The Dreamstone, C.J. Cherryh

The Tree of Swords and Jewels, C.J. Cherryh

Darwin’s Radio, Greg Bear

Post-Mortem, Patricia D. Cornwell

Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig, Jonathan Eig

The Oxford Dictionary of Popes, J.N.D. Kelly

Old Man’s War, John Scalzi

The Damnation Game, Clive Barker

The Fight in the Fields: Cesar Chavez and the Farmworkers Movement, Susan Ferris & Ricardo Sandoval

The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror 2006, ed. Ellen Datlow and Kelly Link & Gavin J. Grant

“What the fuck’s wrong with people?”

Drag dogs down sidewalk

They mourn dropped dirty diaper

Thirty years ago AC/DC used a set of bagpipes in one of their songs. That accomplished, they promptly ditched innovation with grim resolve, such that listening for the first time to their new album, Black Ice, I just now found myself asking, “Is that a freakin’slide guitar?” And answering, “Yes. Yes it is.”

Because I get irritated by all the anti-mark-to-market bloviating going on, here is an apposite observation by Pierce Scranton, Chief of Staff to the President’s Council of Economic Advisors (feel free to discount any and all of his opinions if you: (a) hate advisors, (b) hate chiefs of staff, (c) hate the gubmint, (d) hate the President, (e) hate economics):

But our fear is that by suspending mark-to-market, you are masking the problem. What matters for financial institutions right now is their liquidity positions. If they are unable to make good on something that requires near term liquidity, and they are relying on something they can’t sell in the market as collateral, that just masks their problem. Mark-to-market granted has some merits. So does the SEC saying we’re going to give you some time. The bill provides for a study and report on mark-to-market. If suspending mark-to-market would be effective, that authority is included in the legislation. The last thing we want to do when there is a lack of confidence in financial institutions is to prove an accounting mechanism for them to say “We’re just fine.” The market is going to see right through that, which would breed more distrust. [my emphasis]

I think over the next ten years, the revenue the government will make on the “bail-out” will have a significant effect on reducing the deficit and national debt.  It’ll be an indirect taxation of foolish institutional financial gambles, and the citizen who will therefore avoid (partially) the massive tax increase that must come some day, due to our massive national debt, will be thankful.

I’ve never gotten so many calls from worried investment bankers and money fund managers as I have this morning.  Every one wants to alleviate any worries I might have about their products’ exposures to current market turmoil.  Without getting into details, we’re not holding any positions that would cause me any worries, but I appreciate the calls.  Actually, the only worries I have is that these people must be under bad pressure and stress.  My propensity to make jokes to ease their strain has me wanting to josh them about not stepping out on their window ledges, but apparently I do indeed possess an untapped reservoir of self-restraint, as well as a few brain cells that recognize utter inappropriateness when they encounter it.  Who knew?

Chevy Chase is hoping some fellow comedian will decimate Sarah Palin, who has apparently insulted his sense of proper gender roles:

“I want her to decimate this woman. This woman is, I can’t believe there hasn’t been more about it. … It’s just unbelievable to me this woman is actually running for vice president,” he continued.

Any fool is entitled to their political opinion, but let us recall that this is the same fool who said of Bill Murray’s brilliant turn in Lost in Translation that “I thought Billy’s acting was restrained. I thought it was too controlled.”  What a witless aperçu.

AC/DC is coming out with a new album next month.  The release date is the day before my birthday, which would seem significant if I really thought the world revolved around me.  However, as proof that it doesn’t, it appears from the concert dates posted online that the band will not be stopping in Portland in the forthcoming tour.  I feel spurned. 

Perhaps I shouldn’t.  I think that for the last album they passed Portland by in the first leg of the tour, but came through on the second.  I hope that is the case; they may be hecka old but they put on a great show, despite its being as predictable as last year’s underpants.

The vice-presidential candidate of one party is six years older than I, and the presidential candidate of the other party only nine years older.  Either I am getting old or our political system is overwhelmed by the fresh groovy waves of youth.  Obviously the only thing to do is to declare my own intention to run for the supreme office of the land.  My platform will be built on cedar planks of crank Constitutionalism, advocacy of a new Platinum Standard, the abolishment of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the banning of Big Pants on kids, legalization of all drugs except pot, the perversion of community norms and the normalization of relations with Canada.

But no, it is not to be.  I have already promised to write in Mrs The Fyd’s name on my ballot.  And never let it be said that my vote is lightly promised or foolishly cast.

I was just in a meeting that began with my observation that the rain outside was falling almost perfectly sideways.  Perhaps that effect was exaggerated by us being on the eleventh floor, but whereas in December horizontal rain is not so welcome and would solicit suicidal groans from my co-workers, after the miserable heat of last weekend it is heavenly.  The only problem with this relief, as Mrs The Fyd has pointed out, is the resulting wet dog phenomenon.

Speaking of dogs, yesterday on our evening walk as we went up Yamhill, past the Catholic church, a couple were bicycling down the street.  The woman of the pair looked over Boris and Vinnie, and as if in answer to her companion said, “Not as pretty as ours.”  Oh sister, oh no you di’nt.

Saturday late afternoon, boarding the line 15 bus at 34th and Belmont.  I hear a woman ahead of me snarl at the bus driver, “Can you explain why you’re over an hour late?”  The driver looks bewildered, says he is right on time.  I follow this unpleasant woman down the aisle, giving the back of her head the stinkeye, because I know she is full of it.  A half-hour before I had disembarked from the previous 15 that stopped at that intersection, went to run an errand nearby, than walked back to the busstop to get on this bus which arrived as scheduled, lo at half-hour intervals that time of day.

Four blocks and two stops later, she gets off the bus.  So perhaps she was deranged by the excessive heat of the weekend and imagined she waited over an hour just to ride four blocks.  I’m sure she complained all evening about the tardy driver.  I don’t want to judge, since in all likelihood that she has physical and/or mental disabilities, but monkey-on-mercury crazy is what you get on the bus in the many hours of the day when taxpayers are not commuting to work.