For Nerd Eyes Only

Thanks for the Memory to The Jawa Report.

Ladies and gentlegeeks, I give you,

LIGHTSABRES.

New Blog Plug

Thanks for the Memory to Vultures Row.

My good friend Scott (Vulture 6) tipped me off about Blog Explosion. And while it does artificially inflate your traffic, it can be a good way of getting found, as well as FINDING good blogs. I've found a few that way, and when I get off my lazy butt, I'll post links to all of them.

In the menatime, I'll plug one that Scott found, and then told me about. I have a lot in common, it would seem, with the owner of Spreadin Understanding -- a Christian, a Conservative, a child of the Eighties, and an expectant father. Not to mention, he's an interesting read.

Go give him a look.

For Whom the Christmas Bells Toll

Thanks for the Memory to the New Yorker via Bob Hayes at Let's Try Freedom.

During my Sophomore year in College, I became fascinated by the works of Ernest Hemingway. Over time, he began to lose some of his luster -- he can be a bit predictable -- though I do still enjoy him on occasion (my favorite is the short story "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber").

So I almost died laughing when I found this old gem, recycled at Let's Try Freedom. It's a send-up of Hemingway by Thurber, and it nails Hemingway's style dead on. Enjoy:

A Visit From Saint Nicholas
As Retold by Ernest Hemingway

by James Thurber

Originally published in 1927

It was the night before Christmas. The house was very quiet. No creatures were stirring in the house. There weren’t even any mice stirring. The stockings had been hung carefully by the chimney. The children hoped that Saint Nicholas would come and fill them.

The children were in their beds. Their beds were in the room next to ours. Mamma and I were in our beds. Mamma wore a kerchief. I had my cap on. I could hear the children moving. We didn’t move. We wanted the children to think we were asleep.

“Father,” the children said.

There was no answer. He’s there, all right, they thought.

“Father,” they said, and banged on their beds.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“We have visions of sugarplums,” the children said.

“Go to sleep,” said mamma.

“We can’t sleep,” said the children. They stopped talking, but I could hear them moving. They made sounds.

“Can you sleep?” asked the children.

“No,” I said.

“You ought to sleep.”

“I know. I ought to sleep.”

“Can we have some sugarplums?”

“You can’t have any sugarplums,” said mamma.

“We just asked you.”

There was a long silence. I could hear the children moving again.

“Is Saint Nicholas asleep?” asked the children.

“No,” mamma said. “Be quiet.”

“What the hell would he be asleep tonight for?” I asked.

“He might be,” the children said.

“He isn’t,” I said.

“Let’s try to sleep,” said mamma.

The house became quiet once more. I could hear the rustling noises the children made when they moved in their beds.

Out on the lawn a clatter arose. I got out of bed and went to the window. I opened the shutters; then I threw up the sash. The moon shone on the snow. The moon gave the lustre of mid-day to objects in the snow. There was a miniature sleigh in the snow, and eight tiny reindeer. A little man was driving them. He was lively and quick. He whistled and shouted at the reindeer and called them by their names. Their names were Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen.

He told them to dash away to the top of the porch, and then he told them to dash away to the top of the wall. They did. The sleigh was full of toys.

“Who is it?” mamma asked.

“Some guy,” I said. “A little guy.”

I pulled my head in out of the window and listened. I heard the reindeer on the roof. I could hear their hoofs pawing and prancing on the roof. “Shut the window,” said mamma. I stood still and listened.

“What do you hear?”

“Reindeer,” I said. I shut the window and walked about. It was cold. Mamma sat up in the bed and looked at me.

“How would they get on the roof?” mamma asked.

“They fly.”

“Get into bed. You’ll catch cold.”

Mamma lay down in bed. I didn’t get into bed. I kept walking around.

“What do you mean, they fly?” asked mamma.

“Just fly is all.”

Mamma turned away toward the wall. She didn’t say anything.

I went out into the room where the chimney was. The little man came down the chimney and stepped into the room. He was dressed all in fur. His clothes were covered with ashes and soot from the chimney. On his back was a pack like a peddler’s pack. There were toys in it. His cheeks and nose were red and he had dimples. His eyes twinkled. His mouth was little, like a bow, and his beard was very white. Between his teeth was a stumpy pipe. The smoke from the pipe encircled his head in a wreath. He laughed and his belly shook. It shook like a bowl of red jelly. I laughed. He winked his eye, then he gave a twist to his head. He didn’t say anything.

He turned to the chimney and filled the stockings and turned away from the chimney. Laying his finger aside his nose, he gave a nod. Then he went up the chimney. I went to the chimney and looked up. I saw him get into his sleigh. He whistled at his team and the team flew away. The team flew as lightly as thistledown. The driver called out, “Merry Christmas and good night.” I went back to bed.

“What was it?” asked mamma. “Saint Nicholas?” She smiled.

“Yeah,” I said.

She sighed and turned in the bed.

“I saw him,” I said.

“Sure.”

“I did see him.”

“Sure you saw him.” She turned farther toward the wall.

“Father,” said the children.

“There you go,” mamma said. “You and your flying reindeer.”

“Go to sleep,” I said.

“Can we see Saint Nicholas when he comes?” the children asked.

“You got to be asleep,” I said. “You got to be asleep when he comes. You can’t see him unless you’re unconscious.”

“Father knows,” mamma said.

I pulled the covers over my mouth. It was warm under the covers. As I went to sleep I wondered if mamma was right.

Recycling Good Cheer

Over at Naked Villainy, the Air Marshal raises the question of re-gifting: giving as a gift something that you yourself received as a gift. He's against it, as summed up in his closing statement, "Re-gifting, to me, says 'You aren't worth my time or effort, so here you go.'"

I would argue that the appropriateness depends on the gift, the occasion, the original giver, and the new recipient. If you receive something that you just don’t like, and give it just to get rid of it, yes, that’s thoughtless. But how less thoughtless is the person who just buys gifts because they are obligated to without putting thought into what they purchase? On the other hand, some of the nicest gifts I've ever received were "used", but that word doesn't do them justice. They were items that belonged to friends, things they had received or purchased for themselves, which they enjoyed and valued, but the item reminded them of me and they knew I would value it even more highly. The item was unique or expensive enough that they could not purchase a duplicate, so they sacrificed their own for my happiness (my friends David and Brian are especially notorious for this). This seems more like a statement of "You are worth more to me than this item, so there you go."

I suppose part of my perspective comes from growing up relatively poor. We never had enough money to buy all the nicest things everyone wanted, but we put a lot of thought and effort into choosing just the right gift within our budget. Even as an adult, this rings true. The nicest gift I have received for Christmas from The Feared Redhead was also probably the least expensive, and was not new: She found a copy of BH Liddel Hart's History of the Second World War in a used bookstore for me.

Or take as an example the Air Marshal's own admission of passing on bottles of wine. If he won't drink them, and someone else will like them, why not pass them on? It's a simple gift given when attending dinner, it's not like you're one of the Magi carrying recycled Myrrh to Baby Jesu. Of course you should make sure you don't present a bottle given to you by your host or one of their other guests, but beyond that, I don't see the harm.

Ultimately, if you completely reject re-gifting, you're saying that what matters about a gift is how it was acquired. And that means that what really matters is not the giving of gifts, but the buying of them. And I reject that materialistic standard. I don't care how much of your money you spent on my gift. What I want to know is, how much love did you invest in it? The giver of the first Christmas gift invested His all, but not a single dime of money. Can't we invest a bit of ourselves without breaking the bank?

Paredes O Peralta?

Thanks for the Memory to Citizen Smash and The Jawa Report.

While Blogfather Rusty is on vacation, his guest blogger has posted this excellent bit on Marine hero Sgt. Rafael Peralta:

On the morning of November 15, 2004, the men of 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines awoke before sunrise and continued what they had been doing for seven days previously - cleansing the city of Fallujah of terrorists house by house.

At the fourth house they encountered that morning the Marines kicked in the door and "cleared" the front rooms, but then noticed a locked door off to the side that required inspection. Sgt. Rafael Peralta threw open the closed door, but behind it were three terrorists with AK-47s. Peralta was hit in the head and chest with multiple shots at close range.

Peralta's fellow Marines had to step over his body to continue the shootout with the terrorists. As the firefight raged on, a "yellow, foreign-made, oval-shaped grenade," as Lance Corporal Travis Kaemmerer described it, rolled into the room where they were all standing and came to a stop near Peralta's body.

But Sgt. Rafael Peralta wasn't dead - yet. This young immigrant of 25 years, who enlisted in the Marines when he received his green card, who volunteered for the front line duty in Fallujah, had one last act of heroism in him.

Sgt. Rafael Peralta was the polar opposite of Pablo Paredes, the Petty Officer who turned his back on his shipmates and mocked his commander in chief. Peralta was proud to serve his adopted country. In his parent's home, on his bedroom walls hung only three items - a copy of the United States Constitution, the Bill of Rights and his boot camp graduation certificate. Before he set out for Fallujah, he wrote to his 14-year old brother, "be proud of me, bro...and be proud of being an American."

Not only can Rafael's family be proud of him, but his fellow Marines are alive because of him. As Sgt. Rafael Peralta lay near death on the floor of a Fallujah terrorist hideout, he spotted the yellow grenade that had rolled next to his near-lifeless body. Once detonated, it would take out the rest of Peralta's squad. To save his fellow Marines, Peralta reached out, grabbed the grenade, and tucked it under his abdomen where it exploded.

"Most of the Marines in the house were in the immediate area of the grenade," Cpl. Kaemmerer said. "We will never forget the second chance at life that Sgt. Peralta gave us."

Unfortunately, unlike Pablo Paredes, Sgt. Rafael Peralta will get little media coverage. He is unlikely to have books written about him or movies made about his extraordinarily selfless sacrifice. But he is likely to receive the Medal of Honor. And that Medal of Honor is likely to be displayed next to the only items that hung on his bedroom wall - the Constitution, Bill of Rights and his Boot Camp graduation certificate.

It's sad to have to mention Peralta in the same breath as Paredes, whom Citizen Smash addresses in this excellent post, but their superficial similarities, their cavernous differences, and the fact that both have been adopted as heroes by different sides of the war debate respectively, makes the juxtapositioning sadly fitting as an example of the differences between the kind of character and behavior espoused by those sides.

It Could Have Been Worse

Thanks for the Memory to Robert at the Llama Butchers.

Yeah, Robert, you and me both, right down to our sentiments:

Family Secrets

Last night after I got home from work, I changed clothes quickly, The Feared Redhead and I grabbed a bite to eat, and we headed to a church just outside Eugene, to attend a Christmas cantata. The cantata was performed by a choir and orchestra composed of individuals from three churches, including the church where my aunt and uncle worship. After the cantata, we stayed to visit with my aunt and uncle for a few minutes. The central theme of the ocnversation was the fact that the church where the cantata was performed (not their church) is the church that my parents and I attended when I was but a wee lad of four. During the course of the conversation, some interesting information came to light. Apparently I have two relatives, including a direct ancestor, whom I have never met, because of a family rift. And apparently, they once lived in this very community, even though my father's family is primarily Californian.

My father's maternal grandfather, and my father's maternal uncle are at last report still alive and living in the Pasadena, California area. They have never had contact with us, in part because the grandfather's second wife wanted nothing to do with her husband's son, my paternal grandfather. But my grandfather and his still living brother did live in Eugene for awhile and in fact built three houses that still stand on Willamette street. I'll have to go look at them.

I'm not sure how I feel about this new information. My father never spoke of his great grandfather, and though I remember him mentioning his uncle, I don't recall him ever telling me they were still alive. It may have hurt him too much. My father's mother died when he was only 5, and his devastated father took to the bottle and to the road, dragging his kids up and down the west coast from one temporary job to another. He was a skilled carpenter and had a voice like an angel, from what I have heard, but alcohol destroyed him. He would go into bars on weekend nights and sing for tips, but then he'd spend it all on drinks for himself and the other patrons, and little of it ever went to help the family. It wasn't until my father was an adolescent that a family here in Oregon took him and my uncle in and gave them some semblance of a normal life. Eventually, my father attended Bible College, then served in the Navy, and became the man I still look up to today, 3 years after he left this Earth.

Ever since his death, I have been obsessed with knowing as much about him as possible. But now that I have learned something completely new, I don't know what to do with it. I'm curios to know what his grandfather and uncle are like, but I have nothing in common with them. they may as well be strangers.

Part of me wants to know more, part of me wishes I had never found out.

UPDATE:

My mother emailed me in response to this blog entry. She provided me with further insight. Some of what she wrote:

The old biddy (your grandfathers stepmother) never accepted them as part of her family and kicked your grandfather out of the house with his brother when they were 13 and I believe 9 or 10. The younger brother had some type of physical problem. I beleive it was like asthma or epilepsy - I cannot remember exactly. Needless to say, he learned how to travel from one place to another, picking up whatever job he could from an early age. I do know that he took care of his brother until he was grown. You can begin to see why he was so devastated when he lost his wife. Life had dealt him some pretty hard deals from the time he was a child.

...

The Pasadena people are your grandfathers' stepbrothers family. Your dad visited them a couple of times when he was in the navy - before we met. His only comment to me was that they looked down their nose at him and he did not want to have anything to do with them.
[Works for me too.]

The comments that were made to me were that this woman was from Old Eugene Family and that she ruled the roost. That your dad's grandfather pretty much let her decide what went on and that he did not resist when she decided to put his children out of the house. I believe that she was an Aubrey and that Aubrey Park was named after that family.

As you can see, these people, except for marriage, had no relationship with your dads family. And as far as I am concerned, could not supply you with any information that would not be pretty tainted. However, at the end of your dads life he was doing as much as he could to try to gather family information and I do not blame you for doing whatever you need to do the same.

Interesting stuff. At least, for me. But I think my mom's right, these people have nothing I want nor need, and I really don't see much use for them, knowing what I've learned.

An Open Letter to the Troops

Thanks for the Memory to Lord Spatula at The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler.

SlagleRock has fired up his second annual Christmas Letters to the Troops campaign over at his Blog, the Slaughterhouse. I think it's a great idea. Here's how it works:

If you're a blogger, write your letter to the troops as a post on your blog, then trackback to Slagle. If you don't have a blog, post your letter as a comment to Slagle's post. Keep it addressed generically to any serviceman. He'll print out all the letters and they will be delivered by a friend of Slagle's who is being deployed.

I am turning off comments for this post only. If you like this idea, then go to Slagle's and post a letter there. If you don't like the idea, well, I don't want to hear from you to begin with. The deadline is December 17, so get cracking. This post will stay at the top of my blog until that day. And now, without further ado, MY letter:

Dear U.S. Soldier, Sailor, Marine, or Airman,

I don't know whether I should begin by thanking you or by wishing you Happy Holidays, because you deserve both. It is the season to celebrate Christ's birth, and that is the reason for this special letter. But without the extreme efforts of men and women like you over the last 230 years, I would not be free to write this letter, and so thanks are equally in order.

I will not speak long of the deprivations you voluntarily suffer for the sake of my freedom, because you know them all too well and I have no way of understanding them. Instead, I will address my hopes, wishes, and above all, prayers for you.

I hope that you know you are not forgotten. I hope you realize that those who truly appreciate freedom hold nothing but honor for you in our hearts.

I wish you didn't have to be over there this season. I wish that everyone would pay you the honor you are due.

I pray for your safe return. I pray that you and yours would be blessed by God for your service.

Keep your heads down while over there, but hold them high when you return. And in the meantime, have a very Merry Christmas, a happy New Year, and a Happy Hannukah.

God Bless,

Brian B

I've Got a Job for the Rifleman

Whatever happened to the Rifleman?
I've got a job for the rifleman.
He really knew how to settle the score,
Mercy knocks on the devils door,
when I pray for peace and I revel in war,
but I always wanted a shirt like Mark wore.

- The Rifleman, a song by The Choir

Thanks for the Memory to B.C. over at the Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler.

The song I quoted above was one of my favorite Contemporary Christian Music songs back in my college days. It explored the dichotomy between the Biblical admonition to forgive our enemies and what the songwriter viewed as a cultural obsession with personal vengeance. At the time, I was contemplating becoming a Christian Pacifist, much in the same vein as most Quakers (my mother was first introduced to the Faith at a Friends Meeting House). eventually I resolved these issues by coming to an understanding that vengeance and justice were separate things, and that my response as a Christian towards those who persecute nme for my faith, and the response of the state towards that same individual did not have to be the same.

Now comes a story that really stretches my ability to delineate between personal vengeance and public justice:

Amber Alert issued after fetus removed from mother's body

(CNN) -- Missouri authorities issued an Amber Alert for an infant who may have survived after a woman was slain and a fetus removed from her body.

Bobbi Jo Stinnett, who was eight months' pregnant, was killed Thursday afternoon in her home in Skidmore in northwestern Missouri, the Nodaway County Sheriff's Department said.

The initial Amber Alert said that "the fetus was extracted from the victim."

A statement from the sheriff's department said the fetus was removed by the same "person or persons" who killed Stinnett.

Authorities said Stinnett was killed at around 3 p.m. (4 p.m. ET).

The alert said that the suspect "has blond hair and [is] possibly driving a red vehicle."

It advised people to look for bloody clothing or towels and said the infant could have health issues and would have a freshly cut umbilical cord if alive.

Authorities said that Stinnett was a white woman and the offspring also was believed to be a white female.

My heart is breaking. I mourn for the woman killed, and I pray, with what little hope is left, for the safety of the baby (that's right, I call it a baby, not just a Fetus). I also extend my condolences for the family of the victims.

But beyond that, I'm feeling emotions I don't like at all. As the husband of a pregnant woman, this his close to hime. This has me in a dark, deadly mood. Of course in theory I should say that I hope the person who did this is caught and brought to justice. But my gut-level reaction is to hope all sorts of cruel and violent retributions upon him, things I can't begin to fathom, let alone elucidate. I have a hard time even viewing such a villain as human, I question whether such an individual could possible have anything left for a soul except for some fetid, shrivelled offal. I desire retrubition, punishment and eternal damnation for such a wretch.

Yet I know that my Saviour teaches me that even such a soul is not beyond his power to redeem. I am just as separated from God without Christ, and this criminal is just as reconcilable to God with Christ.

But I can't help hating this person. I'm not that good a Christian yet. and the fact that this event makes me see that, just makes me resent the scum all the more.

Now I know what Paul meant when he called himself a wretch.

UPDATE:

The baby's been found alive(Thank God for that!), and they have suspects in custody. (Thanks for the Memory to Darth Apathy)

One Tree Too Many

Thanks for the Memory to Vonski at Ya Think So?

Remember when I complained about the naming of the Tree at Pioneer COurthouse Square? My main complaint was that by removing even a reference to "The Holidays" from the name of the tree, just for the sake of inclusiveness, it had been rendered meaningless.

Well apparently, not everyone disagrees with me. At least not in the case of Bellevue, Washington's "Giving Tree". Apparently, even THAT is too "Christian" for some:

Sidney and Jennifer Stock are atheists.

They asked the city council to remove the tree because it represents Christmas which is a Christian holiday.

Stock says city hall should "Act as a place where everybody feels welcome. It is impossible for everybody's religious belief to be displayed and non-religious belief to be displayed, so therefore, no religious beliefs be displayed."

By that reasoning, NO holiday decorations of ANY kind should be displayed, and no holiday vacations granted for public empoyees whatsoever. After all, whether it's Hannukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, or Solstice, they are all related to a specific religious belief. Without them, there's nothing special about the season, and no valid reason to decorate, celebrate, or vacate. It's just another month, right?

It still floors me that people think the only way to not exclude anybody is to exclude everybody.

Vonski raises an amusing point: "He has a problem with trees. Which, doesn’t make sense, since he lives in the PNW."

Furthermore, for once, someone in the media here in the Northwest makes some sense:

Ken Schram Commentary: The Grinch Has His Head Where?

Where Credit's Due

Lately I've become a lot less concerned about my status in the TTLB Ecosystem than I used to be. I'm aware that I've slipped from what were for me once lofty heights. But frankly, when it comes to recognition, I find myself more concerned with whether or not anyone is bothering to leave comments.

But a post today by Blogfather Rusty regarding his own status piqued my curiosity, so I went over and peeked at my status. And I learned something interesting and shameful. The blog Baldilocks, a blog of which I've been aware but not read much, is responsible for the third largest number of links TO this blog. That means she is a significant factor in what little respect I do get from the ecosystem.

And yet I've never linked her, let alone blogrolled her.

That's just not right.

And so I am doing the right thing, and doing both today. She does write well, and I should have done this for less reciprocal reasons, but for now, at least I'm making amends.

So the maybe one or two people who might have actually read this blog without ever reading her, please, help me do right by her. Go take a peek.

A Letter to Michael Moore

Thanks for the Memory to Sheep in Wolf's Clothing.

He got it from Michael Graham at radio station 630 WMAL:

Mr. Michael Moore
XXXXX
New York, NY 10XXX

Dear Mr. Moore,

No doubt about it: The American soldier has done a lot for Michael Moore.

Hundreds of thousands of them are serving right now in Afghanistan and Iraq- two wars you opposed-defending you from a terrorist threat you claim does not exist. As you frequently point out, more than 1,000 of these soldiers and Marines have died, and thousands more of them have been injured.

These soldiers have also made you quite a bit of money. The most powerful scenes in your film Fahrenheit 9/11 feature soldiers and their families, specifically those servicemen who were wounded or killed in battle. Your new book, Will They Ever Trust Us Again–a collection of letters you’ve received from members of the military who served in Iraq-will likely gross hundreds of thousands of dollars for you and your publisher.

As I said, America’s soldiers have been very good to you. Most of them don’t like you, but they’re prepared to die attempting to protect you from terrorism so that you can continue to crank out your profitable propaganda.

They’ve done all this for you. I’m writing to give you the opportunity to do something for them.

My radio station, 630 WMAL, is leading a fundraising effort o­n behalf of the Fisher Houses here in the Washington, DC area and the Fisher House Foundation. Given your obsession with the costs of the War o­n Terror, you are no doubt familiar with the magnificent work done by the Fisher House o­n behalf of wounded soldiers and their families.

These families are struggling with the emotional consequences of a battlefield injury and its treatment. Fisher House helps solve some of the short-term financial and logistical challenges for the wives, children and parents who have wounded loved o­nes receiving treatment at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Bethesda Naval Hospital or Malcolm Grow Medical at Andrews Air Force base.

The message of your books and films is that the American soldier is a victim. The soldiers I’ve spoken with at Fisher House vehemently disagree with you, as do the majority of my active-duty military listeners. However, we all agree that the soldiers who have been the victims of Iraqi terrorist violence (I think you call them “the true patriots, the Minute Men") deserve our support.

Therefore, I am writing to challenge you to give back just a small portion of the money you have earned as a critic of their mission. Your film Fahrenheit 9/11 has grossed around $150 million. Our entire goal for the Fisher House this holiday season is a tiny percentage of that amount.

Though I am a confirmed right-winger, I believe there should be no partisan divide when it comes to standing by our troops. My fellow WMAL employees and I are dedicating our time, efforts and money to that proposition. The question, Mr. Moore, is whether or not you will do the same.

Many Americans feel that you have exploited the injuries of our soldiers for partisan purposes but have no real concern for them or their families. o­n behalf of the Fisher House, I would be thrilled to receive your generous donation as evidence that we are wrong.

If you feel, however, that the money can be better spent o­n yet another trip to France, nobody will be surprised.

You can send your check made out to the Fisher House Foundation, care of 630 WMAL, 4400 Jenifer Street NW, Washington, DC 20015.

Thank you for your time.

Michael Graham
630 WMAL
Washington, DC

Don't hold your breath waiting for a reply.

Uff Da!

Thanks for the Memory to The King of Fools.

Apparently, thanks to Minnesota's Democratic Electoral College Representatives, John Kerry will lose by a slightly bigger electoral margin than was anticipated:


Vote for Edwards instead of Kerry shocks Minnesota electors
Dane Smith, Star Tribune
December 14, 2004

Voting irregularities were few in Minnesota this year -- until it really counted.

Defeated Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry likely is going to get one less electoral vote nationally than he should have -- 251 instead of 252 -- because of an apparent mistake Monday by one of Minnesota's 10 DFL electors.

One of the 10 handwritten ballots cast for president carried the name of vice presidential candidate John Edwards (actually spelled "Ewards" on the ballot) rather than Kerry.

"I was shocked ... this will go in the history books," said Secretary of State Mary Kiffmeyer, who presided over a ceremony that normally is uneventful.

Kiffmeyer said she was unaware of any other such apparent mistake in Minnesota, although there have been cases in other states of "faithless electors" casting ballots for candidates other than those to which they were committed.

There was stunned silence after the announcement that Edwards had gotten a vote for president, but none of the 10 electors volunteered that they voted for Edwards as a protest, nor did anyone step forward to admit an error[Let's be frank -- would you admit it if you had made that mistake?].

"It was perhaps a senior moment," said elector Michael Meuers, 60, a Bemidji marketing consultant for a health care firm, the second-youngest member of the Minnesota delegation to the Electoral College.

Meuers said he was certain that the Edwards ballot wasn't his, but he noted that "both the candidates were named John, and the ballots looked pretty much alike."

This year's DFL Party electors were typical -- senior party activists typically chosen for their long years of service. They ranged in age from 52 to 83.

"These are not paid political professionals," said Bill Amberg, the DFL Party's communications director. "It was clear that everybody thought they had voted for Kerry, and all 10 of these folks were for Kerry during the pre-nomination period. There is no sign of protest."

Kiffmeyer, a Republican and the state's chief election official, said that there apparently is nothing that can be done once the secret ballots are cast.

"It's not that important, since we're not at a 269-to-269 tie in the electoral vote,"[Thank God. Imagine the uproar if that had happened. Not to speak of every lawsuit in every red state in the country, this would be one more think for the left to grab onto for dear life.] said DFL Party Chair Mike Erlandson. "This isn't the biggest story in America today. It's the recount in Ohio [the crucial battleground state that helped carry the nation for President Bush] and the questions that so many people have over voting machines."[The voting machines that have been proven mathematically inconsequential even if they WERE truly suspect instead of just a ruse? Nice try.]

Minnesota's electors typically cast their votes in the Governor's Reception Room at the State Capitol, and Republican Gov. Tim Pawlenty and Kiffmeyer appeared with them in the morning to thank them for their services.

Several of them acknowledged that their duty was perhaps an archaic formality but that it was nevertheless a significant and solemn step in the process.

"It's the symbolism of it, the fact that I am now representing the entire 4th Congressional District and the will of its majority," said elector Matthew Little of Maplewood, an 83-year-old activist and a longtime Minnesota civil rights leader.

Little, born and reared in North Carolina, came to Minnesota in 1948, the year Minneapolis Mayor Hubert Humphrey, then running for the U.S. Senate, delivered a historic civil rights speech at the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia. Little later became the top official of the Minnesota NAACP.

Although the electors expressed regret that Kerry did not win nationally, most of them also said they took pleasure in casting the votes that keep Minnesota in the Democratic column for the eighth straight presidential election, the longest Democratic streak of any state.

The Feared Redhead is a Minnesotan. You can bet she won't hear the end of this. :-)

Blog Problems

I've had some feedback that my blog isn't showing right, but it looks fine when I view it. Can anyone describe the issues they're encountering or email me a screen shot of the problem? Thanks!

That's Not Very Knife!

Thanks for the Memory to Darth Apathy.

Vic refers us to his friend Nicki over at Armed Females of America, who writes an excellent and scathing critique of British attempts to reduce violent crime by banning knives.

That's right, knives.

First, guns.

Then, knives.

Has it ever occurred to them that the problem is not the availability of weapons, but the predisposition of certain individuals to commit violent acts with whatever's at hand? Anything hard or sharp can be a weapon in the hands of the wrong person.

Oops, I'd better keep quiet, or soon they'll be banning anything harder than a habit or sharper than cheddar cheese.

Ow

I'm currently sporting a Butt-kicker of a headache. It's exacerbated by two things: I'm trying to cut back on caffeine, and I'm jonesing a bit, and I currently have a missing filling that hurts like a %&%^*^%#. I wonder if these might also explain my inability to post much worth reading lately. But The Feared Redhead has finally managed to badger me into printing out Dentists' phone numbers. The only thing I fear more than that Dentists drill (to me it combines the soothing sounds of nails on a chalkboard with the gentle tickle of a Bowie knife being shoved into my jaw) is her wrath. So hopefully soon I'll be fix... er.... healed.

Quote of the Week

Mild he lay his Glory by,
Born that men no more may die.
Born to raise the Sons of Earth,
Born to give us Second Birth!

- Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

Oregon Rain

Man, it's really coming down out there. I mean, the kind of rain someone from the coast would be used to. Kinda makes me wish I could be out in it.

I'm Not Swallowing It

I'm a huge fan of the Food Network. I especially love watching Good Eats with Alton Brown. I also enjoy Unwrapped, which is an educational program to watch if you're interested in regional cuisines.

But lately Unwrapped has been repeating a meme that I have to address. They keep repeating the claim that there are only three fruits native to North America: Cranberries, Concord Grapes, and Blueberries.

Now, as it happens, Oregon is a state where you will find two of these, the berries, and is in fact a major source of them. Most of the time, however, when Unwrapped makes reference to them, you'll be watching a section of the show on New England. And the people in New England being interviewed are even quicker to point out this "Only Native" claim, since all three fruit are native to that region.

But here's the interesting thing. That claim of those three being the only fruit native to North America?


NOT TRUE:

They are overlooking at least three berries, all native to the Pacific Northwest, all edible:

Oregon Grape

Salal Berries

Salmonberries

Oregon grape is, unsurprisingly, the State Plant of Oregon. Salmonberries are the same shape as a blackberry or raspberry, but their color makes them look just like a cluster of salmon eggs. Salal berries were a chief staple of the diets of coastal Native Americans in Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.

All three are native.

Next on Unwrapped: Recipes for crow.

Ironically Enough....

Right after posting on my concerns about flooding, I feel compelled to post an apology for the Blogging Dry Spell. I just haven't had any inspiration lately. I still care avbout political matters, but haven't had much of a chance to follow them, between work, holiday preparations, and baby preparations. The Feared Redhead's condition hasn't improved or deteriorated, and we haven't passed any prepartum milestones, so there's nothing to report there. There's always plenty about my beloved home state upon which I could blog, but I'm at a loss to pick a specific theme. I supposed something on the holidays would be in order. I'll think of something. I promise I haven't forgot my loyal readers (EITHER of you)!