, it could possibly be thought by someone who didn't know better that I was flirting with her. My God. I really didn't mean to give that appearance...I wasn't really paying much attention to anyone; at least, I wasn't looking into any deep meanings behind any of my words. Ug. This kind of thing could drive a man to drink.

It's a strange world we live in Jillian, populated by people who are weird in the extreme. Protect yourself from those people, and avoid hooligans at all cost. Better yet, just avoid everyone and stick to your own kind. You'll be much safer that way and probably a lot happier. Lord knows I would be. I mean, really, who can get enough of cynical bastards who are convinced they are always right and have the annoying habit of thinking themselves writers, a conceit they indulge by rattling off dark and demented screeds which anyone in their right mind would burn before getting half way through? The hubris of it all is just sickening.

Faf. It would seem that caffeine and computer monitor radiation are the perfect combination for anyone who can't stand to go a single day without their eyes throbbing like miniature jellied discos. I find myself in the unenviable position of not knowing who to hate more, the quack who first discovered that hated stimulant, or the soulless con man who thought to put it into soft drinks. I think I shall split the difference and hope that both their heads adorn pikes in the front lawn of hell.

Fuck this. I'm going to bed. Perhaps I can teach myself some kind of bastardized yoga relaxation technique to help me fall asleep. At this point, I'll need all the help I can get; even so, I am resigned to the almost certain fact that I will be the Angriest Person on Earth at 5:30 am, when I will have to wake up to feed and inject the dog. The thought of doubling his insulin dose to knock him into a coma is much more appealing than it should be, and will undoubtedly be even more so when the mangy bastard decides to take his newly discovered place at the end of my bed, forcing me to curl up into a small ball in order to not be scratched by his damn claws when he stretches in his sleep.

Take care of yourself, and, if you believe in the power of such things, say a prayer for my dog, for he is going to need it come morning.

-Christian"

Forty ounces of Dew. Ha. What a fucking amateur I was.

"So yeah. Staring at the screen here is doing nothing for my eyes, which have been throbbing since I woke up this morning in a fetal position on Jay's floor, an empty Corona in one hand and a sock on the other. Why that sock was not on my left foot, where it began the evening, I do not know. Perhaps it just liked the scenery better upstairs, which is understandable; a sock's life is undoubtedly very hard and thankless, devoid of any real excitement or opportunity, so they must take what they can get when they can get it.

I started to sit up, so that I could decide whether it was worth it to travel the fifteen feet to the refrigerator for some ice water, but I had barely moved when I suddenly found myself flopping right back down, my head suddenly hurting, and what sounded like an small explosion above me. It was then that I realized I was underneath the coffee table, and trying to sit up got me nothing but a sharp blow to the head. As I lay cradling my head and admiring the solid oak construction of the table above me, I suddenly had a vision of myself arguing with the sock on my hand about the questionable right of Republicans to call themselves human, and forming a strategic alliance with it to browbeat Jay's roommate into admitting that every GOP President from Nixon on was either evil, a fool, or a lunatic (except for Reagan, who was all three). Ug. It's an evil morning that brings memories of oneself having to beg a sock puppet for help in making a logical argument. I'm also pretty sure that I threatened to eat a girl's soul if she used the term 'bleeding-heart liberal' one more time. 'Didn't Jesus raise you right?' I asked, thinking that was the most clever thing I'd said all night.

I pride myself on never having blacked out from drink, and last night was no exception. However, some memories are a tad hazier than others; two thirty on is kind of an impressionistic blur. I remember having a long discussion with a bartender about how there was no way in hell I had ordered this martini because I have an incredible aversion to gin. In the end, it turned out that one of the girls we were out with had bought it for me. Being the polite sort, I had to drink it, but I was afraid, because she kept giving me funny looks for the rest of the evening. She wasn't a bad sort, but she had the sulfurous reek of psycho band girl about her, which I have learned to recognize and avoid.

Unclear rememberings...

Of being violated on the dance floor by a smug girl who looked like Serena Altschul. 'I don't care how hot you are, that is not yours and I want it back!' was probably one of the stranger things the DJ heard yelled that night. Couldn't be helped; it was the first thing that came to mind.

Of declaring myself a sovereign and independent state and if that dirty German son of a bitch got me killed because he thought he could drive that tank of a jeep drunk, my people would declare eternal blood feud and wouldn't rest until all of his kin were dragged out into the street and shot like dogs.

Of grinding in the hall of Jay's building to no music with the nice lesbian couple that lives next door to him. Cute in a punky kind of way, they were coming in at the same time we were, and were nearly as drunk. Wishing they would get their hands off my goddamn hair - it's hard enough to keep it in order without strangers pawing it just because it's curly. Ah, the joys of living in Boys Town.

Hmm. Grim memories to contemplate while sipping ice water and trying to decide which of the three ruffians sleeping on the couch to blame if the police suddenly break in and start asking uncomfortable questions about the three ounces of weed sitting on the table next to the hookah. Three ounces is enough to put your ass in Statesville, and it is said that ugly things happen to pretty people in there. Maybe I'll just pin it all on the naked girl in the next room. "After all, officer, she doesn't have the sense to even pull up the sheet when she sleeps in the nude. Stupid, stupid, stupid. These men in here with me are animals, and it is only through the miracle combination of marijuana, frozen pizza, and pay-per-view porn that she was saved from a cheap and degrading fate. Given that, it's easy to see why she would be hauling around such large quantities of the stuff. I myself have always preferred to just say no. What? Oh, certainly! I'll gladly take a drug test! Of course, you have to understand that, because I didn't want to drive home drunk, I had to stay here, and they were all smoking that devil weed despite my pleas to stop, so, naturally, I'll probably test positive. From the second-hand smoke, of course. Um? you know, I'd really love to stay and discuss it but I promised my mother (who contributes annually to the Fraternal Order of Police's charity ball, and the Police Officer's Widow's fund) that I would be home two hours ago, and she worries terribly, so I really must be off..."

Ah, strange days, behind and ahead of us. I'm going to lay down now, because I hurt, inside my head and out. I'm not drinking ever again, at least not 'till next week. I am making that promise to myself, and I intend to keep it; after all, the line must be drawn somewhere, and it is important to build and maintain trust with oneself, otherwise you become one of those people.

-Christian"

That one is obviously from when I was living in Chicago. I miss Chicago a lot.

"Time is running out and my patience grows thin. I think that up to this point I have done a remarkable job of being kind and pleasant to you, but my willingness to tolerate small strawberry blonde girls and their irresponsible whining is dwindling.

I am a good man, Jill, but don't fuck with me or I'll break your legs. I've done worse.

You only think you know me. Where was I and what was I doing for the eighteen years before I met you, eh? Ever thought about that one? It never occurred to you that I might have been mixed up in some wicked and devious shit, the kind of stuff that they make Joe Pesci movies about. No, I haven't a drop of Italian blood in me, but since when are the Italians the best at running criminal organizations? It seems to me that those sloppy bastards are the worst, because they got caught. Besides, that kind of thing only happens in the movies. The real criminal element, the people you don't hear about in the news, the sons of bitches who are selling massive quantities of low grade coke out of their apartments to high school kids, are the ones who know what they're talking about. No silly Hollywood bullshit for them, uh uh. Out there on the fringes you have to know your shit or you are dead, dead, dead. People like that don't go to jail; they are killed in "shootouts" or "standoffs" with police, and nobody ever thinks too hard about the fact that their guns are not always clutched in their dominant hand.

These people, they are the real experts, not some tweed-wearing ex-beatnik who thinks that just because his name is followed by a phD he knows all about the lower elements of society, even though he has never fired a gun and wouldn't know coke if it were injected into his aorta. They are the real thing, these boys, and they say that the real power, underneath the ugliness of street punks who rob and steal and murder, are the Lithuanians. Yes, the goddamn Lithuanians, come to haunt us again in our time of plenty. And no, even they aren't sure whether their country still exists. They don't even care.

And why should they? They are making money hand over fist in this place. This, sweetheart, is the land of opportunity, and they have seized that concept by the balls and squeezed.

These are smart and violent men with an unclear concept of personal hygiene, and I worked for them for a period of three years. The first, I spent as an errand boy, the second as muscle for a small time loan shark, and the third as a bounty hunter, taking the beaten bodies of rival gang members to the local police station and claiming whatever reward they had out on them. It sounds harsh, I know, but inter-organizational squealing is an old friend to such types. Besides, they were stupid for getting caught. Fuck ?em. They deserve what they get.

I, on the other hand, never got caught. What I did get was lots and lots of experience playing a brand of hardball you will never even know exists. I know a place on your leg where a slight touch with one finger will split your femur into three pieces of approximately equal length, and let me tell you, people with their leg broken in three walk awful funny for an awful long time. Not the best way to meet people on a new campus.

So. Please. I'm begging you. Don't make me hurt you. Respond to my emails, quickly. I am willing to be reasonable, but there's a line. Time's running out. Save yourself. Do it now.

-Christian"

It is perhaps necessary to point out that the recipients of these emails were very good friends, quite used to this kind of shit from me. I would never be so stupid as to actually threaten someone via email. I mean, shit, those things can be traced.

To sum up, once again: VVH is not dead, it is undergoing various changes, and I will be updating again soon. Gracias to those of you who still bother to show up; your faith in me, while inexplicable and almost assuredly misplaced, is not unappreciated. A good day to you all.

Still Not Dead. Hold Fast. The Storm Approaches.

"Lying jackass."

- VVH Reader, understandably annoyed.

Not Dead

All right, you dirty sons of bitches, here I am.

I kid.

I just realized today that VVH had it's first birthday a week or so ago, and with that realization came the more startling realization that some of you have been dropping by my little corner of the net for just over a year now.

A year! What is wrong with you people? Buy an XBox or something.

But random insults flung at the regulars aside (where have you been, Jim E., you bastard!), I really am grateful for the fact that a not-insignificant number of people have taken the time to read about who I think is an asshole and why.

Don't get me wrong, I'd be writing various bits and pieces regardless of whether or not I had this site. One of the major differences that even a modest audience makes, however, is in the kinds of things I am able to write.

For example, I never would have written Moonshot if I didn't have this forum. Not because I would have had different opinions, or because I would have cared less about the subject, but because that brand of event-related opinion writing is essentially masturbatory in nature if no one is going to read it - and believe me, my friends don't want me sending it to them. They already take enough shit from me.

The point is, thank you, to every one of you that has given me the opportunity to articulate my thoughts (low and nasty though they may be) without feeling too self-indulgent. I know I'm a bit of an ass, what with the long unexplained hiatuses and all - all I can say is, sorry man, I've got other things to do (sometimes better things, but sometimes just other things). Hit counts and enlarging the audience aren't massively important to me; if they were, I'd post more often. But I really do appreciate you coming by and listening to what I have to say, and occasionally dropping a comment or an email.

Ahem.

And with that, I have an announcement, and a desperate plea:

I'm upgrading VVH to Movable Type, and need help. Lots of it.

I'm already signed up for server space (with 1and1), and will be registering the domain shortly. Now I just need to do...all that other crap.

Like install MT, design the site, import the archives (if possible), and most likely ten other things I haven't thought about yet.

I'm reasonably computer literate, and with a bit of effort can deal with very basic HTML, but things like perl scripts and other such MT necessities are slightly beyond my current level of knowledge. I need a hand figuring out what, exactly, I need to do and how.

So who wants to be my MT guru?

Ideally, I'd really like it if someone could spare a few hours on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon (but not this weekend - Laws no, M-O-O-N, that spells "can't do shit this weekend") to walk me through this, but really I'm willing to do it any time other than weekdays during the day when I'm at work.

I can't pay you, being a poor, poor college student (note to females: just kidding! I'm actually an executive with money to burn. Send pictures, nudes preferred). But you will have my eternal gratitude, and a link on these prestigious pages for your site or your company or your grandma's blog (and if MT crashes and screws it all up, I'll tell people that the guy who beat you up in computer science did the install).

For the record, there have been quite a few posts in the last few weeks that I've partially written in my head, but never got around to fleshing out because I wanted to get the new site up and running first. Once that happens, I'll no longer have an excuse, and will be forced to post more often. Still sporadically at times, of course, but every little bit helps, right?

Anyway, drop me an email if you think you can help me out.

And to all, once again, gracias. I'll be around.

Clarification: I'm not asking anyone to do an all-out site design. I want to design it myself anyway (although MT-specific design advice will of course be appreciated). I just need someone to help with the install, and give me the basics on how to use it. That kind of thing.

Humility

Feeling arrogant? Sort through a pile of papers that have been tucked away in a drawer for a few years and stumble upon a handful of letters and assorted scribblings that you wrote while in the middle of an unpleasant breakup. That'll take care of that swollen ego real quick.

There is very little I wouldn't give right now for the ability to travel backwards in time so that I could kick my own ass. Jesus, what an idiot.

Music Wednesday: The Return

While I'm not about to promise that this will become a regular feature again (my track record with "regular features" here at VVH is not particularly encouraging), a few people have requested it, so what the hell.

It occasionally worries me that I dismiss, with very few exceptions, most rock-radio fare these days as atrocious crap. I'm not a authoritarian man by nature, but I pledge right now to donate to and campaign for any politician in my state that promises to propose legislation providing for the detention of the members of Chevelle, Good Charlotte, Hoobastank, Blink 182, and a whole mess of others the second they step across the border. Whether said band members are willing to apologize to the world during halftime of the Superbowl will determine whether or not they are to then be summarily hanged.

"But those bands do suck," you respond, "Why are you worried?"

I am worried because a tiny voice in my head occasionally points out the fact that that's what my father always said about the music I listened to. Is my dismissal of what is currently popular a sign of premature curmudgeonliness? Am I only a few years away from sitting in the front yard, yelling at neighborhood children to keep off the lawn?

I'm actually somewhat serious - there is very little new music that doesn't sound like utter shit to me, and I actually caught myself referring to some Nu Metal song as "just noise" the other day. Just noise?!? Dear God, soon I'll be denouncing Elvis's lurid pelvic gyrations!

Most such fears were put to rest the other day, however, due to a conversation I had with a friend of mine.

I said something to the effect of "So much new music sucks," and he agreed. But here's the thing - I was referring to rock, and he was referring to hip hop.

Here a little background is necessary. As a grade school kid, I had a brief flirtation with rap, mostly top 40 stuff. The last major rap album I remember liking back then was The Chronic. Then, for a variety of reasons, I started to transition to heavy metal and what was then referred to as alternative. By the time Doggystyle came out, I was completely off the rap wagon. Things remained thus for several years.

My senior year of high school, thanks mostly to the efforts of one of my friends from football, I started to get back into hip hop ("Only white boys call it rap anymore, idiot." Thanks, Jermaine). Ever since, I've listened to hip hop with varying regularity.

In the last year or so, due to the influence of yet another friend, I've been taking something of a crash course in hip hop, some of the not-so-top 40 stuff, from early Snoop forward. Piles upon piles of stuff that I missed during my rock-only phase have been filling up my hard drive and my CD case.

The point is, I think I'm reasonably objective about the quality of new hip hop versus old, as I don't really have a specific era I'm attached to. A good chunk of the old is just as new to me as the latest 50 Cent track.

And so I am confident when I say that most new hip hop utterly blows.

For instance, much has been made of 50 Cent - he is probably the rap superstar at the moment (rap as a word is, apparently, acceptable again). But he isn't even on the same planet as, say, Method Man or Mos Def. Sure, he could kick both their asses in a fight, and yeah, he's real tough and all, but fuck that. I'm not watching a goddamn boxing match - I'm listening to music, and overall, the kids don't know what the hell they're doing these days.

Even Eminem, who I think has an insane amount of talent -- certainly more talent than almost anyone else currently releasing albums -- doesn't seem quite so high up there after listening to Method Man and Red Man's Blackout.

And so, in the end, I feel better - because if my friend is right about new rap sucking, I feel a lot more confident in my opinion that so much new rock objectively sucks.

But I only feel a little better, because the ego boost from being right doesn't really make up for the fact that most of the stuff I'm forced to listen to by the television and radio, as we have established, is godawful.

But screw it. I'll always have Buckcherry, and no one can take that away from me.

Update

Busy with real life. Thought it was egotistical to explain the lack of posting. Got a few emails wondering if I was dead. I guess not explaining is seen as rude to the regular readers. Many apologies. Will be back soon. Mickey Kaus is still a cocksucker.

A Moment For Honestly Giving Credit Where Due

I say terrible things about Andrew Sullivan on a regular basis. He has more than earned the scorn of honest people everywhere with his dishonest, never-ending jihads against the straw men on which he writes the names of people he dislikes.

But his analysis of tonight's primary result is absolutely dead on.

Not the hackish smears of Kerry and Clark, but the overview of the dynamic within the Democratic Party. He is correct to call the Kerry-Dean matchup a "battle between the Democratic party's soul and its fear." Not entirely for the reasons he believes, of course, and probably not for the reasons a die-hard Dean supporter (which I am emphatically not) would give you.

I'll get back to this later, but for now, I think this post is still looking pretty good (aside from the Dean/Clark business -- although I'd like to point out that I was pairing the two up before it became too fashionable).

And while I know veteran Sullivan readers will suspect a sinister disinformation plot on his part -- a suspicion that has been fully justified by his demonstrated lack of integrity, if not his ability to sustain a single line of attack over a period of time without reversing himself somehow -- but his thoughts on Bush's electoral prospects seem largely correct as well.

Technical/Legal Question

Blogger annoys me, and for various reasons I am seriously considering the jump to MT and my own domain.

My major hangup is that I don't want my address and phone number available to anyone who knows what a WhoIs search is.

So, my question is, is it possible/legal to register for a domain using false information, or are there companies that will register for me for a nominal fee, or is there some other way to prevent technically-astute Freepers from finding me and killing my dog that I haven't thought about yet?

Advice To Sullivan Fans

Have no fear - he isn't actually taking a look at the Democrats. This is all an exercise in looking fair, and attempting to shuffle the fact that the President has deep-sixed damn near everything Andrew holds dear.

The proof of this is his absolute refusal to acknowledge that Bush is going to back the FMA. Read this, and tell me Sullivan isn't reaching. My favorite part is when he pretends not to know what the President meant when he said it was time to use "the constitutional process" in defense of marriage.

In the end, look for a variation of "I tried to get behind the Democrats, but they lost my support by _________ [my guess is 'being traitors'...anyone want to start up a pool? "Name the reason Andrew Sullivan will cite for supporting George Bush despite the fact that the President is opposed to everything he holds dear"]. George Bush is still the best hope of this country."

If I Were A Member Of The Religious Right...

I'd be wiping off my television screen right now.

Cigarette anyone?

Live SOTU Blogging

Bullshit.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

Bullshit.

Bullshit.

Buuuuuuuuuullshit.

Whoa there! Bullshit ahead!

Yup. Bullshit indeed.

Bullshit.

Bullshit.

Let me take a moment to say, bullshit.

Bullshitbullshitbullshitbullshitbullshitbullshit.

God Bless America.

[Applause]

If Only I Had The Words...

Kaus discusses the quickening pace of conventional wisdom and the less-than 24 hour news cycle:

"The Expectations of Expectations Game: Drezner detects a surge of media favoritism for Edwards and argues this means Edwards will be the story out of Iowa even if he comes in second:

If Kerry wins, he's going to get a bump, no doubt--and New Hampshire becomes an interesting question. But if Edwards performs better than either Gephardt or Dean at the caucus, reporters are going to lock in on him as the story of the week.

Wait, didn't Ryan Lizza just tell us that "All Kerry needs to do is come in second place and he will be the story Monday Night." But that was four days ago! As Lizza now acknowledges:

The cycle of expectations moves fast here.

He notes:

Within 48 hours, pundits have both blessed Edwards as the late-closing "it" candidate and dismissed the surge as too little too late

So Edwards is now set up to actually surprise people again. ... Someone should try to come up with a name for this faster cycle of expectations."

Yeah. It's called "bullshit." Call me when Super Tuesday is here.

I Figured It Out

Goldberg's writing reminds me of the look on a smartass's face in the bar just before he says the thing that gets him knocked the fuck out.

Moonshot

When reading James Lileks, I often picture him at a fireworks display - head decisively angled up, lost in wonder and lofty dreams, above the rest of us as we sweat and complain about the heat. The trick is to watch his eyes; if you're careful, you can see them shift from side to side as he makes sure that everyone is watching him and is suitably impressed.

High rhetoric that appeals to our grandest conception of ourselves, couched in the language of folksy wisdom, is something that James has become very good at. Good enough that he can, with what would look like justification if you held it cocked at the right angle, characterize the hoots of his critics as merely the result of cynicism and base nature.

Which isn't such a bad thing, as far as it goes; high rhetoric stirs the blood and temporarily lays a template of purpose -- or at least nobility -- over the seemingly haphazard experiences of our lives. There's a reason people still read Shakespeare, and it isn't a love of Elizabethan dress.

But as the Greeks realized, rhetoric is a tool, not an indication of correctness. Show me someone who thinks differently -- who thinks that grand vision and skillful use of language are innately good -- and I'll show you someone who has never read Mein Kampf.

Rhetoric must sometimes be shot down in order for the truth to be discovered, and the best tool for that purpose is cynicism.

When dealing with politics, cynicism is absolutely essential - politics, after all, is about deciding where money is going to come from, and where it's going to go to. Thus, the eternal question of the cynic ("What's in it for me and what's it gonna cost?") is, in many cases, exactly what needs to be asked.

But politics, from time to time, can also be about something greater, about banding together for some common purpose.

As in most things, some sort of balance between the two extremes is necessary. Too much cynicism, and you become paranoid or disgusted or both, and more likely than not you drop out of the public discussion. Too much idealism, on the other hand, can blind you to reality.

Where, then, does one draw the line?

***

Since childhood, I have been fascinated with space. From science fiction shows and books as a kid, to reading about the real thing as a bigger kid, to learning about the details behind the space program as a teenager, to reading about the geopolitical background of the space race as a college student - fascinated. As someone who takes incredible pride in the achievement we made both as a country and as a species on July 20, 1969, I can say without reservation that I am in favor of a manned mission to Mars.

Why?

When you read both science fiction and science fact, it is impossible to not fluctuate between "We can probably do that" and "We won't ever be able to do that."

But if you're like me, as you watch technology progress even in your own lifetime, everytime you finish one of those cycles, you end up a little more optimistic.

Putting a man on Mars would be an enormous step in the direction of "We will do that."

On the timeline of human exploration, Mars is next. We will get there someday, and I'd prefer that day be sooner rather than later.

That is why the Bush administration's recent announcement of a mission to the moon and then to Mars enrages me.

One could reasonably ask why, if I am so proud of John F. Kennedy's challenge and the eventual fulfillment thereof, do I not approve of George Bush's even more daunting charge? The answer is deceptively simple: Bush shared his plan 11 months before an election; Kennedy shared his four months after his inauguration.

The dream of space and new frontiers, then, is relegated to the status of Bush's Crawford ranch. Both are campaign props -- one to make him appear a brush-clearing common man, the other to make him appear a visionary -- and both should incense those who possess the real thing.

Those who remain unconvinced of the deep dishonesty of this proposal need only look at the proposed funding for the program - $12 billion over five years, a laughably low sum for a project of this magnitude. If the President was serious about a project that people knowledgable about such things lowball at $500 billion, he would do what Kennedy did - immediately start pressuring Congress for the money and talking about where it's going to come from. The real money, not a few billion dollars here and there.

But he isn't, and so he won't. Given the massive deficits created during his Presidency, Moon/Mars (I refuse to refer to this proposal by its official name, "Kennedy II" - I find the association offensive) is the equivalent of losing your job and telling your wife you're going to take her to Paris so she won't leave you. Not actually taking her, mind you, but telling her you will.

Lileks says that Moon/Mars is not a zero-sum game - that by embarking on this journey, we aren't necessarily passing up the chance to heal spinal cord injuries or somesuch.

He's right. Political promises aren't a zero-sum game. One can crank out brave and noble proposals all day long without consequence. Hey, what say we get rid of poverty? (Hooray!) How about we wipe out illegal drugs? (Hooray!) And rid ourselves of all disease! (Hooray!)

But accounting is a zero-sum game, and pretty words don't pay for solid rocket boosters or heat shielding tiles. A project this large cannot be sustained without gargantuan amounts of money, money that has to come from somewhere. As we're running a deficit, it has to come at the expense of something else, either now or in the future. Does the President want to go to the moon badly enough to repeal any of his tax cuts? No. Does he want to go to the moon badly enough to cut entitlement programs? No. Does he want to go to the moon badly enough to cut education funding? No. Does he want to go to the moon badly enough to cut the defense budget? No.

Actually, I shouldn't put words into the President's mouth - maybe he does want to re-instate the estate tax, gut Medicare, slash education funding, and reduce the Pentagon's budget. I myself believe he (or the ideological warriors to whom he is beholden) ultimately wants to do the middle two.

But he won't say it. He will not go in front of the American people and tell them that they can choose -- that in the end, they have to choose -- Moon/Mars or tax cuts, Moon/Mars or Medicare, Moon/Mars or education, or Moon/Mars or defense. He won't say any of those things, because he knows what the answer would be.

Instead, he talks about Moon/Mars the way he talked in 2000 about the budget surplus - as though it can exist without fiscal discipline and the sacrifice of something we want.

James Lileks should ask himself what happened to those surpluses - and "trifecta" is not a valid answer.

What should be a noble endeavor, one that can indeed inspire us and push us forward, has been immeasurably cheapened by this bit of political theater, and any supporter of the President who secretly dreams of mankind going out into the unknown should feel betrayed.

***

In the end, I understand and agree with Lileks' point of view - something you won't hear me say very often. It would be a great feeling to know we were finally going back out there. Would, that is, if I for one minute thought that that was the President's actual intent. But it is supremely obvious that this is not a serious proposal. It is instead a bit of rhetorical ammunition tossed to his allies for use against his enemies. And why not? The propaganda practically writes itself. With Moon/Mars, people like Lileks can take a break from calling Democrats appeasers and traitors in order to call them bean-counting Luddites and spoilsports.

But opposition to Moon/Mars is, at its core, neither a struggle against progress nor an attempt at playing budget cop. It is instead a refusal to be deceived when a man who wants something from us shouts, "Hey! Look over there!"

I, too, like to look at the stars, James; but if someone tries to pick my pocket while I'm doing it, they're getting their jaw broke.

And that, I think, is the proper balance.

The Power Of Prayer

"Our server has melted down"

-Andrew Sullivan

Endorsement

For all your electronics and office needs, shop Best Buy.

Well, shop wherever you want, but at least consider Best Buy for a few seconds.

A tiny little plug is in order tonight, because a few hours ago I was able to exchange this piece of shit chair that broke¹ within three weeks of purchase for this sturdier, more comfortable chair, despite not having the box the first one came in, nor the receipt. I just wheeled it in through the entrance (I vainly tried to convince my little brother to push me while I sat in it and barked out orders - "Starboard, you bastard, and run like the devil is nipping at your hindquarters!"), explained the situation, and received a full refund, which I immediately put toward the new chair.

Customer service is what keeps 'em coming back.

Anyway, I can finally be comfortable when using the computer again, so maybe now my sunny nature and lighthearted playfulness will come through more effectively here at VVH.

Just kidding - everyone who disagrees with me still sucks.

1. The chair I broke was actually quite nice- comfortable, nice soft suede, reasonably priced. Unfortunately, it has a critical design flaw: the arms. They are attached to the base in such a way as to place a tremendous amount of stress just behind the downward curve when one leans back - which wouldn't be a problem if they were metal, but they're plastic. The kicker is that that's the exact spot where they decided to put the bolts that hold the armpads in place. The first time I leaned back to get a really good yawn and stretch in, both arms snapped clean through, right at the bolts. The arms on the new chair are plastic too, but they have a supporting ridge that runs underneath them, adding a lot of strength in the critical spot - which isn't as critical, as the arms are a part of the structure of the chair itself, rather than just being bolted onto the sides.

English Cop

Am I the only one who is disturbed by the growing practice of using the word "literally" for emphasis, even though one actually means "figuratively"?

Always in need of new hyperbolic twists to describe events that are largely similar to events that have occurred numerous times before ("He made a tremendous catch!", "he made an awe-inspiring catch!", "he made a god-like catch!", "he made a catch that defies the laws of physics as we currently understand them!"), sports writers seem particularly vulnerable to this benign form of spontaneous NewSpeak¹.

Take, for instance, this:

"[Peyton Manning] literally put the Chiefs defense in the electric chair and kept playing with the switch."

No, Clayton, he did not, unless I missed the follow-up article in which you describe the charred remains of the Chiefs being cleaned off the field with a vacuum.

In the English language, the word "literally" signifies that what follows is untainted by hyperbole or rhetoric, and so you should pay close attention to it.

So quit crying wolf and just find a new adverb, damn it.

¹ NewSpeak? How? By using a word in a situation where it actually means the opposite of its accepted definition, you ultimately render the word meaningless - the ultimate goal of NewSpeak as understood by Winston Smith.

Update: Good news/bad news.

Good news: According to the folks at the American Heritage dictionary, I am right about this practice being quite improper. But we knew that.

Bad news: According to the same source, I am wrong - it isn't new at all. Apparently critics have been bitching about this for quite some time:

" For more than a hundred years, critics have remarked on the incoherency of using literally in a way that suggests the exact opposite of its primary sense of “in a manner that accords with the literal sense of the words.” In 1926, for example, H.W. Fowler cited the example “The 300,000 Unionists... will be literally thrown to the wolves.” The practice does not stem from a change in the meaning of literally itselfif it did, the word would long since have come to mean “virtually” or “figuratively” but from a natural tendency to use the word as a general intensive, as in They had literally no help from the government on the project, where no contrast with the figurative sense of the words is intended."

Things To Read If You Think I Swear Too Much

I really like this riff on the idiotic effort to put Reagan on the dime...

The Right Rediscovers The Concept Of "Implication"

The Right keeps trying to tell us that irony is dead -- due, one suspects, to the fact that it keeps kicking them in the balls -- but I know that it is alive and well, because it's coming damn close to killing me.

Witness:

Glenn Reynolds excoriating Joe Conason for suggesting, in "the dumbest bit of oil-based conspiracy-theory yet," that Bush called for a mission to Mars so that Halliburton can drill there for oil, "an idea that could only occur to someone utterly ignorant of the laws of physics."

Witness:

In an update, Glenn Reynolds saying in response to an email pointing out that Conason was not referring to oil drilling, "it sure seems like it to me, and a whole bunch of readers."

Witness:

In yet another update, Glenn Reynolds agreeing with an emailer that Conason strongly implied that the drilling would, in fact, be for oil, and that his misapprehension was fully justified because of his hypersensitivity caused by the constant "blood for oil" accusations against the war in Iraq.

Witness:

In the same update, Glenn Reynolds stating his belief that pointing to non-oil drilling in order to defend Conason's article "is more O'Neillesque backpedaling," and that Conason is "trying to have it both ways" by writing a technically correct piece that implies that Mars drilling would be for oil.

And then witness:

Glenn Reynolds, who makes frequent use of the phrase "they're not anti-war, they're just on the other side" when referring to terrorists and vandals, self-righteously denying that he "deliberately [blurs] the line between antiwar and anti-America," and then detailing the way in which what he says is technically correct - ignoring the obvious fact that the context, ambiguous phrasing, and constant repetition of the above phrase strongly imply an inherent connection between the two.


I don't know about you, but I say fuck it - I'm just glad to see that the Right now realizes that you can say something without saying it.

Now, let us talk of imminent threats to national security, hmm?

Pussy-Ass Liberal Promotes Diplomacy

Or, you know, an associate professor at the Naval War College.

From yesterday's Wall Street Journal's letters to the editor:

"It is ironic that David Frum and Richard Perle ('Beware the Soft-Line Ideologues,' editorial page, Jan. 7) dismiss diplomacy while using an example that clearly indicates the risks of an assertive foreign policy. They express concern over the future of Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf. Yet the assasination attempts on Mr. Musharraf must be partly caused by frustration over assertive American actions abroad and Islamabad's reluctant support of those actions.

And condemning diplomacy because it has not solved an incredibly complicated problem such as the Israeli/Palestinian dispute is ridiculous. Their shallow perspective is akin to dismissing the utility of military force following our defeat in Vietnam.

My students at the Naval War College are chiefly military officers, many of whom served in Afghanistan and Iraq. They are not 'soft-line ideologues.' Yet it has constantly surprised me how many of them believe that diplomacy will be a crucial weapon in the struggle against terror. Given that military force alone will never defeat the diverse forces that generate terrorism, we must avoid the narrow focus that Messrs. Frum and Perle offer."

-Andrew L. Stigler
Associate Professor, National Security Affairs
United States Naval War College, Newport, RI