fnord

When I wrote in the introductory column to the most recent Sunni’s Salon that “we aren’t holding high hopes for a bumper crop of anything but lessons learned”, I wasn’t indulging in false modesty. And it is now official—as reports start to come in, even friends with self-professed brown thumbs are reaping their rewards. So, how does Sunni’s garden grow? Let’s go out to the patch to review the sorry state of affairs.

The chart behind the curtain will probably accomplish that. I snagged it from some econ blog I happened across. It’s kinda big and might mess up the formatting here for those of you with smaller screens, but I dare not shrink it further, as it’s barely legible as is.

This semi-rant has been building for some time, as I’ve wandered around the web and seen all manner of definitions and musings about what rights are and where they come from and how they should be identified, protected, enforced, etc. Fie to all, I say.

My, my, my. The bad news has been mounting fast for all the healthocrats protecting the USSA flock. Crows might become an endangered species soon. It could happen ... if all the nanny-ninnies were intellectually honest enough to admit that they’ve been wrong for decades.

Not that the greenies have a monopoly on hubris—many humans seem to have the idea that what they have created, or what they value, must be preserved as is for all time. But environmentalists showcase the concept so very well, not only in their actions but in the fact that their most formidable opponent is often nature itself.

For those who want a better sense of who the Sunni Snake is, I offer these random glimpses:
  When I read something that is patently bullshit, in good reptilian fashion I typically vent with a, "Ssssst!"
  Half Scandinavian. Didn't get the blonde and buxom genes, though.
  Got the stoicism, and stick-straight hair.
  Other half is yer general western European muttly mix.
  Because both of my parents died relatively young, I have an inordinate fear of following in their footsteps.
  That's really the only serious fear I have.
  Although I try to be very respectful of others' preferences, I'm a toucher, and can get quite unhappy fairly quickly if I'm unable to express my affection for someone physically.

  Yep, that's gotten me in trouble sometimes.
  Alcohol stokes my muse.
  Alcohol plus caffeine is even better. (Anyone got drink recipes that include both, but not sodas?)
  Southpaw!
  I have been a hard-core science nerd practically since coming out of diapers.
  Mushy romantic songs really get to me, even though I know better than to believe 'em.
  I also tend to score high on those test-your-geekiness quizzes all over the web.

  I don't put a lot of faith in those kinds of quizzes.
  Most "psychological" tests I've seen aren't worth much, either.
  Being pregnant was so enjoyable I regret not having more children.
  Once, I tried to pretend I wasn't smart in order to get guys to like me.
  It lasted maybe three days.
  Guys who mattered liked me anyway. (I'm sorry I didn't always recognize that you mattered then, though!)
  I don't have a favorite color. I do not intend to try to choose one.

  INTJ (highly borderline on all but "I"); Virgo; year of the ox.
  At my best (far as I can tell), 35-25-36; 119. At the height of pregnancy, around 165.
  Don't ask what they are now; I'm working on improving them.
  Besides, I care more how I look and what I can do than what any numbers say about my body.
  I love snow, and cold weather in general.
  The first time I saw real mountains was in Switzerland. I felt like I'd finally returned to a beloved home, and it was genuinely hard to leave them.
  Downhill skiing gets me incredibly randy.

  My body's thermostat seems to be set a notch higher than most people's. Thus my nickname "the hot-blooded snake".
  Whenever I hear or read the word "Aristotle", I get an image in my mind of dog testicles. That's happened since I was about ten years old. I don't know why!
  Somehow my brain scrambled learning green and orange. It still requires conscious thought to make sure I say the color I mean.
  I'd like to kiss my eighth-grade boyfriend just one more time.
  Rock; jazz; some metal; big band and swing; classical; blues. Not so much opera or country, but I have found some gems in those genres. Friends have given me an appreciation of new age, punk, and folk.
  The first album I saved up for was A Night at the Opera. It was severely scratched on one side, but I loved having it so much I didn't return it.
  My first fangirl obsession was the Bee Gees, starting with Jive Talkin'. I bought Main Course, then all their old syrupy stuff. I liked their disco stuff too, but not as much, mostly because it's a lot of Barry's falsetto, and I like Robin's quavery vocals better.

  I taught myself to play the flute, and through sheer determination, became pretty good at it. I also taught myself to play the oboe (with minimal private lessons), tootle passably on the clarinet and trumpet, and given enough time, can peck out some simple tunes on a piano by ear. I'm not good at sight-reading and improvisation, though.
  Unless I've had recent vocal instruction, I cannot carry a tune, even if it's inside a hermetically-sealed, lead-lined box with both of my hands wrapped tightly around it.
  That doesn't stop me from singing, sometimes quite enthusiastically.
  But I'm pretty self-conscious about it, so you'd hafta sneak up on me to hear how awful I am.
  One of my favorite pairs of shoes has been a very comfortable pair of gorgeous blue suede shoes. Bright, electric blue high heels that I often wore to my teaching job at a conservative, Catholic university with a black denim miniskirt or short black jumper with silver buttons.
  The administration at the school seemed to like me almost as much as the students did.
  Probably for different reasons, though.

  For many, many years I couldn't watch scary movies or read scary books. I didn't believe the stuff was real, but my imagination made it come so alive that I'd have nightmares for weeks.
  For a while I wanted to be the brunette version of Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In.
  But I also wanted to be a boy when I was young.
  Not having to wear shirts outside was the main reason.
  Well, that and the fact that I would have gotten toy cars and stuff to play with. Instead I had to wait for my younger brother to come along.
  The first deeply influential book I read was Jane Eyre. I could relate to a lot of it, and re-read it often for years. I give it a lot of credit for awakening the free-thinking individualist in me.
  I have no guilty pleasures. Guilt is an emotion I very rarely experience.

  My prim Norwegian grandmother taught me that it's okay to pee outside sometimes.
  Since I never thought I'd have children, I was almost totally unprepared for the undertaking when I got pregnant with my first snolf.
  Oh, yeah: SNake + wOLF = snolf. There's one of each flavor.
  Despite my lack of preparation, and in large part due to Lobo's patient, loving support (especially in the early years) and my own mother's fine example in many ways, being a mom is a gig I'm really enjoying.
  I love seafood, but not many in my family do, so I don't get to eat it nearly as much as I'd like.
  Identifying "favorites" is something I totally suck at. My favorites change as I learn more, and try different things.
  The song that best captures my approach to living is Rush's Available Light.

  I'll gladly admit it when I'm wrong, but I'll only do it when I'm convinced I really am wrong. That seems to really piss off some people.
  Thrill-seeking is fun, but I'm not stupid about it.
  I'm not as sanguine as I used to be about starting to look older.
  But I'm pleased to see more silver in my hair ... even though my hair also seems to be getting a bit wavy too.
  It's a tossup whether I'm happiest outside -- hiking, camping, shooting -- or whipping up something in a nicely-equipped kitchen with great music playing.
  The only person I've ever wanted to be, other than myself, is Marie Curie. Still fantasize about being a science goddess sometimes.
  The thing I dislike most about myself is my lack of mechanical aptitude. Being good with cooking tools doesn't count.

I am quite undecided about this turn of events in the housing market. Banks’ mail jingles as borrowers walk is the headline on a commentary by James Saft. For anyone who hasn’t come across the phrase “jingle mail” yet, it describes the phenomenon of homeowners walking away from a home because the debt owed is greater than its current value—and so, they mail the keys to the lender. The unmistakable signal jingle mail sends is, “I’m done here. The house is yours.”—thus breaking the mortgage contract. Is that wrong? I’ve seen a fair bit of commentary arguing both ways; but none of it has been from a pro-freedom perspective.

The least I can do is be considerate and put it behind the curtain so y’all aren’t unwittingly exposed to my nutty ravings.

Sigh ... Well, I thought I had things pretty well in hand when I went off yesterday afternoon to meet up with MAL and head for the Big City. Alas, once again I was overconfident.

Wow. I was out of town for a few days, and when I returned, the landscape had been transformed. Many waterfowl and songbirds had returned, and the snow had largely melted away. I thought that was a good thing—until I ventured into the basement.

If you’re thinking “cowbell”, guess again.

Things have been too serious around here lately. I have some important (to me, anyway) stuff on my mind, but can’t really string the thoughts together well enough to share ’em at this point. So maybe the new year musings will emerge tomorrow ... but for now, some music!

Today’s the day Prohibition was overturned ’lo those many years ago. It ain’t much, but in support of Repeal Day, here’s a concoction I’ve been enjoying of late.

In a rocks glass, place a generous pinch of brown sugar; I prefer dark but whatever is on hand will work. Pour a glug of bourbon over it, and swirl to help the sugar dissolve. Then pour in 4-8 oz. of grapefruit juice (not the pink kind), depending on how much bourbon you added and how stiff you want your drink. Add an ice cube or two if desired, and enjoy.

Lobo was the person who introduced me to the concept of a “way of being”. I immediately liked it; it sounds much more active than “personality”, which I think of as essentially the same thing as one’s way of being. Many people—myself included from time to time still—have a tendency to see one’s personality as somehow immutable under all but extreme conditions. And while it is accurate to describe many specific elements of personality as being genetically determined, it is crucially important to understand that “genetically determined” does not mean “constant” or even “highly predictable”.

Perfectly innocent items become instruments of pain. [Let the baking puns begin!]

Over the weekend, I moseyed over to The Economist—I honestly don’t know why—and got no further than the first article to catch my eye: An expensive dinner. My fascination focused not on the tale of rising food prices, but some of the strange memes contained therein. Picking through the entire article, since it may disappear behind a subscriber-only button at some point ...