So excited!

I am pleased to announce that Dan and I will be working with literary agent Rebecca Strauss of McIntosh and Otis on getting a book deal for "The Duchess of the Shallows." Those of you who have read TDotS (that's our clever acronym for the story) have our eternal thanks for your wonderful feedback, and we promise you a signed copy should the thing actually make it into print. Those who haven't...well, you'll have to wait until it hits bookstores, if it ever does.

Rebecca is super cool and we have the highest hopes that she can help us turn TDotS from a manuscript into a published novel. We welcome any prayers, hopes, spells, incantations you care to offer in our favor; although we've worked hard on the writing and Rebecca is a sharp agent, we'll take all the help we can get!

Stay tuned...if TDotS gets picked up by a publisher, look for a Facebook status update that reads, "Book deal, bitches!"

I definitely have time for this

I'm going to complain about stuff people say; specifically, "I don't have time."

You hear these words all the time, "I don't have time for [fill in name of important activity]." This is often, but not always, used in the context of work, but in my view this has as little value there as anywhere else. Saying you don't have time = you don't want to do this, ever.

I think about the myriad of time-wasting, bullshit, no-value activities in which I engage on a daily basis. I visit my bookshelf refresh my memory as to why the House of Finwe was dispossessed in the First Age; suffice to say no lives hang on the answer to that question. I play Galactic Civilizations II, but no one besides me really cares if the Tavri Cooperative blunts the imperialistic tendencies of the Drengin Empire. I cruise the Web to find out which sitting presidents lost their own party's primary in their reelection bids, and that matters only if I plan to go back in time to vote for them. (OK, I admit that last one helped me win a game of Quizzo, but let's not confuse the issue.) And I'm hardly the only one who spends time on this kind of thing. So unless you work and live in the White House you have plenty of time to do the stuff you need to do, assuming you're willing to cut out the useless crap.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not proposing that we fill up our time to the limit with worthwhile activity; engaging in fluff is nice. I like fluff. Fluff relaxes me. Nor do I suggest that we take on every unpleasant chore asked of us. But let's be honest about it and drop the no-time-for-that excuse. When explaining why I am not doing something I just don't want to do (like, say, accumulating 16 more credits towards a master's degree) I'm trying to say, "I don't want to devote time to that." That kind of honesty also relaxes me.

By the way, I apply the same skepticism to "Life is too short for [insert undesirable concern]." Life is long; if you don't think so, try watching the remake of "Love Affair" with Warren Beatty and Annette Benning.

P.S. No need to point out the irony that I spent significant time composing this post. I get it.

The Wizard of Oz...revealed

As some of you know, I have a serious problem with "The Wizard of Oz." I like the story well enough, mind you, but let's not kid ourselves that it's about a young woman learning where home is. Ohhhh no. Let me tell you what that tale is about.

What is the very first thing Dorothy does upon arriving in Oz? No, it's not talk to some overly cheery small people. She kills the Wicked Witch of the East, on whom her house conveniently lands. The witch's body isn't even cold before Glinda "the Good" floats in and gets the Munchkins all excited about being "free." (You'll understand the motivation behind these quotes in a second.) The big party is brought to a screeching halt by the arrival of the Wicked Witch of the West (WWW), who is understandably upset that someone has iced her sister. Glinda responds by zapping the shoes right off the corpse and onto Dorothy's feet, then telling Dorothy "you've made a bad enemy." Seems to me it was Glinda who made Dorothy that enemy.

After WWW motors, Glinda packs Dorothy off to the Emerald City, ostensibly to beg the Wizard for help getting back to Kansas. The Wizard, no fool, recognizes a dupe when he sees one and aims her directly at the WWW, never suspecting that Dorothy has already wasted one witch and is perfectly capable of killing a second. She goes further than he expected, though, exposing him as a fraud and forcing him to flee Emerald City before the indictments come rolling out.

So let's review the story so far. The Wicked Witch of the East is crushed under Dorothy's house. The Wicked Witch of the West is melted into a puddle of goo thanks for a bucket of water thrown by Our Gal from Kansas. The Wizard of Oz is completely discredited, also courtesy of Dorothy. So who's left? Oh, yeah...Glinda.

Now the truth comes out. This story is not about Kansas, or Dorothy, or the power of friendship; it's about Glinda's bloody rise to power.

The tornado that swept up Dorothy's house now seems a bit too convenient, doesn't it? We know Glinda can turn herself into a pink bubble...can she also take the form of a twister? Even if we call that storm a coincidence, it was no coincidence that put those ruby slippers on Dorothy's feet and set her on a collision course with not only the WWW but also the Wizard himself. In a single stroke, Glinda gave Dorothy reason to leave Munchkinland (where Glinda will no doubt replace the Wicked Witch of the East), and set her up to take out not one but two of the only remaining magic-users in Oz. Well played, Glinda. Well played.

But it doesn't stop there. Once the Wizard has fled and his administration has been irredeemably tarnished, Glinda pops in with the news that Dorothy could have gone back to Kansas any time she wanted, courtesy of those ruby slippers Glinda stole from the witch's still-twitching corpse. The Scarecrow, no Nobel Prize winner, still has the wit to ask:

"Why didn't you tell her before?"

Glinda Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-In-Her-Mouth the Good, without missing a beat, replies:

"Because she wouldn't have believed me. She had to learn it for herself."

Dorothy swallows this easily enough, although any rational person would say, "Wait a minute...you teleported these shoes on my feet, showed me a solid gold highway and then floated away as a giant pink balloon. At that point, I'd have believed anything you told me." Dorothy is not a rational person, so she allows herself to be whisked away by Glinda, who no longer needs her. In fact, getting Dorothy out of Oz is in Glinda's best interests; after all, the chick has already taken out three magic users. Who can say Glinda might not be her next target?

Emerald City is now without a leader, so Glinda naturally moves in to fill the power vacuum. Not that she does the day-to-day work; she has Dorothy's Three Stooges to do that for her. The Scarecrow is left in the Wizard's place, which makes sense for Glinda because the guy has no brain and is therefore easily manipulated. I imagine that Glinda put the Lion in charge of Emerald City's army; he's too cowardly to ever gainsay her. And the Tin Man? Who better to lead Glinda's secret police than a guy with no heart? The three of them will make a muck of ruling, but the citizens of Emerald City will resent them and not Glinda, who will float above it all while consolidating her power in Munchkinland.

And you thought "The Wizard of Oz" was about home or friends or whatever? Feh. It's a naked power grab, baby. Dig on it.

Kirkus Reviews calls The Duchess of the Shallows "a fresh, compelling twist on fantasy."

One Reason We Believe

No, this isn't a post about religion but about belief in general. Jeff Wise, whom I read occasionally, had an interesting post about the erroneous belief that vaccinations cause autism in children, but I think his words apply to other baseless beliefs:

The anti-vaccine movement is not an isolated case. Rather, it is an example of a problem that is endemic in the public health sphere. Scientists and policy makers operate on the assumption that if the public is provided with the most up-to-date, scientifically verified information about their health, then they will be able to rationally weigh their options and make the correct choices. The reality is anything but. Millions of highly intelligent, well-educated consumers are continually being misled by erroneous information because they fall victim to a single simple error of logic.

This pretty well explains why people think the Affordable Care Act is deficit-increasing, or that climate change is a hoax. You find one bit of data that seems to contradict the rest of the facts and cling to that in the face of all the other evidence. If you've ever heard someone say, "This winter has been so cold...so much for Al Gore's ideas!", you know what I'm talking about.

I think most people find a belief or course of action that feels right, then find facts to ex post facto justify that position. That's why it's so incredibly difficult to change someone's opinion; he/she is emotionally committed to that position, and won't change until emotionally ready to do so. Until then, facts and logical persuasion are like bullets to Superman: they bounce right off.

Mary Griffith is a good example of this. She was pretty strongly anti-gay until her gay son's suicide broke through her emotional resistance and got her thinking more clearly about human sexuality. It would have been better if something less horrific could have gotten through to her, though.

The Trouble with Telepaths

I'm going to bitch about Babylon 5, so here's your escape hatch.

Byron, the rogue PsiCop, was quite possibly the most annoying character I've ever run across in sci fi. (Keep in mind that I've been exposed to Deanna Troi.) He shows up on Babylon 5 in the fifth season little more than a beggar, asking for permission to set up a colony of rogue telepaths in direct violation of Earth law. Captain Lochley very wisely turns him down, but Michael-Steele wannabe John Sheridan, President of the Interstellar Alliance, overrides her. Not two weeks later, when one of Sheridan's lackeys comes asking for a favor, Byron turns him away with open contempt and (overdramatic) mockery. Way to mind-scan the hand that feeds you!

Later, when Byron finds out (during sex with Lyta that's telepathically shared by the rest of Byron's little coterie of psychic hippies) that the Vorlons are responsible for creating telepaths, he comes to the most baffling conclusion possible: the other races owe him and his psychic hippies their own home. Leaving aside the incredible creepiness of the tele-sex (yikes), Byron misses the fact that although every race was used by the Vorlons, he and his hippies got superpowers. The others just got used. Still, Byron never lets reality get in the way of his delusions, so he instantly begins "planning" his next move.

Now, if you were a P12 with the personal friendship of the President of the Interstellar Alliance who was currently banging the most powerful telepath in the universe, you'd have some pretty strong advantages, right? However, you are not an overwrought drama queen with shampoo-commercial hair and a baseless sense of entitlement. Byron is not you. Byron is barking idiot. So he decides to blackmail the ISA into granting him and his people a planet. An entire planet. Most people might be satisfied with a town or even a small city, but Goldilocks has to have the whole shebang. When the ISA reacts with dismay to this blackmail, Byron locks himself and his hippies in the shittiest part of the station and says there will be a hunger strike until their planet arrives.

The members of the ISA, quite correctly, are cheered by this. After all, a man who has threatened to reveal their innermost secrets has now threatened to starve himself to death. Would that all of the douchebags in my life would be so accommodating. Naturally, Byron loses control of his hippies, some of whom run off to take hostages and act tough until Byron's conscience reasserts itself and he kills the bunch of them, loyalists and rebels both, by igniting some fuel with a PPG.

Sigh.

Byron thought telepaths were a more evolved form of humanity, but I think a chimpanzee with a meat tenderizer could have gotten closer to being given a planet than that pack of self-righteous, mind-reading morons. Criminy.

A return to tradition

More craziness in Congress...the Republicans must once again be in charge of the House or Representatives. Once the anti-flag-burning amendment is introduced, I'll be certain of it.

Reading the Constitution aloud is just a harmless bit of silliness, compared to this truly useless measure:

[House Republicans] say they will require every new bill to contain a statement by the legislator who wrote it, citing the constitutional authority to enact the proposed law.

I just can't figure out exactly what this measure is supposed to accomplish. Obviously, no legislator will introduce a bill she herself believes to be unconstitutional, but that doesn't mean her colleagues will agree. Lawmakers often disagree about the meaning of the Constitution...they're like people that way. People interpret the Constitution in a variety of ways, and usually in line with their ideological beliefs. Slapping a constitutional citation on the front of a bill isn't going to convince those who believe the bill unconstitutional; hell, even actual rulings by courts don't always accomplish that. (There are still Americans who believe that the income tax is unconstitutional.) At the end of the day, the courts, and not Congress, decide if a law squares with our founding document, and no citation on a bill will change that. Period.

But I suppose a return to the past is a reminder that, like gravity, there are some things you can always rely upon.

Here's hoping!

As some of you dear readers might be aware, I am fairly politically active; I vote religiously, follow the issues, and donate frequently to political campaigns. One of those campaigns was that of Bob Casey Jr, back in 2006, and ever since he sends me Christmas cards.** Every year. Even though I know I am just one of a zillion people on a mailing list, I find this oddly endearing. So, this year, I am reciprocating in kind, although not with a card. Here's the text of the letter I just sent Senator Casey:

Dear Senator Casey:

Let me start off by expressing my appreciation for the work you do on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Although I think I am somewhat to the left of you, politically speaking, I find your stance on the issues sensible and, by and large, in line with my own. I voted for you in 2006 and don't regret it.

Here's the point of my letter. You send me frequent email updates on issues, holiday cards, and the like, and it occurred to me that I have never reciprocated in kind. Naturally, I'm not voting in the U.S. Senate (or in any other legislative body), so I have nothing of that kind to report, but I have been told that I make a mean peanut butter cookie. So I am sharing my recipe with you. Here goes:

Precious Peanut Butter Cookies
Ingredients:

• 1 cup butter
• 1 cup freshly ground peanut butter
• 1 cup white sugar
• 1 cup light brown sugar
• 3 eggs
• 2.5 cups flour
• 1 tsp salt
• 1.5 tsp baking soda
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 8oz peanut butter chips

Directions:
Cream the butter in a large mixing bowl, then beat three eggs in a small bowl. (The longer you beat the eggs the better the cookies.) Add the white sugar and about half of the eggs, then beat until smooth. Add the brown sugar, and the remainder of the eggs, then beat again until smooth. Stir in the vanilla. Then add the peanut butter, but – and I can't stress this enough – make sure to use freshly ground or, at the very least, organic. If you use a store-bought variety like Jif or Skippy the cookies will turn out salty and greasy.

In a separate bowl mix the flour, salt and baking soda, then add it to the butter-sugar-egg-peanut butter mixture along with the chips. I recommend adding, say, one-third of the dry ingredients, then one-third the bag of chips, and stirring, then another third of the dry ingredients, then another third of the chips, and stirring, etc. The dough will be VERY thick, so if you add the wet ingredients a little bit at a time you'll do better than simply dumping in everything at once.

Once you've got everything thoroughly mixed, refrigerate the dough for an hour. Then spoon out the dough on to a cookie sheet in cookie-sized portions. (I recommend modest sized portions.) Bake at 375º for 10 minutes (and no longer). Recipe makes 60-70 cookies.

*****

Hopefully this has been useful. I know that everyone has a cookie recipe, but I can tell you that my sister-in-law, a good cook herself, tells me that she dislikes peanut butter cookies but loves mine. If you try the recipe do let me know how they come out.

Sincerely,


Neil McGarry

I suspect that this letter will be received in one of two ways.

One (most likely): Someone in Casey's office chalks it up to a nutcase and tosses it.

Two (I hope!): That someone thinks, "This is a riot...I have got to send this along to Bob."

I now await a reply. Maybe Casey will send me a recipe for apple cake, and if he does, I am baking it!

**I donated to the campaign of Delaware's Chris Coons, to keep that dreadful Christine O'Donnell out of office, and now he has sent me a Christmas card as well. I have displayed it prominently.

Hey Star!

Yes, I am writing you at the last possible moment of this day. Better almost late than actually late, I suppose.

For me, 2010 has been a hard, hard year. Layoff, layoff, injury, illness, stress, and death. And then, of course, today. I guess today doesn't bother you in the Great Beyond, but it sure as hell bugs me. Hey, are there chocolate-covered Nutter Butters in the Great Beyond? I sure can't find them here.

Just as the good things pass away so do the bad, and right now I'm just hunkered down, waiting for that turn of the wheel. Thinking of those who left too soon. Speaking of which, keep an eye out for my friend Cathy, if you would. She'll need some showing-around, and I can't think of a better guide than you. Plus, she can share some embarrassing stories about me. Get that out of your system now, please, so I don't have to hear it later.

Tell her I miss her. And you, too.

Hanging on? Not me

There's a motivational poster that reads, "When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on!" This is of course accompanied by a photo of a suitably adorable kitten clinging to a rope. Something always bothered me about that message, but only in the last few days have I come to understand why. Now you get to understand, too.

Life is tough sometimes. OK, alot of the time, and contrary to what we are told, it doesn't get better just because you work hard or go to church or generally intend well. I remember a high school teacher saying, "99% of what happens to you is in your control." Even at the tender age of 15 I went, "Hmmm" and now at the not-so-tender age of 41, I say, "What the hell was he thinking?" In my experience, most of what happens to you is well outside your control; illnesses strike, layoffs happen, and people die, and there's not a damned thing you can do to prevent most of it. And it sucks. It just sucks. The only real power you have is in your reactions to what comes your way.

Sarah Palin, in resigning the governorship of Alaska, said, "Only dead fish go with the flow." Unsurprisingly, she's wrong, and for the same reason as the hanging kitten poster. You can, of course, white-knuckle your way grimly through life, hoping that as soon as this problem or that problem is over, everything will be fine, but of course there's always another problem just over the hill or hiding behind the hedge. That's the irresistible force versus immovable object approach, and it ends in wrinkles, high blood pressure, and indigestion.

I take a different view. When the wind blows up, I don't stand tall and defy it; I adjust my sails and try to use that force to take me where I want to go. Doesn't always work, but I'm a good swimmer, so when my little boat flips over, I paddle around until I get things back in order. Then I look for a friendlier wind, because sooner or later, one always comes along. Just as you can rely upon the bad, so can you expect the good. So, Ms. Palin, I do go with the flow, because the alternative is to swim vainly against the current until you use up your strength and drown. Not this little fish, thank you.

It's true that I have neither wealth nor fame, nor do I have a respectable career or a fancy car. (Hell, I bought my car before Hillary Clinton started wearing pantsuits.) And maybe if I'd refused to go with the flow I'd have some or all of those things. As it is, though, my blood pressure is well within the normal range, I haven't lost my hair to stress, and I sleep at night with an easy heart. If someone had told me twenty years ago that would be the case, I'd have been pretty damn pleased.

So to (finally) come back to that kitten, do you know what I do when I reach the end of my rope? I let go. Sometimes, tying that knot is harder than just taking the fall.

Our torture culture

This piece by Dahlia Lithwick is a great chronicle of the way the US moved from a nation that used torture surreptitiously to a nation that uses it proudly.

Well, at least we no longer have to outsource our torture to nations like Syria or Pakistan; we can employ good old American torturers! Now I'm wondering if the CIA will begin training torturers, or if universities can begin offering graduate programs in waterboarding.

My favorite guardian angel

This is terribly dated, I know, but I have always had a soft spot for Frankie Avalon in "Grease." It's not that he's attractive (although he is), but he's just the kind of guardian angel I'd like. If you remember, Frenchy wishes she had a guardian angel who could tell her if dropping out of high school to be a beautician was the right choice. Then, hey presto! Frankie Avalon appears with a heavenly choir and says, "Go back to high school." And he does it in song.

See, I'm not a big fan of dream interpretation or slow realization. I just want a guardian angel to pop in and say, "Hey, dumbass, here's what you should do." And he'd sing it.

The time has come...

...to talk about bad candy. Here goes:

Circus Peanuts: Great gods, but these things are not only disgusting but disturbing. What are they made from? Why do they squeak slightly when one bites into them? How does anyone stomach them? I'll never know.

Mary Janes: They supposedly taste like molasses and peanut butter, and I guess there's a certain charm to the old-fashioned Mary Jane girl on the wrapper. As far as I am concerned, however, molasses and peanut butter have no business getting in bed together.

Peeps: Yeah, yeah, I know they are cute and are holiday-customized, but that doesn't qualify them as tasty. You know what might qualify them as tasty? Ingredients other than stale marshmallow and gritty cheap-ass sugar.

Indian Brand Pumpkin Seeds: Yawn. Not even a candy.

Orange Slices: Three things wrong with this candy: 1) It's jelly; 2) it's orange; 3) it tastes like orange.

Satellite Wafers: They should rename this, "Tasteless Styrofoam Discs around Balls of Grit." That's truth in advertising.

Now I'm angry and can't post any more. Comment your own gross candies, if you like.

It was worth it

Obviously, November 2 was painful for we libbies, and there's been much discussion about whether or not it was the ACA that cost House Democrats their majority. My answer: So what if it did? Crafting good policy (and that's what the ACA is) is why we send these people to Washington in the first place, not to keep their damned majority. Obviously, you can't govern if you don't win, but there are some achievements that are worth risking your majority, and the Affordable Care Act was one of them. Bill Saletan at Slate has more to say on this. Give him a read.

A banner day

Working on a college campus as I do, I see a lot of signs. Free this one, impeach that one, save these other things…every liberal notion you can imagine has a sign somewhere at Penn. That usually doesn’t bother me, but this week my eye was caught by some banners extolling the virtues of consent. Here are some examples:

- Sex without Consent isn’t Sex
- The Joy of Consent
- Consent is an Aphrodisiac

The first one I am all about; it seems obvious to me but, clearly, not so much to others. Who’da thought anyone would need a reminder of that?

The second and third banners I find…well, vaguely objectionable. It’s all well and good to remind people that consent is something you seek before you try to have sex with someone, but to promote it like a new trend or an erotic enhancement just seems wrong.

Maybe I’m a stick-in-the-mud, but I wouldn’t even take a Diet Coke from someone’s fridge without asking first, and that’s not because Diet Coke tastes better when it’s given by permission. It’s because if I take a Diet Coke without permission I’ve stolen it. That’s theft. I learned that early on…so early on, in fact, that I don’t remember being taught the lesson. Breezing past the consent part of sex is not an oopsie; that’s assault and, at its conclusion, rape. These are both crimes and moral transgressions. Something else you should have learned early on was that you keep your hands – and all your other parts – to yourself unless invited.

Obviously, rape usually occurs in a heterosexual context (there are, after all, more heterosexuals than not), and I freely confess to not being up on all things hetero. However, I’m pretty sure that straight people are as capable as gays of getting the whole consent thing, and it seems most of them do. So I just don’t get these banners, and although I don’t normally get twisted up over stuff like this, I vaguely disapprove.

I can't look away!

I'd heard Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights" before, but only when I played it for Dan did I realize two things: 1) I really like the song; and 2) the song is downright weird. Some of #2 has to do with Kate Bush herself, of course; watching this video I just can't stop wondering how many heads in jars she has in her basement.

Dan, of course, proceeded to analyze the song in a musical sense. I just marveled at Kate Bush's range. I've come to realize that the true test of any female vocalist: she can convincingly cover "Wuthering Heights."

Great gods...I must be dreaming

I've been looking over this Web site for a half-hour now, and I still can't believe it. Take a look. Go ahead, I'll wait.

It seems I find something flabbergasting on each page. Like the ready-made missing child poster, or the USB that contains that poster, along with everything else the authorities will need to identify your child's decomposed corpse when it turns up in a ditch. And then there are the comments from paranoid parents. (The kid's out of sight for 15 minutes and this woman's ready to close the borders.)

OK, I am no parent, but isn't this a bit...well, morbid? Should you really be making detailed plans for your child's abduction? From what I have heard, only about 40 kids a year are abducted, so you'd probably do as well preparing yourself a "In Case Little Johnny Is Struck by Lightning" CD. Criminy.

You're better off with a seatbelt

Bruce Schneier is my current security crush, and he has something interesting to say about parents and perceived threats vs. real risk.

I can't speak to any of this as an expert, but when Pennsylvania tightened its regulations regarding what age/size children must use car safety seats...well, you could have heard the howls of protest from Michigan. I imagine many of those howlers are in favor of the various Megan's Laws this commonwealth enforces, which probably don't provide much measurable protection, unlike car safety seats, which we know make children safer. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, nearly 9,000 lives were saved by such devices from 1975 - 2008. I wonder if Megan's Laws have saved a hundredth that many.

I make no claims to parenting expertise, but I know fear-mongering when I see it, and it seems to me parents are a prime target.

Makes my head go "pound"

As many know, I am not a fan of security theater, a coin adopted by Bruce Schneier to describe the song-and-dance that passes for procedures. The fiction moves into the realm of fantasy in terms of airline security, and I have learned to choke that down for the most part, but this takes the cake.

I have serious doubts that any of the nonsense we endure at airports makes us any safer, and I am convinced that the TSA is a prime example of "scope creep." I don't care if my seatmate is carrying embezzled cash, cocaine or child pornography; as long as he doesn't have something he can use to destroy the plane, he's fine by me. I thought the job of the TSA was to make sure plane destruction was avoided, and not to safeguard husbands against wives who might (or might not) be cleaning out their accounts, but I guess I was wrong. I imagine that pretty soon those airport screeners will be conducting full criminal background checks on the passengers, and flagging those with unpaid speeding tickets or unpaid child support. We can't let those people fly, that's for sure.

Perhaps it's a bad time to say this near mid-September, but on 9/11 those hijackers gave the US an exam on our commitment to civil liberties, and we failed. Big-time.

Technology foiled again!

I haven't updated this blog in ages because Blogger kept telling me I had to update this and transition that, and when I looked at the eye-crossing directions I thought, "Uh...Dan?" But Blogger has left off, evidently deciding I have had enough, so I am back.

Ezra Klein, whom I read regularly, has an interesting piece today explaining why in politics party matters more than individuals. Think that Senate Republican Scott Brown has to be moderate because he comes from a blue state? Wrong! He voted with the GOP 82% of the time, which is more even than Maine's much-vaunted maverick Olympia Snowe. Keep it in mind next time you visit the polls. Oh, and I recommend reading Klein, or at the very least Googling his image and looking at that. 'Cause he's hot.

Is anyone else reading The Dwarves by Marcus Heitz? If so, can you explain why it's so boring? I used to be a huge fan of genre fantasy, but nowadays I have a hard time getting into it. First of all, when I open a book and find a world map, my blood pressure rises. Second, I just can't deal with any more strange fantasy-world names like Tungdil or Durzo Blint. And that doesn't even count all of the strange names with apostrophes or Ks used as Cs, etc.

Finally, there are the inevitable patterns that may once have been interesting but are now boring. Book opens with a battle in which evil prevails, then cuts to an idyllic country setting, completely at odds with the previous scene. There, a strapping young man of humble but somewhat shadowy origins is approached by a mysterious druid/wizard/magic guy who tells him of a Great Evil and the approach of Minions of Dread, bent on capturing/killing/seducing to the dark side this selfsame young man. Who is of course heir to the throne or the fated wielder of the Sword of All Things Good. Argh.

If I wind up in one of these stories, I'm going to tell Gandalf or Allanon or whatever other meddlesome conjurer appears that I don't care what Lord Blackness is up to in the Kingdom of Shadows. If Lord Blackness has a good health insurance plan that extends benefits to domestic partners, and will start me with three weeks' vacation, sign me up.

Am I going mad?

Or is Glenn Beck, of all people, suddenly defending the separation of church and state?



Good gods, but the world has turned upside down. Send him an ACLU membership form before he recovers his lunacy.