Here's a bit of advice, just in case you defy all odds and logic and happen to run into me on the street: If you've even thought of boycotting French products because of this war, I don't want to know you. If you think that Bush was legitimately elected in 2000, I would rather have my intestines vivisected than talk to you. And if you think that America was founded By Christians, For Christians, and that anyone who has a problem with forcing the word God into every nook and cranny of the government should just go find themselves some other country, I will fucking eat your children and beat you so hard your mother will cry.

If you fit into any of these categories, and you enjoy living, then just keep walking.


We don't exactly live in the heart of downtown Anytown, but we don't live out in the farming country, either. So believe me when I say that I was surprised this morning to observe a trio of turkeys waltz up our driveway and into our backyard, as though it were perfectly natural for such fowl to be out on a constitutional.

They hung around for a little while, then moved on, plucking at the ground and looking about with the manner of semi-interested tourists. "Oh, do you see that little patch of garden there, Edna? That'll be right lovely come springtime. Oh dear, looks like we've met up against a fence. Better head back the way we came. Ta!"

Completely out of the blue. And totally, refreshingly surreal.


Follow the fucking money.

Is anyone surprised that they pulled this? This travesty doesn't just make us look like assholes, it proves, rather conclusively, that we are assholes. Or at least that the administration is full of them, anyway. What a rediculously obvious power play. Christ.
A non-war topic, here's what I have prepared for a debate in Speech class:

"In such a debate as this, which has recieved no shortage of national and international attention because of the questions it raises about the nature of life as we know it, all sides must be examined with equal scrutiny and fairness. The practice of cloning, in its various forms and applications, has been possible only since the structure of DNA and its relation to the development of life was discovered. And now, in the short span of (?) years, we have come upon the possibility of creating life whenever and however we choose, and in new and un-dreamt of forms. The possible uses of emerging genetic technology are limited only by the imagination of the men and women who are working to refine it. Some of these scenarios we are familiar with from the realms of science fiction: armies and societies of one or a few persons replicated a thousand times, genetically modified "super humans," the stratification of society based on genetic heritage. Others, such as making our entire species resistant to disease and free of physical and mental deformities, can be considered real possibilities and would inarguably benefit mankind (whether or not it would benefit the planet is another matter entirely).

Thus the need for extreme caution should be plainly evident when dealing with such technologies. The current research can be divided into two categories; Reproductive Cloning, which would produce a theorhetically exact duplicate of an entire human being, and Theraputic Cloning, which involves replicating and growing only specific kinds of cells to be used in medical applications.

The technology for Reproductive Cloning, unfortunately popularized by the recent Clonaid and "Raelian" incidents, quite simply does not exist yet. Current methods for producing complete clones is imprecise and dangerous, and almost invariably results in unacceptable damage to the clones themselves. Every(?) nation on earth has passed legislation forbidding Reproductive Cloning, and it would therefore be fruitless to debate it's applications.

Theraputic Cloning, however, has the potential to produce extraordinary advances in medical science which would revolutionize our concepts of disease and debilitation..."

That's all I have so far. Where there are question marks, I need solid fact, but I think it's an otherwise good start, no? I really just wanted to post something that did not reference Bombs or Idiots. Success!


So, the newsman this morning informs us that Mr. Bush does not believe it is necessary for him to view the tapes of our soldiers being tortured and mutilated by Iraqi officials. I say, you fucking prick, you sent them there, you should be damn well forced to watch what happens. These are the real results of your hubris, and I hope your nights in Camp David are sleepless.


Oh, Michael Moore. Won an Oscar for Bowling for Columbine, then gets up in front of a whole buncha big wigs and starts this speech about how, "we like to make factual movies, but we live in ficticious times, when ficticious voting results elect a fictitious president who sends us into war for fictitious reasons..." Naturally, he was booed quite heavily and cut off by the orchestra, but probably not for the right reasons.

He should have been booed because he used his brief moment on stage to make a political statement instead of just being gracious and saying "thank you." He was really booed because most people still don't like to hear you badmouth Shrub, who started a war so he could be a wartime president.

Soooo... last night Aisling was hangin' on the couch, watching the evening news, and I was in the kitchen fixing up some ice cream. Then I hear this dismayed, depressed sort of "ohmygod!" from the living room. Turns out, they were interviewing the guy who claims to have come up with the whole idea of "Shock and Awe," a non-military term that's already on my all time list of Most Annoying Meaningless Contrivances. He was describing the bombing, mentioning that there are plenty of targets left in the country, and he said that the rest of the campaign "...should be a lot of fun."

AAahhhhaaahhhAAhhhaHAHaaa. It's impossible to formulate a rational response to something like that. The mind reels back in horror. But the worst part is that I've made a similar slip before, in talking about North Korea's puny navy. The worst part is not so much that this jackass said what he did, but that anyone, if they're not careful, can make the same mistake. This is what we must guard against.

And poor Dan Rather seems to be taking all this a bit rough. It won't be his generation that has to fix all the problems Dubya and the Crown Loyalists are busy causing, but maybe that's why he's sad.


I don't want to walk into work and have to listen to everyone talk about war war war war. I realize that it's kind of ironic, working on a decomissioned warship, but if I wanted to hold a debate I would, well, hold a debate. It's impossible for other people to remain calm when discussing such an issue, which baffles me, and it means that every chat about bombing this or that turns into a frustrating near-shouting match.

Last month (I relize that this puts me behind the curve, but I'm not an official Celebrity Stalker) Ms. Garofalo made yet another appearance on FOX News, and this time around, if the transcript is any indication, she did much better (aside from the whole conspiracy bit. Of course there are conspiracies in the government, but unless you can prove it you just make yourself look like an arse). Unfortunately, my close personal friends at Spinsanity (right) have called into question certain of her quoted facts and figures.

I can hardly wait until this "Liberal Talk Radio" thing gets off the ground. They're going to have to work hard to keep from being just a smarmy peice of mean-spirited mockery, though. My grand hope is that instead of just providing leftist grist for the cluster fuck that passes for public debate these days, they actually manage to raise the level of conversation from kindergarten to at least grade-school.

Today, I got to use the word Bedlam. It's one of my faves.


Holy Marconi. Radio historians will recognize the irony of that little exclamation, for I am currently sitting in a corner cafe sipping tea and surfing, thanks to Pallas' built-in AirPort Extreme card. I realize that the Revolution has already occured, and that access like this won't be free for much longer, but it's still a real fun experience the first time around.

Also, the stories about 10.2.4 have been exaggerated. This battery will outlast my patience for coffee houses, even if it falls somewhat short of the advertised 4.5 hours of life. This kind of pure freedom of movement is quite intoxicating.

Tak asked me if not caring about this Damn War makes her a bad person. My answer was yes, because any time a certifiable Jackass acts giddy about sacrificing American lives for a war that no one but the Crown Loyalists want we should be upset. To give in to hopelessness is to take the easy way out, and we owe it to our future selves to give a damn about the here and now.


So Pallas arrived this morning, five minutes before I was to go to work. Fortunately, today I was working in a Mac lab, which is big and well-kept and has lots of juicy bandwidth, so I took the box unopened to work an hour early, and sat down with my new tool/toy.

The 17" PowerBook G4 from Apple is the culmination of all the engineering genius of perhaps the most innovative computer company ever, a perfect execution of a high idea. The screen is so big and so beautiful that there is no practical difference between working on this machine and working on a desktop. The keyboard action is indeed crisp, and the illumination effect is as cool a touch as one could ever hope for.

In use, the system responds almost instantaneously, whether you're running one application or a dozen. The hard drive is nearly silent, which is sort of disconcerting - I'm used to being able to tell when my computer's working hard. The SuperDrive makes the coolest noises when the laptop wakes up, and so far has worked without a hitch. It is a complete desktop replacement in every sense, and it weighs no more than my previous iBooks Miz and Gir.

That said, God Fucking Dammit, Apple. 10.2.4 should never have been released, and it should never have been installed as the default on a shipping system. Now, if the day comes when I am forced to rebuild Pallas, I shall have to make sure that I have a raft of fixes and updates at hand to install immediately, because this version of Jaguar does indeed murder the battery. The point of making something as small as a laptop is that you're supposed to be able to take it with you when you want to leave your desk, but I can't take Pallas anywhere yet. Get this fixed, and soon.

Also, Pallas shipped with not one, but two dead pixels. Actually one is red, and the other is blue. But this means that I'm in for a long wait while I get the screen replaced, and I'm not down with that. Damn It.


>Dear Apple Customer,

>The following products shipped on 03/17/2003. Transit time will
>depend upon whether you have chosen standard or premium freight
>options. If your order is shipping standard freight, it should arrive
>within 2 - 5 business days of shipment.

>Product # Product Description Qty Ext Price
>M8793LL/A PBG4 17.0/1GHZ/512/60G/SD/AP/BT-USA 1 3,149.00
> With the following configuration:
> Z05M_B_PROC 065-3719 1GHz PowerPC G4
> Z05M_C_MEM 065-3722 512MB DDR RAM - 1 DIMM
> Z05M_D_HD 065-3716 60GB Hard Drive
> Z05M_E_OD 065-3718 Super Drive
> Z05M_F_KIT 065-3713 Country Kit/Airport
> Z05M_G_OS 065-3712 Keyboard/Mac OS
>The above products have been shipped to:
> Liam Roy
> 1234 Any Rd

Upon the reciept of this messaage, I leapt for sheer joy. My new PowerBook Pallas Athena is actually in the mail as you read this, her aluminum-encased silicone heart awaiting only my touch to bring her to life. Gir is still somewhat useful, but I'll have to figure out exactly what to do with him.

The weather here reminds me powerfully of life in California, the sounds of a city alive at night transported into the home on a cool breeze. It won't be too long before the heat of the day becomes uncomfortable, so this little in-between time should be treasured.

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY! I am off to get completely sloggered (c'mon, with a name like Liam Roy, what'd ya expect? If you're Irish, it's your duty and your right).


" a heart that's full up like a landfill
a job that slowly kills you
bruises that won't heal
you were so tired, happy, bring down the government
they don't, they don't speak for us
i'll take the quiet life
a handshake of carbon monoxide
no alarms and no surprises
no alarms and no surprises
no alarms and no surprises* silent
this is my final fit
my final bellyache with no alarms and no surprises
no alarms and no surprises
no alarms and no surprises please
such a pretty house
such a pretty garden
no alarms and no surprises
no alarms and no surprises
no alarms and no surprises please"

-Radiohead, "OK Computer"


Some dick who owns a restaraunt near the city of Pittsburgh, aside from crossing the word French off his menus, has also decided to take the word "Turkey" out of the turkey club sandwich. He might be angry with the nation of Turkey for refusing to be America's bitch in Gulf War II, but for Fuck's sake, they didn't name the sandwich after a country, they named it after the God Damned Bird that the sandwich is made out of.

Sweet Jeebus. "Freedom Fries." What a dumbass idea. Every restaraunt I go to from now on I plan to quite pointedly order the French Fries at, because there's no intelligent reason to call them anything else (although it is quite amusing that the French embassy pointed out that these fabled potato sticks were actually invented in Belgium. So we should be calling them Belgian Fries anyway, but enough of that sickness).

So, from my heart to France, a quick missive: I don't agree with your position, but no one deserves the treatment you're getting from Americans. It's stupid and indecent, and on behalf of the minority of intelligent humans that still live in the U.S.A., I apologize.


March has just been an awesome month for music. Tak, her friend Bubba, and myself went to a Flogging Molly/Mighty Mighty Bosstones event last evening. Sold out, jam packed, and boy did it ever rock. I mean, floor to cieling, head to toes, front to back ass-kickin' rock. The fiddler for Molly was out sick, but I think they managed to compensate pretty well, and I'd been waiting all week to hear "Salty Dog," which was a perfect finale. This lost-looking 13 year-old tried to hook up with Bubba, who's at least twice that age. In fact, there were a lot of kids there. One of them put their gum in Tak's water, which upset everyone, but there was plenty of goofy mock-step dancing to offset any bad vibes. A Good Time.

Go here for what I am told is fun. I want a Dancing Jesus, myself. Oh, damn, that URL is already taken.


Two things in the newspaper today merit attention. The first is the headline on the front page of Anytown's local daily, paraphrased slightly: "Iraq submits demands to U.N." This is brinksmanship at it's finest, two maniacs staring each other down, both afraid to lose face by admitting fault and both willing to bet the future of their careers and their countries that the other man will blink first. Another history major who works on the Submarine told me that he really doesn't think Bush is doing that much harm to America. His attitude, while disturbingly simplistic, is also rather more prevalent than I want to believe. How otherwise intelligent people can become so willfully blind to the sick reality of this Administration is beyond my understanding.

The other was a letter, republished as a commentary, from this gent John Brady Kiesling (it's all over the web, but this site loads the fastest.). Seems that, as a professional diplomat, he was no longer able to work for the United States because of our antagonistic policies. This is a letter of resignation, given to Colin Powell, and it's absolutely fabulous. Our own diplomats are resigning in protest! We should need no clearer proof of the flawed nature of Shrub's "diplomacy."


This is not to say that I am currently Famous, or even a Historian per se, even though that's what it says on my tax return. This title is an excersize in irony and wishful thinking, for I am something of a historian In Training, an eager squire fetching and stepping at the coattails of the thousands who have come before me. Keep you Eyes on the Prize, and to that end dedicate at least one bit of computation every cycle to attaining that Prize. Perhaps none of this makes any sense to anyone else, but that's okay. I can live with being slightly nonsensical at times because I spend so much of my effort in life trying to clarify everyone else's bull thwap. Being a Historian means understanding the mistakes that have been made in the past, and knowing also how to apply those lessons in the present. I think that's something we could all use a little practice with.

We were all a little disappointed that Mr. Colbert got another shot at hosing - sorry, hosting - the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Presumably dear old Jon was either too ill to attend, or needed some time to work on this apocryphal NBC project. I forget where I heard it the first time, but I really hope that if he does decide to go "legit" that the sense of mockery that comes with being the goofy step-cousin of the News Business doesn't get squashed by Corporate needs.


Tak and I went to see The Chieftans this evening, which demonstrates admirably our fundamental coolness, that we can go from CKY Rock to traditional Celtic in four days and have a grand time at both. Seriously, these guys have been playing together for something like six centuries, and I can't believe that there's anyone better. With my claudagh and the green vest me granddad left me I was running at 100% Irish, but there were plenty of classless people who went over the top with ties that had Ireland printed all over them and polos with bright green collars and some random crest on the front. And there was one man, who deserves to have the Hand of God descend from up high and administer a Holy Wedgie, that wore shorts. God Damn shorts to a concert hall. The more refined citizenry of Anytown complain that there is little to no real culture in our city. I say it's because of Jackasses who wear fucking shorts to formal occasions.


Decided to change the title again. I think this reflects fairly accurately what my life is turning into, but it'll be a while before I change the actual web address. Aw hell, only two other people read it anyway. I'll change it tonight. Or I would, if the Archives weren't misbehaving...

I was going to change the title to The Battle for the American Dream, but the only plausible short URL, thebattle.blogspot.com, has recently been taken by some fluffy idiot. It's ironic that the first thing I said upon visiting this tiny pool of bile was "Damn you!"
Impromptu concert last night with Tak, went to see CKY, which we had convinced our coworker Mr. Gears stands for Country Killin' Yuppies. Tak's only known about them since last October, and I had never heard them before except when she had them playing in her car. But they put on a fine show, got the crowd absolutely ramped up, and granted Tak two signatures and a smoochy-picture after the show.

We staked out a spot in a corner of the bar overlooking the stage well in advance. Despite being several years older than myself (In the words of Ghengis Khan, I AM TWENTY-ONE) Tak let fly with the Rocking Out, denting an air duct behind her and garnering the attention of the CKY bass player, who later (to her considerable delight) said, "Hey, you're the girl from the corner!" I myself am not naturally predisposed to Rocking Out, perhaps because the only natural rythm I have is on a laptop keyboard, perhaps because I was actually born in the late 1700's and feel far more comfortable sitting down for a good dose of live music. But there is something to be said for live Rock with a capital R, even if the most amusing act at the concert is your best friend.

There was an estimate in the newspaper that this Desert Storm II could concievably cost as much as $1,000 from every family in America. Ours is a family of four, so about $250 from my own pocket to rid the world of one sick bastard and build democracy in what was once the center of the civilized world. Since I'll shortly be a member of our Armed Services, I'd have to say that Yes, That's Worth My Money.