Has Arizona’s legislature thought about this question?
Si un policia me dice “papeles” y yo le digo “tijeras” . . . gano yo?
Has Arizona’s legislature thought about this question?
Si un policia me dice “papeles” y yo le digo “tijeras” . . . gano yo?
Last spring, as the local Tea Party gatherings were shouting hosannahs to the Constitution, they also advocated not answering the decennial census. I pointed out that the census is required by the Constitution, and got disinvited.
Unbridled and unquestioning support of what the “founders” did, instead of the laws they wrote, can lead one astray, as this cartoon shows:
A mostly historically accurate view of history of Tea Party-like movements:
Tip of the old scrub brush to Unreasonable Faith and earthaid.
Fireworks!
Looks like fireworks to me.
From Inside Insides, a site dedicated to MRIs of food.
Oddly beautiful. Interesting. Nerdy.
Tip of the old scrub brush to P. Z. Myers at Pharyngula.
Peter Schickele is 75 today.
May he live to be a happy, robust, still-composing, still performing 135, at least.
Some people know him as a great disk jockey. Some people know him as the singer of cabaret tunes. Some people know and love him as a composer of music for symphony orchestra, or to accompany Where the Wild Things Are.
Then there are those happy masses who know him for his historical work, recovering the works of Johann Sebastian Bach’s final and most wayward child, P. D. Q. Bach.
Tip of the old bathtub-hardened conductor’s baton to Eric Koenig.
Summers for teachers fill up quickly with various training courses — right now, somewhere in America about a thousand teaches gather every morning for a week of AP course training, for example. In larger districts like Dallas, classes convene for teachers in a dozen different locations.
Some teachers scramble to complete courses for advanced degrees, packing a semester or two into a few weeks in the summer.
Our friend Jim Stanley suggested some training we might find out of the catalog of Glenn Beck’s new, for-Glenn-Beck’s-profit school; heck, anyone could profit from these:
10. Chalkboard Management
09. Making Friends with Cocaine
08. How to Weep Like a Televangelist
07. Hatriotism 101: An Overview
06. How to Link Absolutely Anything or Anyone to Marx, Lenin or Hitler
05. Hysterics: Reclaiming An Artform For the Angry, White Male
04. Screw The Bible! (And Turn to Chapter Four of Atlas Shrugged)
03. How to Ban Scientific Darwinism, While Simultaneously Advancing Social Darwinism
02. Alan Keyes: Proof That There Are, Indeed, Some “Good Ones”
And the number one course offering at Glenn Beck University . . .
01. Washed Up Disc Jockeys. Is There Anything They DON’T Know?
Tip of the old scrub brush to Jim Stanley, with many thanks.
Sometimes people grow into a role they had not intended.
During the recent, sad flap about Helen Thomas’s offensive remarks and forced retirement, some media outlets carried a photo of Thomas that looked almost posed to me. In our creativity consulting years ago, we used the old, famous optical illusion of the “old woman/young woman.”
Make up your own commentary. What do you see? How do you know you’re not looking at an illusion?
Actually, he’s been in Crete now for two weeks, and he’s deep into training for how to teach. I’m just slow on getting the posts up.
Kenny left for Greece, despite the lack of visitor facilities on either side of the TSA checkpoints, we all went along for the ride and the farewell, Kathryn, Kathryn’s father Ken Knowles, and I. Airport art and history displays always fascinate me — there are some great pieces hidden away in U.S. airports. Sometimes the airlines even spring to pay for the stuff (I wonder how much this thing cost).
A great place for a photo of a family wishing someone bon voyage. A wishbone, how appropriate. Was this just a coincidence, or is it a little, pricey arty joke? “Silver bird.” Oh. Right.
It’s metal. I think it’s the wishbone of a Boeing 767.

Kenny Darrell and his grandfather, Ken Knowles; DFW Airport, under the giant wishbone -- Kathryn snapping a shot at the right.
Bon voyage, Kenny!
More:
Sounds like the opening line to a good joke, or to a tragedy.
Sara Ann Maxwell sends along this story she found in a comment at Crooks and Liars:
A woman in a hot air balloon realized she was lost. She lowered her altitude and spotted a man in a boat below. She shouted to him, “Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don’t know where I am.”
The man consulted his portable GPS and replied, “You’re in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above ground elevation of 2,346 feet above sea level. You are at 31 degrees, 14.97 minutes north latitude and 100 degrees, 49.09 minutes west longitude.
“She rolled her eyes and said, “You must be an Obama Democrat.”
“I am,” replied the man. “How did you know?”
“Well,” answered the balloonist, “everything you told me is technically correct. But I have no idea what to do with your information, and I’m still lost. Frankly, you’ve not been much help to me.”
The man smiled and responded, “You must be a Republican.”
“I am,” replied the balloonist. “How did you know?”
“Well,” said the man, “you don’t know where you are or where you are going. You’ve risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. You’re in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but somehow, now it’s my fault.”
The real question you might be asking yourself right now is why was the man in a boat? You understand, as a map savvy person, that 31 degrees 14.97 minutes North and 100 degrees 49.09 minutes West puts the balloon about 20 miles southwest of San Angelo, Texas, probably still in the city limits of Mertzon, Texas, just off U.S. Highway 67. He’s a few miles west of any significant boat-supporting body of water.
Check it out for yourself on iTouch Maps.
Don’t let that detract from the joke. Just consider that the woman was trying to meet up with friends attending the Texas Republican Convention this weekend in Dallas.
You need to read the sign. Click the picture for a larger view.
Can anyone identify the location of this muffler shop?
It was Jim Benton’s idea (he posts here occasionally as PRUP). It blossomed at Cogitamus and Dispatches from the Culture Wars.
A shadow cabinet made up of bloggers.
Not having had to suffer through any of my lectures, Jim suggested me for Secretary of Education. As the powerless go, high school teachers and Secretary of Education are on a par. Sort of a lateral move.
But I’m flattered to have been thought of at all.
Also, my list is way too laden with white dudes. I know that there are more women bloggers and bloggers of color who would enhance any cabinet, but I’m having a hard time coming up with those who have a distinct policy area — likely the fault of not reading widely enough.
Anyway, here are a few thoughts, but I definitely want to hear your line-ups.
- Secretary of State – Josh Marshall – Why? Because I said so.
- Secretary of Treasury – Atrios – Really is there any other choice
- Sec. of Health and Human Services – Ezra Klein — who else is going to read all those regs.
- Attorney General – Scott Lemieux — And no, not a fucking chance.
- Secretary of Transportation – Matt Yglesias — Supertrain! (Or maybe HUD)
- Secretary of the Interior – Our own minstrel hussein boy — He’s got the rez cred and he can cook.
- EPA Director – litbrit – She’d be all over those pollutin’ muthafuckas
- Secretary of Education – ari — Maybe he’d have to arm wrestle Eric Rauchway for it.
- Secretary of Labor – Who do you think? Nathan Newman, of course.
- Chairman of the EEOC – Pam Spaulding – (Chairperson?)
- Chairman of the Fed – Bill McBride of Calculated Risk
- National Endowment of the Arts – Roy Edroso
And how about Amanda as Chief of Staff — she’d be tough with the right people — and Markos as the DNC Chair.
How about your suggestions for fantasy blogger cabinet?
Best deal: Track those posts down. As I did, you’ll find some good blogs that should be on your reading list, but probably aren’t. Ideas, now those are powerful things.
Time Magazine recently proposed a list of the “50 worst inventions.”
Wouldn’t you know it? The piece was published on May 27, the anniversary of Rachel Carson’s birth (just to give fuel to the fire of the conspiratorialists), and DDT was listed as one of the 50 worst inventions.
After the war, use exploded: from 1942 to 1972, some 1.35 billion lb. of DDT were used in the U.S.
But absent from the DDT mania was consideration of the environmental effects of dumping millions of pounds of potent pesticides each year. Rachel Carson’s seminal 1962 environmental tract Silent Spring was the first to call attention to the nasty little fact that DDT produced fertility and neurological problems in humans and accumulated up the food chain in wildlife, poisoning birds. Use of the compound plummeted, and in 1972, DDT was banned in the U.S. entirely.
After the train wreck in the Star Chamber of the Texas State Soviet of Education last week, I’m glad to have my towel.
How big a towel would it take to fix the McLeroy Massacre?
Remember the words of Douglas Adams, wherever he is: “Don’t panic.”
More:

Towel Day display, 2010 - from http://wxpython.org/blog/about-42/
So long! And, thanks for the fish!
Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) likes a staffer around when he speaks, so he can get some immediate feedback afterward, and one night the task fell upon me, his speechwriter at the time, because Paul Smith, his press secretary, who usually accompanies him, was off on vacation.
Afterward I walked him to his car, telling him along the way basically three words. “You were great!”
“What did you think?”
“Senator, you were great.”
“Think it went well?”
“You were great.”
He had strayed from the prepared remarks and rambled all over the place, going on a tangent about a recent Supreme Court decision. (“I just want to say one thing … I just want to add one thing … And let me just say …”) But that’s his speaking style.
As the Senator got into his car, he said, “I’d like to see more like it.”
I closed the door behind him. He unrolled the window. “I need a speech on drugs. Can you write me one?”
“Sure,” I said. “No problem. For or against?” I had lots of confidence back in those days.
He looked at me, shook his head. I watched him drive off. Then, briefcase in hand, I thought to myself: Okay, now for that drink!
I hailed a cab and said, getting in, “A little muggy.”
It was mid-August. D.C. was built on a swamp and even at night the heat is stifling.
The cabbie looked up at me in the rearview mirror. “What’s the–?”
“Muggy?” How to explain? “You know. Hot. Sticky.” I loosened my tie. “Makes you want to take off all your clothes.” I unbuttoned my top shirt button.
“Hot? Sticky? You like–?”
“Muggy? I can take it or leave it.”
He asked: “You police?”
I shook my head.
“Just checking.” He hit the meter. “In my country of Bangladesh, muggi is word for–how do you say?–hooker.” He pulled into traffic. “Redhead, you like that? You want blonde? Two blondes?”
“Just a minute,” I said.
“Short one, tall one? Yes? No? Just let me know. I know big, big blonde.” He took his hands off the wheel to form imaginary large breasts in the air–
“Hey! Look out!”
–and almost ran into an on-coming car. “Very nice. She does everything.”
“Listen–”
“I think you like her.”
“Will you listen?”
“Yes?” he said.
“I think we have a little misunderstanding here.”
“No muggi?” He was very disappointed.
“No muggi!”
“All right, all right. Relax, my friend. No need to get excited. Where do you want to go”
A few blocks later the taxi pulled to a stop in front of my destination. I paid the fare and got out.
“How about twins?”
“No!” I slammed the door. “No muggi.”