caroljane

It's alright, Carol. Many have been diverted from their Respectable calling by Adam's (Madam, I'm Adam) sly double entendres and innuendoes. He is incorrigible - e.g. he recently implied that o'ists SUCKED in the sack! Degenerate! Now Tony, I said the women from NBI in the late '60s said that Objectivist men from NBI were not good in bed. Nothing was implied about folks today. But thank you for the degenerate title. Gladly accepted, especially when you consider what passes for the norm today, Well, I wasn't one of those women. A true woman from NB does not kiss and tell. Anyway I was not allowed to go to bed with men until very late in the 60s, like Dec 31, 1969 as long as my mother never found out about it. Oh, you said the NBI..perception problems lately, sorry. Yeah, that was true but one of them at least became very good due to natural aptitude, rational productivity and desperation. So I heard then, anyway. I have never been to New York myself. ...although I have talked to it on the phone. Tony, you are a true friend but don't try to make me feel better, sometimes I hate myself. I could have resisted, I could edit even now, but I just stand by and don't.

Oh! Jonathan! the pain of facing reality is no easier for the Objectivish than it is for any other human. I haven't yet read the back blurb of Kira Peikoff's first novel, but I note that on the front cover of the image supplied to Amazon, there is this bit of log-rolling: "A tight and suspenseful thriller ... a remarkable debut!" The commendation comes from, um'Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Fragile." Now, although Leonard Peikoff may find a different version of this book when it is remaindered and ends up on his favourite second-hand bookshop's General Fiction shelves, he may yet be swayed by familial feeling (Kira has earned his love, after all), or he just might be as energized by the publisher's blurb at Amazon as I am: In 2027, destroying an embryo is considered first-degree murder. Fertility clinics still exist, giving hope and new life to thousands of infertile families, but they have to pass rigorous inspections by the United States Department of Embryo Preservation. Fail an inspection, and you will be prosecuted.Brilliant young doctor Arianna Drake seems to be thriving in the spotlight: her small clinic surpasses every government requirement, and its popularity has spiked—a sudden, rapid growth that leaves the DEP chief mystified. When he discovers Arianna’s radical past as a supporter of an infamous scientist, he sends undercover agent Trent Rowe to investigate her for possible illegal activity. As Trent is pulled into Arianna’s enigmatic world, his own begins to unravel. The secret he finally uncovers will deeply move him—and jeopardize them both. With the clock ticking her life away, he finds himself questioning everything he knows to be true, and then must summon the courage to take the greatest risk of all. Nothing less than human life—and a major scientific breakthrough—hang in the balance. A thought-provoking thriller by debut author Kira Peikoff, Living Proof is a celebration of love and life that cuts to the core of a major cultural debate of our time. Now this excites me in a way I find difficult to describe, so I will leave the last word(s) to some other New York Times bestselling authors and other lesser beings, all of whom have been kind enough to roll their logs on Kira Peikoff's website, the one named, oddly enough, kirapeikoff dot com. “LIVING PROOF by Kira Peikoff is a compelling and thought-provoking thriller, enriched with fascinating medical science, big ideas, and vivid characters caught in a dystopian future in which the destruction of an embryo is considered first-degree murder. This frighteningly plausible novel will keep you turning the pages all night long. A stunning debut.”–Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author of BLASPHEMY and IMPACT “Makes you think, makes you sweat, leaves you happy – everything a good book should.” –Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author “Risky, daring, and sure-to-be controversial, Kira Peikoff’s debut novel, LIVING PROOF, draws a jagged line between cautionary tale and romantic thriller. This story reminded me of the best of Margaret Atwood: a chilling and tangible portrait of the near future, where the best and the worst of humanity is challenged at every turn.” –James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of ALTAR OF EDEN “Kira Peikoff’s imagination is a wonder to behold and an amazing place to visit. LIVING PROOF is not only thought provoking, it’s an all-too-believable premise that makes for some high drama. You have to check this one out.” –Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of THE JEFFERSON KEY “Taut, energetic, and imaginative, LIVING PROOF is a near-future page-turner that asks vital questions about the value of human life. Kira Peikoff bursts on the scene with style, offering readers a tight and suspenseful thriller that will not only keep them up past their bedtimes, but also have them pondering its life-and-death issues long after the book is closed. A remarkable debut!” –Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of FRAGILE “Kira Peikoff gets suspense and how to write it. Arianna Drake is a fabulous character. This is a terrific read–tightly woven and tense as a coiled snake. I was a decade older than Kira Peikoff when I wrote my first thriller . . . I’m jealous. Do yourself a favor and buy this book.” –Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author of A HEARTBEAT AWAY “LIVING PROOF is a rare book. A thriller that keeps you turning pages. A novel of suspense fraught with danger. And at the same time it’s a fascinating look at a serious moral issue: What happens when scientific research steps on the toes of the church? Of the government? LIVING PROOF is a thriller about human values… about questions of morality… about human justice. And about what price sacrifice in the face of saving the life of someone you love. Kira Peikoff belongs to a very small cadre of writers to watch – who have something important to say and are hell bent about entertaining you at the same time. I cannot wait to see what she writes next!”-International Bestseller M.J. Rose “With LIVING PROOF, first time novelist Kira Peikoff comes out of the gate with power, grace and insight. This is a brilliant debut thriller!”–Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of THE KING OF PLAGUES and PATIENT ZERO “First-time novelist Kira Peikoff’s LIVING PROOF is a page-whipping tour de force. Part medical thriller, part near-future mindbender, part psycho-drama, the book posits an all-too-plausible conceit of governmental jackboots on stem cell research. With the subtle sting of a bone marrow needle Peikoff’s lean prose and clockwork suspense get under the reader’s skin. A new voice in speculative techno-thrills is born! Highly recommended.” –Jay Bonansinga, National Bestselling Author of PERFECT VICTIM, FROZEN, and PINKERTON’S WAR “Deep questions, marvelously flawed characters and a sense of Orwellian paranoia stalk Kira Peikoff’s novel, LIVING PROOF. What do we give up in the name of science, in the name of religion? What do we gain? And what would we sacrifice to save ourselves? This is a book that will have readers thinking and asking many questions long after they’ve raced to the final page.” –Graham Brown, author of the international bestseller BLACK RAIN "A tremendous debut, Living Proof is smart, savvy, and suspenseful. Kira Peikoff is a writer to watch." –Alafair Burke, author of LONG GONE I know not all of you are yet ready to pre-order this book, so Kira has kindly made available an excerpt. Rather than excise its splendour, I include the entire epic sprawl here: Exerpt (sic) from Living Proof No one was near her when it happened. Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel, missing the pedal by inches. He could see her body tighten, as if clenching her muscles would forestall the blow, as her front tire stopped short and the momentum hurled her over the handlebars. Even from his distance, he heard her shriek–a useless cry wrenched out of a voice he had never heard lose control. She flew forward, arms stretched out, clawing at the air in vain, as the bike collapsed underneath her. Onto the unforgiving pavement she crashed, skidding on her forearms, bouncing on her chin. With a smack, her knees followed. The momentum dragged her a foot until friction interceded. Then, facedown, she was still. Jesus Christ, he breathed. She could be dead. Panic and restraint wrestled within him, keeping him in helpless limbo at the edge of the sidewalk. His urge to run over to her was growing dangerously compelling, but then she let out a moan and turned onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. Several passersby rushed toward her, yelling to one another to call an ambulance. A motherly looking woman crouched and held her hand, while a man collected her bicycle from the middle of the sidewalk. The last thing Trent saw before more people gathered around her was the blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain. He waited on that corner, an inconspicuous onlooker, until an ambulance arrived six minutes later. Even after she was placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back, and the siren wailed on, Trent remained standing. He watched the ambulance squirm and twist through the traffic until he could no longer see or hear it. He thought of calling the hospital to ask about her condition, but then he realized he didn’t know where she was going. Instead he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Dopp’s office. No answer. He dialed Dopp’s home. No answer. By default Trent started to walk north, as if a magnetic pull was dragging him to the one place he had no interest in going: home. It was more than 60 blocks away, but he passed the subway in Union Square that would have accelerated his trip, unable to bear standing still on a packed rush-hour train. Moving his legs provided a release of his escalating energy and gave him a sensation of purpose. As the sky deepened to indigo dusk, he walked on, passing storeowners pulling down metal fronts, closing their clothing boutiques, pet shops, used bookstores. Trent took no notice, insulated in a mental world by thick walls of concern, coated with dread. His body reacted appropriately to stop lights and traffic, although later he would have little memory of the journey home. After 20 blocks, he began to tire, but pushed on, ignoring his chilled bones, blistering heels and grumbling stomach. He had not eaten for six hours, since Dopp had stopped by, interrupting his solitaire game and tuna sandwich. As he walked, he recalled his boss’s words: Don’t hesitate to call me at home if you get anywhere significant this time. Trent snorted as he considered the last few words. What if they were forced to close the case because of significant injuries to the targeted party? That was certainly not a possibility his boss was expecting. And how would he explain the accident to Dopp? He imagined how their exchange might go: She fell off her bike. How come? Missed the pedal. Was she going very fast? No. It doesn’t make sense, Trent thought. Nothing was in her way to distract her. Suddenly he remembered that she had been limping several days before, but it had not been severe enough to hamper her speed, and he hadn’t noticed it when they walked home last night. Though he hadnt been too steady himself. Then he remembered their plans for tomorrow morning and cringed: they were supposed to bike the trail on the west side; he was supposed to call her tonight to confirm. So thats exactly what I will do, he thought. It gave him a perfectly innocent reason to call her. The starless sky was now navy blue–as dark as the city of infinite nightlights would allow. Soon Trent noticed that the blur of stores around him was beginning to assume a familiar pattern, and he saw he was only four blocks from home. He stopped by a corner pizza place across from his building and devoured three slices, washing them down with two bottles of water, realizing just how hungry and thirsty he had become. Then he crossed the street and went up to his apartment with one goal flashing in his mind: Talk to her. His studio apartment on the seventh floor looked like the physical form of an afterthought: it was half-heartedly decorated with a tan sofa, a futon with a black bedspread, a small wooden table with two chairs, and a bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a Yamaha keyboard waiting for its daily dose of attention. A 19-inch flat screen television hung on the wall like an empty black picture frame. Near the head of his futon, overlooking 73rd street, there was one window. Maroon curtains hung from either side, the one touch of color in the room. He liked the fiery glow they emitted in the mornings, making it seem as if he were tucked into a cozy den lush with color, rather than a sparse room, alone. He walked to the window, withdrew his phone from his pocket, and called her. It had already begun ringing when he contemplated the possibility that she might not be able to answer at all. He paced over the wood floor, pressing the phone hard against his ear. One, two, three rings passed. “Hello?” came her voice, scratchy and soft. “Hey Arianna,” he said, his tone chipper. ”How are you? I just wanted to see if were still biking tomorrow.” “Actually no. I’m in the hospital.” “What?” Her voice was flat. “I had an accident on my bike, and Im pretty scraped up. Got six stitches on my chin, and my knees and elbows are all ripped up. But luckily that’s about it.” “Oh, wow, I’m so sorry to hear that. That must be so painful.” He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. “But at least it sounds like you’ll be fine in the end.” Silence. “Arianna?” “I’m here.” “What’s wrong?” She sighed a long breath, and when she spoke, even her voice sounded deflated. ”I guess it’s only fair to tell you.” “Tell me what?” “Look Trent, I owe you an apology. I haven’t been completely honest with you.” “Ok…” In spite of the irony, his heart began to race; was this the moment of her confession? He hadn’t imagined it like this–with his opponent bandaged and broken, a suddenly weaker match. But why would she tell him now about a secret lab? “I have malignantly progressive multiple sclerosis. I lose my balance sometimes, and my limbs go numb out of nowhere, which is what happened today. I shouldn’t have been riding anymore, but I hate letting it interfere with my life. Which is also why I didn’t tell you. You may not mean to, but I don’t want you to start treating me with pity, like I’m some cripple. Because I’m not. Maybe it’s only in my mind, but I’m not.” Her voice rose, lifted by self-respect. “And if you still want anything to do with me after this, you’ll have to get that straight.” Trent’s mind swirled with a montage of instantly linked events: her limp, her stumbling into the lobby, her foot thrust into the spokes of the wheel. He had never known anyone with MS, had no idea what it involved or implied. “Jesus, Arianna. I had no idea! I can’t believe you were still biking, when you knew the danger, you’re a doctor for God’s sake!” “Oh, and don’t even dare patronize me. I will live my life however I choose and take whatever risks I want. If I decide to skydive tomorrow as my last life’s wish, then you can either wave to me from the ground or–” “Your last life’s wish?” he interrupted. ”What? What are you talking about?” “It’s malignantly progressive. Soon I’ll be in a wheelchair, and after that….” After a pause, her voice dropped to a hard note. “I like you, Trent, but you’d be wasting your time to date me.” He took a deep breath, trying to loosen the shock that was lodged in his throat like a clot. ”I don’t care,” he said, trying to sound brave and supportive, and not as rotten as he felt, “I still want to keep seeing you for as long as I can.” “You do?” “Yes. But isn’t there any treatment that could help you? Any drug?” “There are some drugs that slow its progress,” she said slowly. ”But no, right now, there’s no cure.” No cure. Right now, there’s– And then, flabbergasted, he latched on to the wildly glaring connection–could it be? His head began to throb as if from an ice freeze, oversaturated with information. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally said. “I need to go anyway. You probably need some time to digest this. You can call me later if you want. And needless to say, we can’t bike together anymore.” He closed his phone and stared out the window. Dark treetops swayed below, but he hardly perceived them. Time passed–perhaps a minute or ten–before his hand mechanically lifted his phone and flipped it open. His finger found Dopp Home in the directory, and pressed send. Dopp’s voice sounded incongruously normal, even pleasant, when he answered. ”Hey Trent, how did it go?” Something deep within him, unacknowledged and unwanted, recoiled against his words as he answered: “I think I found her motive.” (yes, I have edited this five times. I am apparently so stupid or toefingered or anosognostic that I am not able to figure out obvious formatting pitfalls, grrr. Oh, and Phil, I have added a comment to your last entry on my Friends and Foes. Thanks, tête-carré) Oh. my. galt. I hate to say it, but this really does look like a classic. Some lines just seem destined for iconic status. Already one is ringing in my brain, in my soul, in its stark blazing uncompromising truth: "After 20 blocks he began to tire." A slight niggle: this line would be even better if a competent line editor such as Adam Selene of the New York Times Wacko section had been employed. Its meaning would be made ruthlessly clear had it been rendered as: "After twenty (20) blocks he began to tire." But that is immaterial . I did not in fact read beyond this line, I do not need to.Actually I am not able to. Eyes squinted shut with tears, ribs aching, hugging self in the sheer joy of life.

Your summary jibes perfectly with my memory of the podcast. Was I unfair earlier? Did I misquote? Was I "just disgusting"? Does Phil just hate schauzers? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nItN_4LJ0B0&feature=related Quick, caption contest! Photoshop some maple leaves and yarmulkes on them and I will lead off with "Hallelujah Chorus".

final delete, I hope..I thought I had got rid of all those clones...Ithey just show up for no reaon...I blame the supernatural

Please, Lord, make me stop! That was just a medium quip, somebody else would have come along and said it but oh no,I had to get it in first .. I couldn't stop myself...I can't blame the men for my own slide into degeneracy, I chose to come among them, to spread Respectability and now look at me. Maybe I have always just been degenerate at heart....help me, Lord, lead me into a long thread whose subject is way above my head like the firm jawline of Zdeno Chara.... Help me Lord, I can't do it on my own.

Lt Lewinsky already covered that off while you were away.

course I didn't take it as an attack. it just seemed like a convenient place to put the Reminder in case the rest of them thought of getting out of line. Mwahahaha. Eight? I haven't noticed a Judith or Melissa posting since I've been here, and Sharon and ML don't seem to be weird at all, so that would bring down your estimate...maybe I should relaunch the Browsing Women appeal.....still, Kat has to live with Michael all the time in the real world..so OK, eight. I don't know about the war though. Female members of your local militia troupe say that they are not getting much actual military training and that the being on your side part with Col. Selene means, like, literally on your side. Sigh. Now I have to go deal with that John person. Take him off the eggroll list by the way... No rest for the weary.

OK here is your reminder. Currently there are two (2) females who are weird enough to enjoy regular interaction with you and the guys here.....maybe you have some interest in retaining the goodwill of half of them...just a thought

delete

The Senile Megalomaniac has lawyered up, hired a pr firm and is undoubtedly "writing" his book, proceeds to the child charity of his choice. Don't give him the choice, victims. Sue him personally to hell and gone, sue any charity he tries to give the money to, make his life an endless round of depositions that he doesn't get to schedule, sue the doctors who swear he is too frail to appear, sue the NCAA for enabling and profiting from him while you are at it. Divide them and you will conquer.

Glorious. Hallelujah gives me chills everytime I hear it, it seems to be impossible for any singer to ruin. Even if Paul Anka gave it the Vegas treatment (shudder) it would survive. I think this one is a song for the ages. Speaking of cheese did you know that an extra reason kd lang is beloved in her homeland is that kd also stands for Kraft Dinner. Are you familiar with the Barenaked Ladies hit with the line..... "If I had a million dollars/I wouldn't have to eat Kraft Dinner/ but I would anyway"

I would have beat her on that if I had just been prettier and able to get her drunk before the show.

Which writers? ~ Shane Erika Holzer’s Eye for an Eye and Robert Bidinotto’s Hunter are probably the examples she’s thinking of. But why not include Ira Levin and James Clavell in the category of “Objectivist-influenced”? BTW, I can’t help thinking that this “goof” is in fact a publicity stunt. It sure has people talking! http://www.slate.com...pisrc=obnetwork The authors I read, Terry Goodkind and Nicholas Dykes, were pretty damned good at their books. But, that is my opinion. Terry Goodkind does have revenge subplots, such as when Kahlan goes into her Con Dar (not all instances are vengeful, but there are one or two). But his approaches are far from being revenge novels. Nicholas's book is a "guide to happiness" fiction, and I don't recall any revenge there. Although it's slanted more towards anarchistic points of view, the plots are extremely tame. Suffice to say, it's hard to nail down that "Objectivist-influenced fiction writers produce competent revenge fantasies, nothing more." Just sounds like stereotyping. Hence the question for specific authors ;) ~ Shane Shane, how did you miss the gleeful humiliation of the trespassers of Galt's Gulch West, or the triumphant foiling of stereotyped cops and officials in Scotland, or indeed the instant financial success of Jaques at age 18? Plus, he also gets to go to Oxford. Pure revenge, Dykes style. I did not know that Clavell was Oinfluenced, I loved Shogun and very much enjoyed the Jardine novels.

I disagree! I think that they were trying to get us to believe that they were Whistler's mother, Isaac Newton, Thomas Paine and a white cat with a black spot. But, thanks to your brilliant detective work, I'm now less trusting and gullible! Thanks so much! J Just a minute here. We are still in the area of allegation and `identity theory, in which I am not expert, but I know for a fact that the white cat in question is indeed white with a black spot and also a respected academic with a distinguished list of publications under its flea collar. And the Paine reincarnation rumours have been around for a long time, too long to be discounted. OK they were all started by Shayne but they have been around for a long time.

There are a few parallels between the unspeakable Shafiyah filicide case here (I refuse to call it "honour killing") and the finally-ended sex crime spree of Sandusky. Both Shafiyah and Sandusky will be convicted. Both of them will probably live a good long time thereafter. From photos they are both fit healthy men, even handsome really, vain and very careful of their physical safety. Safiyah has said if he doesn't care if he dies pretty soon. His honour is satisfied, he has done what he wanted to do as he has all his life. Sandusky probably doesn't much care either, at this point. He too has done what he wanted most to do all his life. He's had a good run. I don't know how stupid he is, but he probably realizes that he won't get many chances to pursue his passion for child rape in future Sandusky will get religion big-time pretty soon. He will abase himself at the foot of the cross and in the privacy of his soul and between himself and his pastor, the prison chaplain who graduated from PSU and looks younger than his 28 years, he will acknowledge his sins that he committed when the devil got into him, and the devil will obediently get out. Shaifiya has religion already sort of, he killed his daughters in the name of it, braver than the prophet Abraham. He'll pray the five times a day in prison and silently bless his fellow inmates and maybe give them candies at Eid. Sandusky won't die in prison although that is always possible. Shafiyah will. They will both suffer there, I hope,if their fellow inmates have any imagination. Shafiyah to suffer shame, shame on his "honour" and his name and his manhood, shame which he must endlessly submit to and never revenge. Sandusky, who is of a species who seem unable to feel shame, physical pain of the kind he has gloried in inflicting on the helpless. A few adjustments to his nice teeth, his healthily-tanned face. They'll both die of course, eventually. And when they do, Hell will refuse them.

Boy, did I have a crush on Barbara Feldon during the Get Smart years. I recall she did a sexy commercial before that, something where she was lying on a leopard skin rug. She was a serious alcoholic and consequently didn't age well at all. Ghs Oh, the poor girl (slurp) Carol frivolous social drinker

Since the fundamental premise every religion is based on does not belong to reality and knowledge, how then can religion provide fundamental views on reality and knowledge? Umm Angela - you may want to modify the "every religion" in your post. For example: What Pantheism believes At the heart of pantheism is reverence of the universe as the ultimate focus of reverence, and for the natural earth as sacred. Scientific or Natural Pantheism - Pan for short - has a naturalistic approach which simply accepts and reveres the universe and nature just as they are, and promotes an ethic of respect for human and animal rights and for lifestyles that sustain rather than destroy the environment. When scientific pantheists say WE REVERE THE UNIVERSE we are not talking about a supernatural being. We are talking about the way our senses and our emotions force us to respond to the overwhelming mystery and power that surrounds us. We are part of the universe. Our earth was created from the universe and will one day be reabsorbed into the universe. We are made of the same matter and energy as the universe. We are not in exile here: we are at home. It is only here that we will ever get the chance to see paradise face to face. If we believe our real home is not here but in a land that lies beyond death - if we believe that the numinous is found only in old books, or old buildings, or inside our head, or outside this reality - then we will see this real, vibrant, luminous world as if through a glass darkly. The universe creates us, preserves us, destroys us. It is deep and old beyond our ability to reach with our senses. It is beautiful beyond our ability to describe in words. It is complex beyond our ability to fully grasp in science. We must relate to the universe with humility, awe, reverence, celebration and the search for deeper understanding - in many of the ways that believers relate to their God, minus the grovelling worship or the expectation that there is some being out there who can answer our prayers. When she gets through saying Oh Wow! she still has to take out the rubbish. Ba'al Chatzaf Maybe , though I doubt it. But the rubbish has never taken her out. Never has, never will.

Why's that? I'd rather wait until Phil has made his full case, otherwise I'm going to prematurely derail his thread. Oh Jeez, I havent even started that sermon...9th and J, I see you eyeing those snarkstones, just don't be the first to throw them, cast out your own motes and go think about Saul and Barnabas for a while...yes to the 4th century but it is the 1st, Paul and co., that interests me and obviously the writer of this book...yes of course you are dogs if you depict yourselves as such...Respectable...just do it would you? I got essays to mark and the Battle of the Blades final is coming up, go Tessa and David.

I'm pretty sure those are just mushrooms. Yeah...not after you eat some! Adam, focus! Think! He's getting to you .. he gets everywhere if we are not vigilant...the taste of the Hoffburger...yaks, elks... I think my neighbours are raising goats in their den and they are Buddhists for crying out loud... Save this stuff for your important address at ArcticCon.. don't forget the bagels, old misery the other Gord is on me about it day and night... no mushrooms on mine, I used to love them but somehow.... Carol t Agent 99

FRATERNAL ORDER OF THE SACRED IGLOO LOCAL 13 Ice Fishing Hut of the Grand Shaman Dear Brother Adam, greetings. I am writing from the Executive Box in the Hut, it is a little inconvenient running down the ladder when I get a bite on the line but the fishing is great and Wish you were here. We on the Academic Committee of ArcticCon 2012 are pleased to announce that we have accepted your proposal for a talk and seminar, Sex Addiction: What Does it Mean to Us as Brothers of the Sacred Igloo? We have announced it on our workshop schedule and already interest is high, in fact everybody attending the conference has signed up so we might have to change the venue from somewhere inside to somewhere, well, outside. But these logistics will be worked out. Please forward the visual materials for your presentation that you said you had to the Grand Shaman c/o me, the Committee will need to preview them. Also, the Chair of the Catering Committee has requested you to source bagels for the Farewell Campfire. We will provide the butter or if not seal grease. The Chair this year is the other Gord, he has been bitching about the food for years, even saying there never is any, so now he is in charge and see how he likes it We will be in touch soon to firm up details. Hey, ha!ha! Good one if I do say so myself . ISS Gord Asst. Shaman

Stop the presses! Adam runs a search and gets a (gasp) weird result featuring lady parts art? Call the moderators! He's getting worse.

Phil, take a bow. Your cake comment is worthy of Grapes himself. Yes, Byfuglien continues to bedazzle me too. I would never have guessed Norwegian in a million years. I salute his mother for her strong attachment to her heritage. Maybe she and Dustin's father were never married. But even so, if I had been in her snowshoes, I would have named my baby (and myself) Spencer in an Oslo minute. I never changed my name legally when I got married, mainly because though everybody spells Stuart wrong on first try, they always spell Lynam wrong interminably and never can pronounce it. I am pretty good at name origins due to my job but there are always stumpers. In those cases I usually wild-guess Turkish. Mailer had to be delicate throughout the whole fugging text of Naked and the Dead.. I just remembered that, I had fuggoten about it.

This disability song is starting to sound quite "tinny" to my ear...posting this link took about five (5) mouse clicks, Ma'am... http://sports.yahoo....urn=nhl-wp10006 So sorry about your tin ear. But don't give up, you are not alone (my therapy includes Louder Singing techniques which compensate for never being on key,) Anyway you do not need perfect pitch to experience the joy of music.

Or as he's now known in some bitter African American circles, the half white guy.