Going against Amazon

Truth be told, I love Amazon. Not only do I have friends who work there (hi, Ted!), but it is an impressive space where one can find almost anything. I have found all sorts of obscure movies, CDs and books, many from used bookstores and bought at wonderful discounts. (Hour of the Assassin for 85 cents plus shipping! Woohoo!!) As a soon-to-be-published author myself, I will also admit that it has given me a minor kick to find my own book up there already available for pre-order, even as I am frantically in the midst of doing the index as I type this. (Although I am not actually attending my 20th high school reunion in a month, somehow the Amazon listing legitimizes my work for all my former classmates who otherwise could care less about academia.)

And then, on the blogroll to the right, I saw this: "Saving Shaman Drum."

Oh no, I thought. Not Shaman Drum.

The fact that Shaman Drum might be on its last legs probably should not be a surprise to me, but it fills me with great sorrow. I arrived in Ann Arbor right around the time that they moved into their current space on State Street, and I attended the opening party because it was a cool thing for a first-year graduate student in the humanities to do. I remember wandering around that party with my old friend Jack Chen (now atUCLA, apparently) as he made faces at a baby facing backwards in a backpack. I also got a phone call two days afterwards with a message that I had won a door prize: a new dictionary. I don't need a new dictionary, I have a perfectly good old one, I thought, and went in intending to ask to trade in the dictionary for perhaps a gift certificate so that I might be able to buy more textbooks. That is, until they handed me the gigantic, lovely American Heritage Dictionary, which immediately and inexplicably made me drool, causing me to say "thank you" and head for the door with a book that sits on the main floor of my house and still gets used regularly.

That book-love is what makes news of Shaman Drum's near-passing so sad -- and, as I read with horror, I realized that the reason it is probably failing is something I currently practice at my own institution: making my reading lists available to students early so that they can purchase them online. In my case, the reasoning is simply because the only option for our students at AU is the soul-less Follett bookstore which routinely has horrible service, never orders a sufficient amount of books and prices everything way over the list price. I have a number of saved e-mails where I tried to get someone to contact me about a book I had ordered that I was assured would come in, which never came in at all. This set my whole syllabus for that semester in a tailspin. I have not forgiven them for that. As such, I have actually recommended to students that they not buy at the bookstore, that they take the search into their own hands.

In part, however, my reasoning behind this was simply because our own university bookstore has a monopoly on the situation; at Michigan, I had the option of choosing between two more mainstream stores, or this little local one. I opted for the latter and loved it. At Dartmouth and UCSC, there were also other grass-roots oriented textbook-stores that successfully cut into the monopoly stores with better service and prices; in the case of the former, Wheelock Books, I was actually one of the first employees when they opened in the year after I graduated. I always wished I had another option at AU, but perhaps the large nature of Washington couldn't support that.

Shaman Drum, however, was much more than a textbook experience for me: they really do have an amazing commitment to the humanities and cultural studies in general, and I spent hours as a graduate student poring over their shelves for stuff that I should probably read. Given that my parents still live in Ann Arbor, I have actually gone there now that I am much older and done something similar (although doing it with a two- or three-year-old in tow is less of an idyllic experience, since he wants to visit a different section from the one I want to go to).

I miss Shaman Drum and it pains me that they might go. That said, I am now actively considering joining their Great Lakes Literary Arts Center solely to help them out -- and if there is a book I need, I may even bypass my own local bookstore (that would be Politics and Prose) to have them ship from Ann Arbor, if it will help them out. I certainly hope they stay alive, as that store helped shape me into the academic that I am in many ways. They deserve the support.

Stepping out!

Inaugural fever has hit DC like a ton of port-a-potties. Years ago, I envisioned there one day being someone I was excited to go see at an Inauguration Parade; that day has arrived -- but now I have a three-year-old and, wouldn't you know, presidents are inaugurated in this country in the cold. As such, we have generally been avoiding Inaugural mania while the warning keeps popping up that the city will quadruple in population for this event and that all forms of transportation, including passenger pigeon, will be overloaded on the day of the event. A quiet day at home, we thought, watching it on TV.

Then, a few days ago, a colleague sent us an invitation to the local Takoma Park Inaugural Ball. This seemed super-fun: our crunchy liberal hometown with a potluck affair, complete with dancing and childcare. What's not to love? This sounded pretty neat. He mentioned this at a meeting and wondered what we were doing in the morning. I said we were probably just watching the event on TV -- but that maybe we should all watch it together? Brunch! An Inaugural brunch for those of us with kids too chicken to brave everything! Sold. My menu developed easily:

• vegetarian breafast tacOs
• cherry-whole wheat scOnes
• cheeriOs (or the equivalent from trader jOe's)
• bacOn
• dOnuts
• cOffee
• Orange jOOce (with champagne to make mimOsas)
• bagels (this, requested by Xan when we told him what the theme was)

Fabulous. Then all we needed to do was get the tickets for the Takoma Park ball! Angela had been hounding me to get them, if we had indeed decided to go. She, the antisocial one, had left this decision up to me; I, in my inimitable manner, had procrastinated.

At Xan's gymnastics class, our friend KC told me that she was trying to procure Inaugural Ball tickets. "Really?" I said. "Yeah," she said. "Would you want to go?" "Well, I think we're going to the local Takoma Park one," I said, realizing I still hadn't gotten tickets yet. I came home and hopped online to get the tickets.

Sold out.

Damn.

Our one chance to get decked out and hang out with the neighbors. Ah well. A quiet evening at home, then. No big deal.

And then -- KC calls Angela, wonders if I've told her about the Inaugural tickets. Tells her that she's secured four. Wants to know if we'd like to accompany them.

Really?

Really?

Within the span of about an hour, Angela in particular goes from being totally blasé about Inaugural Day brouhaha to joining the madness, pulling a U-turn the likes of which I haven't seen since we got engaged (at which point she-who-had-never-thought-she-would-get-married all of a sudden bought a trunkload of wedding-oriented magazines). She happens to be at the second-hand store when she gets the call and lands a beaded evening gown for $35. I use Facebook to procure childcare. We spend hours at the mall today looking for sundry items (control-top pantyhose, platform stilletos, a nice dark shade of lipstick -- and then Angela needed some things as well). We come home, Angela finds that the beaded dress is too long, but then she comes out in a black, slinky thing that she had in the back of the closet and I say, damn! and insist she only think of wearing that. Xan, getting into the spirit, puts on an elephant costume; we worry that this is the first sign he might turn into a Republican and contemplate therapy. Angela does a dry-run of fab makeup for the evening, comes out in full get-up, I say damn!! and hurry Xan to bed.

We don't even know what time the shindig begins.

We're a little excited.

More to come...

A great way to fall off the wagon

While I've been grading, my dear friend Marcy has pointed out that our dear alcoholic current president has apparently been partaking of the national drink of Peru.

In an effort to explain the significance of the pisco sour, I provide below a recipe for the drink that I had published in the International Cookbook for AU's International Student and Scholar Services office. (Please feel free to order the cookbook, which has been created to raise funds for an emergency fund for international students on campus, something greatly needed. Not only does the book make a great stocking stuffer, but you'll find a whole menu that I've come up with with Peruvian food.)

Pisco sours also make a great drink for Thanksgiving, as would making the stuffing infused with some pisco, as I did a few years ago. If I only knew the president would have partaken with us, I would have invited him over for dinner!

Pisco Sour
Submitted by Jeffrey Middents, Assistant Professor of Literature
Serves 4

History tells us that the War of the Pacific ended in 1883, but disputes linger on over 100 years later. The northern territory claimed by Chileans in the middle of the Atacama desert turned out to be very rich in nitrates, copper and saltpeter – and happened to be a wonderful growing area for grapes. Today, Chile is internationally recognized for alcoholic beverages made from grapes, including a lucrative wine industry and, recently, pisco. Peruvians would claim otherwise: a very potent type of brandy distilled from grapes, pisco has historical connections to many areas of southern Peru, including Chicha, Ica, Arequipa, Lima, Tacna and – not so surprisingly – Pisco. Although both countries now make pisco, there are subtle differences, primarily involving how long the fermented drink is aged. Although Peru has filed with the World Intellectual Property Organization for proprietary rights to the drink, it may still be easier to find Chilean pisco in the United States. As a Peruvian, I would disapprove and tell you to purchase it online... but if don’t tell your guests, they’ll never know.

The pisco sour is a very simple drink to make, and a favorite among tourists. I will warn you that its taste similar to lemonade masks the very potent alcohol. Being American and not knowing the Peruvians are notorious for starting everything late, my father mistakenly arrived on time for a function in his honor held in Peru in the 1960s and started drinking this tasty concoction – only to find he had become rather inebriated by the time the event got under way. (Thankfully, he didn’t make a scene.) The recipe I am providing here is a more traditional preparation; in a rush, my good friend Barbara says that substitute limeade concentrate for the limes and sugar syrup works just as well. The general proportions are 3 parts pisco for 1 part juice and 1 part sugar syrup.

• ½ cup sugar
• 3 Tablespoons water
• 7 ½ oz. pisco*
• 1 egg white
• 2 ½ oz. key lime juice
• Ice, lots of it
• Angostura bitters (optional)

1. Combine sugar in a small saucepan with just enough water to moisten it. Heat over very low heat until the sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat and let cool for a few minutes.
2. Add the lime juice and pisco to the still warm sugar syrup and beat quickly until everything is mixed well. Put into blender and add enough ice to double the volume.
3. Blend at high speed for approximately 30 seconds, until the ice has broken up. Add the egg white and blend for one minute. There will be a signature foam on top of the liquid. Add more sugar if you’d like a sweeter
4. Serve in old fashioned or white wine glasses immediately. If desired, place a drop or two of bitters as a garnish on top of the foam in each glass.

O? Yeah.

More a little later today on yesterday's election experience, but for now, I'll note that Angela pointed out to me last night that the first president that Xan will ever remember will be Barack Obama.

And that is a wonderful thing.

Listen to Diddy

(And know that those of us working those polls on Tuesday are going to do our damnedest to make sure those lines move as quickly as we can manage them.)

Is it so wrong...

...for me to expect a candidate running for election to be able to pronounce "nuclear" as it is spelled?

Then again, what do I know. After all, the person I'm referring to is a rather accomplished poet.

Beware the Blob!!

I just got finished watching The Blob and all I have to say is that if the Republicans want a real reason to prevent climate change, perhaps they should consider what's frozen up there...

Hot for....

Jimmy Kimmel recently said that VP candidate Sarah Palin "looks like one of those women in the Van Halen videos who takes off her glasses, shakes out her hair, and then all of a sudden, she's in high heels and a bikini."

Like so:



Despite my love and appreciation for "Hot for Teacher," as someone who appreciates the English language (perhaps more so than Palin or Halen), I much prefer to be hot for words.

I mean, really, wouldn't you?

(h/t to Ange via GrammarBlog, who says "She makes me feel funny, like when we used to climb the rope in gym class." Ahem. Yes.)

Bye bye, Miss American Pie

I've decided to post this now to see just how/if my mind changes come November. As it happens, the political stalemate that has been going about my head over the last few months has finally been decided in one direction.

I had been a Richardson fan since he announced his candidacy. Forget the fact that he's Latin (which I was drawn to): I honestly found him with both the most extensive track record on foreign policy of the bunch, not to mention one of the few that was a governor and therefore had experience running a state. I still think it's a shame he didn't catch any fire. Since he bowed out, I've been trying to figure out who I might fall behind: Clinton or Obama? (I didn't like Edwards the first time around and there's no reason to think I might be a fan this time.)

The two had been running neck and neck in my head until yesterday, when I read my good friend Marcy's posting on her blog about what has been happening in Michigan. The national media (OK, NPR, which is all I listen to) hasn't really been discussing the issue and, indeed, it may seem like a minor one. And yet, as Marcy so aptly points out, the notion of trying to pander to Florida voters and working to try to back-end her way into the Dem nomination is one taken "by a reckless person who put herself above the larger good."

And you know, I've had enough with eight years of that kind of attitude in a president who thinks they are bigger than they are.

Therefore, count me squarely in Obama's camp. I had been impressed anyway by how he has so effectively galvanized the young people of this country into getting something done; I hope they can keep the momentum going to actually elicit some -- dare I use the c-word? oh fine -- change.

Mind you, this all depends on what will happen on the other side as well. If Obama gets the dem nomination, I'm likely to vote that way no matter what; if Romney, Huckabee or Giuliani make it on the other side, I'll also vote dem no matter who the nominee is. If my choices are Clinton and McCain, however, at this point I imagine I'll have some serious thinking to do.

(All this written on the eve that, of all things, Obama is coming for a big rally at AU tomorrow -- complete with Caroline and Edward Kennedy providing their endorsement on campus. They will be about 100 feet or so from my office... except I won't be there, because tomorrow I have a day's training as an election judge for our own primary in a few weeks. Given that Maryland, Virginia and DC follow Sooper Dooper Toosday, I'm not sure our votes are really going to count for a ton, but still, it's my civic duty. And, given what happened last time I worked a primary, perhaps it's good that I go. Still, woulda been nice to finally attend a political rally, which I've actually never done, and one where I could bring my coffee mug and not have to put on a coat! Sigh.)

The Fujis weren't ready yet. Well, maybe one was.

That's right! It's apple-picking season, and time for the annual trip to the Homestead Farms out in Poolesville, where everyone goes to pick their own apples. Literally, it will be everyone in a few weeks, which is why we went this weekend when it was still early in the season. As it was, we still ran into old friends we hadn't seen in awhile.
Jolie was back again for more apple-picking goodness and it was great to see KC and JP again. They took off a little on the early side, perhaps because last year we all developed a taste for the scrumptious Pink Lady variety and most of what was ripe was just Red Delicious, the eternally misnamed fruit.

Perhaps they took off because they sensed the silliness that was about to occur.Yes, this is how Angela and Jeff attempt to get the apples from higher in the tree. There were ladders. There were poles. But this was fun. (Plus, Xan seemed to get a kick out of the fact that someone besides him could go on Dada's shoulders. And that that someone should happen to be Mama.)We're actually planning on going back again because with only 20 pounds of apples, we'll be ready for more in about a month or so, when the ones we really like will be in play. Mmmm, tart apples.

The shirt I'm wearing is worth noting. It did happen to be on the top of the pile of t-shirts, but it turned out to be quite appropriate. You may notice that it says "Chile" on it. My father-in-law got it for me and was very proud of himself. I looked at it and thought, Wow, this really is a great shirt, color and all, and it's a soccer oriented shirt! I said thank you.

"I got it right," he said, happily.

Ange glared at him. "Peru, Dad."

With look of horror: "Oh, no. They haven't been at war with one another, have they?"

"Just the War of the Pacific. Very bloody." He looked sick. "But I really do like the shirt!"

Today, however, was a good day to wear the shirt since, as it turns out, the Chileans finally did Peru a good turn after all.

What sometimes happens with a Ph.D in Comp Lit

My best friend from grad school had the most kick-ass dissertation ever. She came in from the corporate world the year after I did and she is seriously one of the smartest people I have ever met. Her project compared a particular type of resistance literature called the feuilleton as used in 17th C. France, early 20th C. Czechoslovakia and later 20th C. Argentina. Her project was truly comparatist and, man, she was driven. Naturally, since she started a year after me, she finished right before I did. She's also a great teacher and can drink anyone under the table. (She's Irish. Note thre red hair above.)

Of course, this made her completely unhirable in academia.

This is not a sad story at all, however. You see, right now she's at the center of a pretty major event in U.S. politics.

The person I speak of is Marcy Wheeler (aka "emptywheel"), who is currently the foremost authority (at least on the left) on the Scooter Libby trial. Her book, Anatomy of Deceit, is flying off shelves (here is an excerpt), she was recently profiled in the NY Times, and she is currently (and by that I mean right now, depending on when you're reading this) live-blogging (and scooping) the trial at firedoglake. She's kicking ass, taking names and is possibly the most intelligent person writing about this.

And she's my friend. Love her dearly.

UPDATE: And there she is reporting on the verdict! I think she's probably downing a lot of wine right now. The blog (and her reporting) is getting some pretty fab press too -- her talk here is pretty cool given that she has no formal training (that I know of) in reporting.

Nirvana to reopen!

I've just heard that my high school discotheque of choice, Nirvana, will reopen. This disco was an amazing place: an old Spanish-style house with many small rooms, virtually all of which were painted black and featured an amazing amount of blacklight, where an angst-ridden teenage boy with frizzy hair could dance with a speaker to the sounds of Depeche Mode, Peter Murphy and Soda Stereo, under the influence of several screwdrivers. I even tried memorializing it through a dystopic short story written when I was in college.

But you (the very few of you in the know) say that this can't be true: Nirvana closed in the early 90s, to be replaced by an ultramodern laundromat. It hasn't existed for years. Indeed, Nirvana is just a nostalgic memory, a product of your life in Lima from the late 1980s.

Perhaps you haven't heard about this yet, that situations we thought it would be impossible to return to in Peru are suddenly back with a vengeance. And as long as we're bringing back the bad stuff, why not bring back the good too? Come to think of it, maybe we can bring back short films before all movies in Peru as well!

A mi prima Mónica: Llámame

These people are some more of my relatives in Perú -- specifically (from right to left) my cousins Cynthia and Mónica and Mónica's daughter Luciana. Mónica and Cynthia and I make up the last three cousins in our generation and I think we are the closest, despite the fact that I grew up in the US for the most part. Mónica and I were particularly amused when she got pregnant right around the time that Angela did, meaning that our kids were likely to have eerily similar birthdays. As misfortune would have it, a sudden onset of preeclampsia rushed Mónica into the hospital and Luciana was born a little early. This naturally means that Luciana can firmly lord it over Xan as to how much older she really is than he is and why he should do everything she tells him.

The title of this posting is asking my cousin to call me because it dawns on me that I haven't heard about her in a while and I would like to keep abreast of what is going on down south. I could of course do that over e-mail or by calling her myself, but that would defeat the second purpose in her talking to me.

You see, I don't think that the federal government is sufficiently aware of Xan and Luciana and I think they need to know more about them.

If I understand this correctly, the NSA is only monitoring phone numbers that receive calls from (not necessarily those that make them to) a sufficiently suspicious foreign country. Well, Peru has been a breeding ground for terrorism since at least the early 1980s, so my guess is that if my cousin starts calling us, then our phone will suddenly start being monitored. (I suppose this will be particularly true if she calls our land line, because we have moved to using our cell phones as primary means of anyone else reaching us.) Once that happens, some lackey in the NSA will then eventually have to transcribe our discussions on walking, diapers, cute baby outfits, sleeping patterns and the latest words spoken to see if we are perhaps talking in code. At which point the US government would be properly informed about my wonderful, amazing child (and his equally splendiferous cousin Luciana).

So Mónica, call me. The National Security Agency needs to know about our children.

English is broken here

To put it delicately, I got into a heated conversation today with someone who thought that the counterpeople at the Starbucks in Langley Park should have been able to speak English better. (For those of you that don't know the area, Langley Park is just north of Takoma and right up the road from us. Most of the residents are immigrants, mostly Latin American or African.) I was a little surprised to hear these statements come from this person, and they ended with a statement that they wouldn't patronize that Starbucks again because people who come to this country should learn the language. I was then asked my opinion.

Well.

Let's just say that I knew I wasn't going to change anybody's mind. I pointed out that English is not the national language of the United States and, more to the point, that this person was, in fact, not the clientele that any Langley Park business actually caters to -- indeed, if the counterworker only spoke English, the capitalistic wheel would not spin there. (Although, granted, it's questionable who does go to buy a $5 latte there then.) And that, actually, most of this countries' ancestors at some point came in not knowing the language -- except they looked white and spoke Polish, Italian and Irish. Not so very different.

Later, however, I was driving by myself and thought, "You know, it's this kind of isolationist mentality that gets us in trouble. And it is precisely the reason why I wanted to live somewhere where not everything was lily-white and, well, safe. I kinda knew that it was one thing to say, 'I'm not a racist' and another to live next door to someone who is not like you. I like that we live in an area where things can be complicated and where the black family that lives across the street and the lesbians who live next door maybe -- just maybe -- will keep Xan from so surely believing that 'we' are so very separate from 'them.' I want this for me and my family. I'm proud of this."

Am I wrong for thinking this way, that this cornucopia of languages (including multiple Englishes) and cultures is a damn good thing and that Americans in general are fool-hardy to reject this so readily? Or do I think this is all OK because, quite frankly, I can get by largely in that shopping center because I happen to speak Spanish? Note that I don't feel conflicted about this -- but I'm curious what some of you who read this think (knowing full well that some of you will side with the other person here...).

Well, whadaya know

You know how I just noted that I'm a liberal? Took this quiz from the Pew Center and found out I was right!

So now, of course, I'm curious where everyone else scores on this. If you dare, take the survey and post in the comments.

Not easy bring Green

(Sorry for this Dart-centric post. Please skip if you're more interested in Xan or movies, heh heh...)

I admit that when I entered Dartmouth, I was incredibly naive. I had no idea it was the inspiration for Animal House, nor did I realize its reputation for being a generally conservative school. Happily, I traipsed up to Hanover with only the notion that I was going to get a rock-solid, challenging education in at atmosphere that had a lot of green. The alumni support was an added bonus. (It shoud be said that, at this time, I was also planning on being a math and chemistry double major. And that I had a "Bush/Quayle '98" button. My, how things change.)

While at Dartmouth, I ran into my share of older alumni while working Commencement and Reunion, which I did for three out of the four years there. The large majority were wonderful, genteel men who had fascinating stories to tell of Dartmouth Hall, war and having to import women from Mount Holyoke. It always amazed me, however, when I ran into an alum who would mutter under his breath, "Dartmouth was better when the women weren't here." Personally, I'm thankful for the women. (I'd better -- heck, I married one.) Dartmouth could not remain an all-boys school and maintain its position as a top school. The world changed; it continues to change and institutions have the change with it.

I mention all of this because I am really upset by recent events caused by the otherwise apathetic attitude of some of my fellow alums. Dartmouth's alumni just elected two new trustees, Peter Robinson and Todd Zywicki, two candidates who were nominated by petition instead of by the College's nomination committee and who reflect rather reactionary values concerning the direction Dartmouth should go (not to mention higher education in general). In this Bush-tastic world, I should perhaps no longer be surprised by their election. I have come to realize that my way of thinking is far enough out of the mainstream that I can no longer call myself "left of center" as much as "left," even though I'm not yet wearing any hammer-and-sickle apparel.

The attitudes that Robinson and Zywicki seem to represent, however, reflect a very "old school" Dartmouth that promises to thwart any and all attempts to innovate the quality of the school's reputation. Though both are relatively young alums, they share the attitudes of the older alums from the 40s and 50s, not the overwhelming ideals (I think) of those like myself from the 90s. As a college educator, I now understand what Dartmouth's current administration is trying to do; nonetheless, I'm flabbergasted that the alums now stand poised to step it its way. In the most awful way, I'm glad I'm not teaching at a school where the alumni don't care enough to meddle in the school's current activities. I've always loved the fact that Dartmouth's alumni did care this much, but now I'm seeing a flaw in the system.

Enough is enough, I say. I can't be the only one sickened by this trend. Maybe the alums just aren't aware. Maybe they need to be smacked around enough to be made to care. (A snarkey note: "they" in this last sentence includes my own wife.) Or am I just a wistful liberal who should just quietly go the way of the current conventional trend? Am I ridiculous for having these feelings about my school? (Heck, AU would love if their alumni would feel this way.)

Here's a modest proposal to any of the Dartmouth alums who feel similarly: in the last two trustee elections, all the candidates who won were by petition. Can the same grass-roots efforts that brought these trustees in also work to our advantage? Why not try a petition candidate from our side?

Wow, look at me. I've become a crusty, bitter alum after all.

Threat Level: Cloudy

If you weren't aware of this, Senator Rick Santorum (who, I must say, deserves everything that Dan Savage's appropriation of his name implies) has put forth a bill in the Senate to possibly do away with the National Weather Service's free dissemination of information that is otherwise also distributed by private services. Apparently, the NWS is only good for sending out information when weather disasters are to strike and, otherwise, we should be paying for the service of a five-day forecast to finance AccuWeather. (There is a fantastic weather blog for the DC region which has been discussing this.) This seems like the most ludicrous waste of congressional effort I've see... oh wait, no, this is par for the course, isn't it?

Anyway, I therefore wonder if NWS decided not to let anyone know about the general hamless nature of last week's issue of national security for our area. Yes, it's apparently true: the President and Veep were moved to their bunkers (yes, moved to their bunkers) because an imminent threat was approaching... in the form of a cloud. (As NPR's news quix Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me put it today, "In their defense, White House staffers did say that the cloud bore a remarkable resemblance to Ted Kennedy." God, I love that show. Not to mention I learn stupid things from it, like this bit of information.) Forget stealth bombers, terrorists and dirty bombs: next season, 24 needs to join forces with the Weatehr Channel. ("Chloe, can you get me the barometric reading for Los Angeles?" "Dammit, the AccuWeather sattelite is blocking the information, Jack! All I'm getting is smog." "Jeez, how else are we going to positively ID that this is all the work of....Mother Nature." Boop, beep, boop, beep...)

Here's another disturbing thought. If this was so much of a threatening issue that officials were moved to their bunkers (again, I'm flabbergasted at this -- I mean, didn't anybody just look outside??!), should I be concerned that no warning was issued to us ordinary citizens who live, oh, 20 minutes away? The President is stowed away and we hear nothing. Gee, I wonder what will happen if there's an actual threat.

When an accident is really an error...

OK, time to get political. You all knew this would happen at some point.

Yesterday evening, Giuliana Sgrena, a journalist from the Italian newspaper Il Manifesto was finally released after having been held hostage in Iraq for about a month. As she was heading to the airport, her car was fired upon by American soldiers, wounding her and killing the secret service agent who supposed to protect her. White House communications director Dan Bartlett commented on the incident on CNN, saying, "This is a horrific accident, on which President Bush personally called Prime Minister Berlusconi to offer his condolences, as well as to make sure that there is a full investigation, so we're able to understand the very facts that are now being discussed."

I call bullshit.

Not that the incident didn't happen, nor that this isn't horrific. But it is far from an "accident" as this staffer wants everyone to believe. It's a question of connotations: an "accident" implies lack of culpability or fault. My son is likely to have many accidents -- particularly when toilet-training, I suppose -- when it really won't be his fault that he couldn't hold it in anymore. Motor vehicles can be part of an accident when no one is at fault as well. And guns can go off accidentally, I suppose, such as when it is being cleaned or if one trips and falls on one's gun (see Steven Soderbergh's movie Out of Sight).

But how does a car get shot up by an exceptionally large number of bullets and still be considered an "accident"? Those kinds of guns have to be aimed. And correct me if I'm wrong, but in order for those many rounds to hit the car, you need to hold your finger on the trigger for a while. And re-aim.

I am willing to believe that the American soldiers did not know that the car was not terrorist-oriented. (That seems unlikely, but fine, for the sake of this argument, I'll take it.) But such an act is not an accident: it's an error. Errors happen, and people die from other people's mistakes. And people -- armies, countries -- take responsibility for their mistakes. It's high time this administration starts taking responsibility for its actions. If we are so gung-ho about this war, let's not shy away from our mistakes.

Or is it simply that if we started doing that, we'd be owning up to way more than we'd want to admit to?

Rant over. Back to happy stuff about movies and my-wife-is-still-large next time...