One of my favorite pictures from college.

Chris Carter, the not X-files one.

The doing energy-independence one.

His site is here.

The camera jockey is Your Humble.

I was thinking about high school in the mid-seventies. We lived in a largely agricultural county, and it was not unusual for someone to have their shotgun or .22 in their truck. Many boys had a pocket knife on hand. This said, I do not recall a single instance of kids, white or black, being gunned down in the hall, or of someone being found stabbed to death in a bathroom stall. Ours was a very integrated school, yet there were no loud arguments with shoving and fisticuffs in the commons; certainly, no-one was bludgeoned to death with railroad ties.

Just thinking out loud, here.

So, then, each American man, woman and child owes $343,000 plus. This is what OTHER PEOPLE have charged to your account by making promises that will buy them votes and international prizes. Money that is wrested from you like armed robbery. Money YOUR REPRESENTATIVES have spent for you without asking...not only without asking, but in utter defiance of your stated will, and doing "the politically brave thing". Representatives who do not represent.

I suggest it is time to default.

The Loen and I are in Huntington, WV at TsubasaCon, which is surpassing itself. The kids are wild about our shirty goodness. We are both fighting the Deplorable Microbe. Not the Flu de Cochon, but the standard It's Fall, So Let's Fill Their Lungs With Crud bug. Meh. On the plus side, we have outdone the two previous years, sales-wise.

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"L--so people with bad posture can cosplay"

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I am unimpressed with UNO, the Chicago-style eatery at Pullman Station here. We were inveigled into going there with the promise of a Reuben and Fries combo for six dollars ninety-nine. We ordered beverages, and I ordered a seasonal brew (Shipyard, a Canadian ale), which would have served as a handy muscle-relaxant for various ills, as well as being tasty. Our waiter came back - I'll call him Chad, because he seems like a Chad - and told me "We don't have the things to make a Shapiro.", which is waiter-speak for "There is no such drink, you idiot.".

I would think a Shapiro could be made with Mogen David wine, with a pickled beet garnish.

I pointed out that what I wanted was a Shipyard ale. He trotted off to acquire one, and then returned to inform us that they could not get it in this region. This item in their full-color, printed, laminated seasonal chain-wide menu. I sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, and ordered iced tea. He brought the tea, and I inquired as to the Reuben combo, which was on the sign out front, enticing the unwary to enter.

Chad, who will likely make it big in middle-management, said, "We don't have the lunch specials on weekends.".

I asked him to go away while we figured out a different approach, whereupon I was seized with a heat rising from the back of my neck to the back of my head, and a fury in the front of my head. I maintained an outward control, but I wanted to break something. Chad allowed my to stew awhile, then walked back to take our order, which was "Let us pay for our drinks. We want to go.". He seemed surprised, but said no charge for the tea.

We left, walked two doors down, when I stopped and walked back to UNO's door. I reached for the handle, then decided not to go in. I was steaming, and no good would come of it. I stalked back to Loen, and we walked three or four blocks to Wendy's. Yum.

I muttered a lot.

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We have beaten last year's total, and we still have a day to go. I hope that we feel better. This bug is no fun, and I am ready to be rid of it. I particularly despise the locomotive cough that barrels up the bronchii, through the throat, part goes on a siding out of your mouth, with the rest smashing painfully in your forehead. If Nyquil doesn't do the job, then we may pack up early. I would rather stay to the end, what with the money-making and all, but I do not want to drive seven hours home in the middle of he night feeling like we do.

I find this poem apropos, given the crop we have in Washington.

Elegy in a Country Churchyard

THE men that worked for England

They have their graves at home:

And birds and bees of England

About the cross can roam.

But they that fought for England,

Following a falling star,

Alas, alas for England

They have their graves afar.

And they that rule in England,

In stately conclave met,

Alas, alas for England

They have no graves as yet.

G. K. Chesterton