Moving webhost.  New info is propagating throughout the internet and DNS databases are seeking equilibrium.  Magic.  If you can't see this, you won't know why.  If you can see this, you have no need to know.

A giant bamboo dildo used in the sexual assault of a woman is a weapon, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled Tuesday.

I hate to seem prudish, but how can this even be debatable?  How is it that the appeals court, which reduced the man's sentence, was able to say that the baseball bat-sized instrument used in the sexual assault was not a weapon?  Is there some sort of sick sexism going on here?  Was the thing NOT a weapon because it was NOT used against a man?  Was it not a weapon because it was used by a man in a sexual assault against a woman?  Was the blushing, bashful Appeals Court so embarrased by the way it was used, or so uncomfortable about the term used for it—dildo—that that they actually chose not to look at it in the cold light of reality? 

The appeals court opinion which revised the original sentence should have been titled, How to Commit Assault with a Giant Bamboo Stick, and Get Off with a Dildo.

In an effort to prevent my precocious little computer from overwriting my published blog with my local test copy, which looks crappy (I mirror this site on my local hard drive, sort of), I deleted the test copy.  During its routine FTP session sometime around 5:00 AM this morning, my machine noted the local deletion of blog.htm, and dutifully deleted it from my web server.  Thank God (and Ev) for the miracle of blogger.  All is back to normal. 

The only problem with the world is people.  ;)

This isn't true, either.  It's not even troubling.  In the least.

I think JFK, Jr. died accidentally, too, even if they did send a Navy task force to recover the evidence.  Of course Teddy did publicly ask for the Navy's help, but then Teddy is a broken man, living on someone else's permission, surviving his brothers by some fiendish fiat.

I don't trust this government as far as I can throw a battleship.  Sorry, but it's true.

I thought this immediately when I heard that the former vice-chairman of Enron had supposedly committed suicide; that people in power are corrupted, that any appearance in them of high-minded enlightenment can reliably be attributed to the success of their deceptive skills, and that Vince Foster didn't commit suicide either.  This does not smack of the kind of high-salaried journalism we have learned to trust, and that is precisely why I am more apt to trust it.  If the journalist has 'access', I want to know why.  I am suspicious if he lives comfortably and fits seamlessly into the media matrix that is the perception management industry.  On the other hand, if the writer has naught for sources but the working poor, and the unknown commoner, then that writer's words are the ones I want to read. 

Journalism has joined the World Wrestling Federation in its contempt for truth.  The most successful newspeople have learned what needs to be presented as truth, and participate fully in the deathwork of doublespeak, and they get their mansion in Georgetown.  The truth is not there, as if you need to be told.  But it really is so much easier to believe it, and participate too...  I mean, what the hell, what does the truth really matter—isn't it all relative anyway?  Wouldn't you prefer a Camry rather than a bus pass?  Isn't it nicer to be standing in front of a Jenn-Air rather than standing in a line at a soup-kitchen? 

I really hope that whatever we have lost in our acquisition of comfort isn't killing something vital in our soul.  I've heard no news to that effect, and so I fear it is probably true.

Step back and take a look at who we are.  It will only take a minute, but it is worth its weight in days. 

I want to write like this.  Or maybe I just want to have a life to write about.&nbs.  Some desperate smash-the-mug romantic rage accompanied by some discouragement at work and some genuine, tangible toilet-overflows, can't-pay-the-bills depression—mmmm, that would be living!  Instead...

The Major Deity visits me at work last night, while I am pining over the memories of boys who once I worshipped, and He stands there, budda-like with his chubby hands folded across the dome of his belly, gazing at me with a grinning expression that says, "I know there is something you want.  Just ask me.".  MD and I have played this game before.  He is going to trick me again—he is a tireless trickster—but I must be in a teachable moment and he is, if nothing else, all about love and compassion, so I allow the trick to proceed.

"I want you to send me a young man who will love me.".  I know from past experience that I should be more specific, such a generalized request will get me into trouble with the Major Deity.  But things at work are, just then, rather frantic, and there is no time to polish my legalese before submitting my request.  I am sure I included the concept of 'cute' as a descriptor in my psychic communication with MD, and I may even have asked that the boy-gift only want me instead of love me.  Love is not actually on the menu at this stage, that would be like a restauranteur presenting Gas and Indigestion as an a la carte item.  It comes later, if at all. 

Then, the admission of my desire obtained, the Major Deity smiled—no, he grinned, a little too much—and went away.  Now cut away to a cold black night as I pump my bicycle up the hill to the doorway of my house.  There is no one in sight except the dark outlines of two men walking down the hill toward my house.  I fantasize that one is perhaps an enemy who wants to kill me, perhaps it is Bernard (another story).  I manufacture a need to get my bike and me through the door quickly and away from this threat which, while it isn't really lethal, it is worse.  They threaten to socialize.  iyeee! 

They are a late-thirty-something man, and an early-twenty-something boy, very early twenty, he could even have been very late teens.  From some elsewhere heaven, MD watches with glee.  They are now on my side of the street.  They are looking at me.  I am fumbling at the door like a damsel squirming helplessly on railroad tracks.  Now they have turned onto the little walk that leads to my door, to me!  Before I am able to flee through the front door, I can feel the 19-ish boy close behind me.  He stares at me, transfixed I'd like to think.  I am about to let go of the first door as I wrestle my bike through the second of my building's double doors.  I have to say, "Got the door?  He wakes. 

The obligatory next line is, He is beautiful.  Major Deity has played this trick on me so many times, that that line is getting worn out.  Alas, it is true.  Sparkling dark eyes, perfect black hair with a glisten of gel, fine eyebrows and long lashes, and fascinating lips, not pouty at all, but pink—and waiting.  He watches me intently.  I think I looked at the thirty-something man, but I can't recall if he even had a head.  The man was a present non-entity as the boy watched me.  The man is aparently my downstairs neighbor, although I thought my downstairs neighbor was a young handsome blonde.  I saw the blonde once when he brought his departing guests to the door as I was entering, again, with my bike.  The blonde had smiled a remarkably disarming smile at me that left me much like I am now, pondering what could have been.  And now I wonder where this thirty-something neighbor gets his friends. 

With a look of hopeful innocence, the 19-ish beauty stood at my neighbor's doorway after my neighbor had disappeared within, and watched the whole while as I ascended the stairs out of sight.  I could have smiled.  I could have winked.  I could have gestured for him to follow me, neighbor be damned.  When I got into my apartment, I turned to the Major Deity just in time to see Him glance away.  He had a smug look.