My first foray into the wilds of Virginia is behind me, and I have a tobacco-stained map to show for it. That, and a pile of home-grown tomatoes, some marvelous mental pictures of the Blue Ridge Mountains (next time: bring a camera), and some very fond memories of the farmhouse at Goose Creek.
Fred gave excellent directions. My only trouble came when I saw a sign that I thought I was supposed to follow. I turned around and was heading in the wrong direction when I met another area resident going the opposite way, an elderly gentleman who stopped his car in the road. I thought it would be rude for me to keep driving, so I stopped mine and rolled the window down. "Need any help?" he asked. I told him I thought I was going in the right direction, but wasn't sure, and wound up turning around on the narrow, two-lane road and following him to the curve, where we parked in a cutout and he peered at the map Fred had made me, occasionally spitting tobacco juice and dripping a drop or two on the map, graciously wiping off the drops with his thumb. He explained that the reason he'd stopped was because he thought I was a friend of his who drove the same color Jeep, and he wanted to tell her he wasn't home. I did not question that logic, although Fred and Susanna did when I told them the story. I got away after about ten minutes, and at the old man's insistence, I went back the way he said ("Folly th' crick, go past the glassblower's house, and you oughta run raht into where you want to go") and did find the right road. Which was a single-lane, gravel-covered road that made me wonder what the hell I was supposed to do if I ran into a car driving the opposite way. Fred and Susanna both told me that someone would have to back up to one of the wide places in the road. "What wide places?" I asked. (As a matter of fact, on the way home I nearly ran into a moron who was driving far too fast around the curving road, and it actually was wide enough for the both of us to get by. Once he stopped almost running into me, that is.)
Anyway. When I was in high school, they made us take square dancing in gym class, and one of the songs I've never forgotten is "The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia." (The next line is "On the trail of the lonesome pine," but I didn't see any lonesome pines, unless you count the two little bitty ones in the middle of the trail at Fred's place, but Ann said they were white pines, not lonesome pines, unless maybe they're trying to fool this city girl by mislabeling trees and seeing if I catch them. Hey. I know oaks from maples, and both from pines, and I can tell a willow at a thousand yards, but except for those and poplar and birches and hickory and chestnut and cherry trees, I don't know from trees at all.) The Blue Ridge Mountains are gorgeous. I haven't been around mountains in ages, and we really don't have very high mountains in NJ, so this was a real treat for me. I was smiling and trying not to drive off the road as I peered to the left and right at the peaks and valleys. (Coming home today was wonderful; one of the mountains was right in front of the road for several minutes, and you just seemed to be driving right up to the foot of the mountain.)
It was a lovely, but short, weekend for me. I have to teach my kids tomorrow, and Heidi's housewarming was this afternoon, so I arrived about 2 p.m. Friday and left about noon today. Susanna showed up about five minutes after I did, and we spent a pleasant afternoon chatting with Fred and walking around his property. Then Ann came home, the chatting continued until it was time to make dinner, and then through dinner preparations (I promised to make latkes and Susanna promised to make her fried corn, which we did, and Fred grilled some steaks). Then we talked some more through dinner, then some more after dinner, and I hit the sack about the same time the Firsts did, around ten p.m. (By which time, I'll have you know, Susanna had checked her blog stats at least half a dozen times. I checked mine only once, and decided I was too tired and having too much fun to post.) We were expecting rain, Fred said, which would be quite a treat to hear pattering on the metal roof of the house.
As I lay in bed listening to the crickets, which were extremely loud through the open windows, I was thinking, "Gee, this is nice. Wow, those cricket are loud. Too bad it's too cloudy out to see the stars." Lying there falling asleep to the sound of crickets, I suddenly heard the clacking of the keyboard. Yep, it was Susanna. I fell asleep to the sounds of modern technology singing along with the crickets.
About an hour later, I woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the metal roof. (Did I mention I'm a very light sleeper? I have extraordinarily good hearing; it makes for a tough time sleeping sometimes.) I lay there for a while listening to the unfamiliar sound, thinking I could probably easily fall asleep to that once I got used to it. But then the unmistakable sound of snoring rose to the foreground, and I said the hell with it and got out my earplugs. (Never leave the house without 'em. Well, if I'm going to be sleeping anywhere but home, that is.) [Propriety dictates that I not reveal the author of the snores. You shall simply have to treat it as a mystery.]
I was the last one up, at 7:40. (Freaks.) I was up so early (for me) that I was showered, dressed, and had had breakfast before the sun came over the ridge at nine. (Freaks.) On a Saturday. (Did I remember to say "Freaks"?)
Anyway. I'd best stop now. I have some lesson plans to finish, and I have be in the classroom by 8:45 tomorrow morning. (Freak.) On a Sunday. (Freak.)
I had a wonderful time, the Firsts are lovely people and generous hosts, and I want to go back. I'm almost tempted to want to be there in the snow. Almost. permalink
I'm off to Goose Creek early this a.m. In the meantime, check out Lynn B.'s In Context, where, as promised, she's responding to the discussion about the differences between anti-Semitism and criticism of Israel.
Tune in to her blog tomorrow (hopefully) for an even better post on the subject. Oh, and check out this one for the Montreal Muslim News. It's all about how the police attacked the poor, peaceful rioters at Concordia College. Wow. And they wonder why we don't ever take their words at face value.
Moe Freedman emailed me the address to a page that's covering the University of Michigan's anti-Israel divestment conference. There are a lot of informative linkscheck it out. Pay particular attention to the this one. It's a doozy. I think I may now be on their war criminal list. Well, at least I'd be in good company.
You know, people may say I'm exaggerating (and I'm sure they will), but I've been reading a few fiction and non-fiction books about the late 1930s, and I have to say, I'm seeing some pretty disturbing echoes today.
There are two essays in the pot, simmering their way out. One is titled "Why they hate us," and the other is called, "An isolated incident." I'm going to try to get them both finished within the next week or so. (And I'm posting this to push myself toward that.)
I'll be posting from Goose Creek sometime tomorrow night, after Susanna Cornett and Fred and his wife and I have had what's looking to be one hell of a great dinner. Tell y'all about it tomorrow. (Practicing for Susanna.) permalink
Gracie seems fine. I was out for a few hours this afternoon; she met me on the stairs as I came in the door, demanding tunafish. Then a few minutes later, I called her to see if she wanted to go outside, and a meow turned into a yawn as she got up. Yeah, I think she's all right. I'll grab her and shove a pill down her throat tomorrow morning, and not worry while I'm gone.
So besides my Virginia driver's license and registration and license plates, I picked up a Henrico County library card this afternoon, as I wanted to get some audiobooks for the long trip. I think I chose the right one: "John Adams," all 21 tapes' worth. (Well, that and the first Lemony Snicket book. Long story, tell you another time.) I like their policy. I can return the books/tapes to any county library, regardless of where I took them out. I can reserve and renew online, order a book online and have it delivered to any library I tell them to, and by the way, the county is full of pretty wealthy people, so their library system is superb. I think I want to move to Virginia. Oh, wait. Already did that.
I wanted to write something funny this morning, and I have two pieces that have been written and are supposed to be amusing, and they're not amusing me.
Of course, it's quite likely that the desire to amuse has been thrown from my mind by the sound of Gracie having an asthma attack ten minutes ago. I'm going away tomorrow morning for about a day and a half, and the last thing I need to worry about is her asthma returning when I'm not here to give her her pills. Or determine whether or not she needs a shot to make it go away. (I know, I should put this in Cattales, but here it stays. Cat haters may jump to the next post.)
I just dosed the both of them with the militarily (and stupidly) named "Frontline," a tick and flea oil that you put on their skin between the shoulder blades, which caused Gracie great distress, which makes me hope that it was a combination of stress and the medicinal smell that is perhaps triggering the asthma. I did have to pull her out from under the bed, after all. She's so effing smart. Tig had no idea what the tube was. Gracie saw it in my hand and ran, having remembered it from last year. Last year. This is why I have to plan giving her medication the way a general plans on inserting his troops behind enemy lines for the first stage of an attack. I must be secret, and silent, and unpredictable. I must be fast and prepared for anything.
Now, if I hear so much as a chirrup from Tig, I look quickly around until I can locate Gracie and make sure she's breathing. I gave her one pill, and it's worked so far. I always need to gauge whether or not a trip to the vet may be necessary, or if the Prednosone will be enough. I've had to learn how to diagnose her degree of illness, and figure out if I can conquer the attack with a few extra pills instead of a shot.
They have quite a pull on us, our pets. I sat with her for an hour and a half while she stayed in an oxygen-enriched incubator the day she was diagnosed with asthma, trying to recover from the seizure she had at the vet's office that nearly killed her. While she struggled to breathe, I'd say from time to time, "Who's my girl?," a phrase of affection that she recognizes, and she would knead her front paws, panting. (We have quite a pull on them, too.) By the end of the hour and a half, her tongue was no longer hanging out and her sides had stopped heaving, and we began our long path down the asthma treatment roadlearning our planning and avoidance dance.
I've been quite spoiled here in Richmond. There is no carpeting in my apartment, only hardwood floors. I believe it's had a positive effect on Gracie. Her asthma has been greatly reduced. I thought it was gone for good. She had a couple of attacks the first week we were here, but none since, and I've been able to reduce her medicine significantly. I'd really hoped it was gone for good. Until today, she hasn't had a pill in about a month. But it seems she is doomed to be on steroids the rest of her life, which means that the steroids will probably shorten her life. Better that, though, than to suffocate and seize and die.
She is on the ledge of the living room picture window, a ledge long enough to hold half a dozen cats lying down. It faces east, and is her favorite morning spot. I never noticed she had strands of white fur on the backs of her ears until we moved here. I love looking at her silhouette on the blinds.
Gracie hasn't coughed at all in nearly an hour. I think we made it through another one. permalink
I know I did this just a little while ago, but this one is too precious to pass up. I dunno, though, it feels a bit flat. I think it needs more salt or something.
(Oh, that's gonna get some interesting pr0n searches. Update: It did. I changed the title.)
Silent Running is taking a couple of of shots at New Jersey. Well, one at NJ politicians (hey, the Repubs are crooks too, trust me on that one!), and one at a former New Jerseyan (that's me). Listen, just because I dumped the guy doesn't give him the right to call me a loose woman.
I still have his email response to my proposal: "Sure - lord knows I'm not getting any action here in Australia! :-)"
Seems to me that any man who still got to be considered my fiancé after a lame answer like that shouldn't be complaining about anything. Hey, I got an email from another interested party who said he'd do my housework for me since I was obviously already spoken for. I should pick him and dump Bruce completely from the list. Ingrate.
No, wait, I know. I'll wait until I see him in NJ, then I'll call Immigration and tell them I think he's part of a sleeper terrorist cell. That'd be fun. (You so don't want to mess with me, sweetums.) permalink
Floyd McWilliams sent me to a Flash site of this hilarious song, "Gilligan's Island (Stairway)," which is the theme to Gilligan's Island set to "Stairway to Heaven." You're right, Floyd, I can stop swearing and start giggling every time I hear "Stairway" now.
Donald M. tells me that Mark Steyn is already married. Sigh. All of the good ones are taken.
Dan H. has a lot to say about my post on the New York Times' inability to call a riot a riot:
1) I used the word "little" as a sarcastic preface to "fracas" because the Times' minimization of the riot deserves to be scorned. And, uh, Danthis is my weblog. It consists of commentary which I base on facts, not news reporting. (Unlike the Times, which is supposed to be news reporting, and yet seems unable to call a spade a spade.)
2) A quarrel or brawl consists of a fight between at least two people or, in this case, two different sides. Canadian Jews were trying to get in the building to hear Netanyahu speak, and being punched, kicked, spat upon, and screamed at. Where in any dictionary on the face of the earth does that constitute a "quarrel" or "brawl"? That is in no way an appropriate way to describe what happened at Concordia College. Which leads us directly into:
3) That was my editorial remark about how the incident was not in any way a "fracas." It was an anti-Jewish riot, where Palestinian protestors threw stones and trash cans, broke windows, attacked police and would-be audience members, including a 72-year-old Holocaust survivor who, I'm sure, must have seemed incredibly threatening to the protesters. (That was sarcasm. It is a tool I use to make fun of people and incidents.) When I wrote that line, it was to indicate that the Jewish would-be audience members did nothing other than try to get to their seats in an auditorium to hear Benjamin Netanyahu. For that, they were punched, kicked, spat upon, screamed at, pushed around, and generally terrorized. Not one article so much as hinted that an audience member threw a punch in return. Not one.
With that point of view, you could work for the Times yourself, Dan. Or you could get a new prescription for those glasses so you can actually see what's going on.
A reader who will only allow me to attribute this to a Florida political operative, or a member of the Chicago Daley machine (but who really likes this website), sent this:
Nice to see that my readers are looking out for my best interests. "I think you won't go to jail if you use this excuse." Well, I'm getting my VA license and tags today, so I'll register to vote here, thanks.
Until I followed the link, I thought Jay was seriously asking me what I thought about the Kashmir situation. (Oh, God, no, not another one who thinks I actually pay attention to current events instead of making all this shit up....)
Check it out. He's got a pretty funny take on Kashmir from the Zeppelin point of view (and oh, did I think that album was deep when it first came out, and oh, do I think it's pretentious bullshit now).
Chris Newman wanted to know where the Tolkien lyrics in "Stairway" were. I did mix them up with "Battle of Nevermore," but I also thought that Zep referred to LOTR throughout Stairway, only in a more obscure fashion. I always thought the "lady" in the song was Galadriel. And that the "bustle in your hedgerow" was a hobbit taking off. (Remember, I was but a teen when first I heard the song.) By the way, Chris has an interesting post on how we're trying to get information from citizens the FBI thinks may have links to terrorists. I think this is an issue I may be revisiting in depth later on.
And that empties most of the mailbag for now. Remember, address all criticism to biteme-at-yourish-dot-com. (Wonder how many letters are already bouncing back from my nonexistent email address. Wonder if I should set it up and see.) permalink
Lair had some terrifically funny suggestions for the next time I'm in Waiting Room Hell.
Michele had some damned good reasons why America is the Land of the Free, and why debate is good.
Tonight's Buffy episode had another jaw-dropping ending. Wow, Joss wasn't kidding when he said this season was going to be excellent.
The Yankees just tied the game. First and third, bottom of the eighth, two outs, Bernie's up.
Baseball players really do look nice in those tight pants. (Ooh! Ooh! Sexism alert!)
Mike Silverman has a superb post on the difference between anti-Israel criticism, and anti-Semitism. Thanks, Mike, because as I said below, all I ever do is swear when trying to broach the subject. Although I need to stop doing that.
Amptoons links to this article regarding anti-Semitism and anti-Israel-ism (to coin a phrase). He says the right won't link to it the way they're linking to the Cathy Young article because it criticizes the right as well as the left. I think they won't link to it because they don't know about it, so I'm letting them know about it. Glenn, Charles, are you paying attention? In any case, I have some bones to pick with that article. I will. Although maybe Diane E. can get her blood pressure down long enough after reading the article to put her two cents in. Or Lynn B.
I also think Barry's wrong about the anti-Semitism of the extreme right not being criticized. The thing is, Barry, and I'll go into this in greater detail later (probably can't get to it before Sunday or Monday, though, it's a busy week), most of the anti-Semitism of the right is of the David Duke/neo-nazi variety. Pat Buchanan has been duly noted and pounded as an anti-Semitt (as my dad used to like to say). Even William F. Buckley got in on that action.
Bernie hit a home run. Okay, so they have to get through the ninth, but I think it's safe to prepare: "Theeeeeeeee Yankees win!"
Hm. I just did a search of my entire site. While I have called the right on Rush's use of "feminazi" in many comment threads, apparently, I have never written about it here. It is one of the things he does that aggravates me to the point of wanting to break my radio. Okay, that one we're in agreement on, Barry.
Theeeeeeeee Yankees win! Damn. I really miss being able to hear New York radio stations at this moment. WABC. Hm. Wonder if I can get it on the web?
Rick Heller has something to say about New Jersey's anti-Semitic Poet Laureate. All Jersey jokes can be addressed to biteme-at-yourish-dot-com. (I'm so bummed that I can't vote for Toricelli. Not. Although I am surprised to find that NJ actually has a criminal-in-office tolerance threshhold. And here I thought we were going to beat Washington, D.C.'s record for voting in criminal politicians.)
Speaking of New Jersey, Justin Weitz has more to say about NJ politicians. (Yeah, that same email address applies.)
Short stuff getting long. Meryl starting to talk like Hulk. Meryl need Hulk to make weblog funny again. Maybe Hulk think of something to talk about. (Hulk vs. Buffy? Nah, the Buffster would be flattened in a heartbeat.)
By the way, in case any of you were wondering, I had three kids absent today. Three. One-quarter of my class was not there. And the remaining three-quarters wore me out. They killed me. I had a teaching assistant, I had the day planned perfectly, and the kids simply slayed me. I could not wait to get home, eat, relax, and watch Buffy. Man, they are hard work. And the biggest problem is they're effing hilarious while thinking of ways not to do the classwork, and I'm not supposed to laugh when they come up with their great ideas. Well, I do, sometimes. They're cute, they're funny, and they're hard work.
Rewatched the end of the first Buffy episode. Did you all note that the Big Bad showed up in descending order, latest to earliest, until the Big Bad ended up as you-know-who? I think the prevailing argument about The First One is probably dead on.
And that is enough. I probably should separate all these posts with rules, but I'm feeling kind of lazy. Well, email me if you think I should add rules. Those of you think my asking that is kinda dumb can also email me at biteme-at-yourish-dot-com. Don't worry, I check that email box every twelfth of Never. permalink
[Written this morning] I am in hell. I have taken my Jeep in for an oil change and an inspection, and the television set is blaring in the corner. We just finished up with Pat Robertson, and switched immediately over to Jerry Springer. It's got a white trash couple who are on the show because the husband says the wife won't have sex with him, and the wife says the husband is cheating on her. She's wearing a leopardskin pantsuit. He's wearing an expression that makes me want to slug him.
I am in hell. There's nowhere else to wait. I brought something to work on, but forgot half the information I need to write the release. I should have brought earplugs, but then again, the TV is set at "Annoying Roar." Earplugs wouldn't help.
[Five minutes later] Discovered a bench outside. I would much rather ingest exhaust fumes and the numerous announcements you get at a large and busy automobile dealership than listen to another second of Jerry Springer. One of the employees offered to change the channel, but was voted down by the crowd in front of the TV. "No, it's funny," they said. Okay. I get the allure. It's funny. In a sad, twisted, pathetic sort of way.
[Back at home, having successfully missed another second of Springer] While I was sitting on the bench, a woman and her young son came near. "Are you avoiding Jerry Springer, too?" the woman asked. Sensing common bonds, we spent the next twenty minutes chatting about Richmond, children, schools, moving, the DMV, and automobile repair waiting rooms. By the time we finished talking, it was eleven o'clock, and Springer was gone. When I went back in, it was Blue's Clues on PBS. Phew. permalink
I read in an article somewhereThe National Review? The Weekly Standard?that the United Nations has spent an inordinate amount of time and energy regarding Israel. Well, during some downtime this weekend, I investigated. Below is a table of UN Security Council Resolutions that shows the year, the number of resolutions regarding Israel, the number of total resolutions that year, and towards the nineties, as the Security Council resolutions dwindled, I checked the General Assembly resolutions (but got bored after only checking two years). However, that's where the Israel hatred went. Israel's enemies must have gotten tired of the U.S. vetoing most of the anti-Semitic screeds the Arab League could think up, and moved it to the veto-proof General Assembly.
Amazingly, the only UN Security Council resolution in 1960 lambasted Israel over the capture of Adolf Eichmann, one of the most notorious architects of Hitler's Final Solution. Why? Because Israel violated Argentina's sovereignty. Gee. Perhaps if Argentina hadn't been so willing to let Nazis live out their lives peacefully within their borders, Israel wouldn't have kidnapped Eichmann from his home there. They demanded reparations. Is anyone out there laughing? I didn't.
I also tracked anti-apartheid resolutions to some degree, to let you see the difference in number even for that topic, and tracked the breakup of Yugoslavia and the resolutions dealing with that. Still bush league compared with the number of resolutions the UN has issued about Israel. You can read my comments in the second column.
Here's a page that details the growth of the United Nations in member countries since 1945. Israel is just one nation, and the UN has grown from 55 in 1946 to 99 in 1960 to 191 member nations today. And yet, they still don't seem to be able to not issue resolution after resolution on Israel (and we won't even mention the Durban conference on racism that turned into an anti-Israel, anti-Semitic hatefest).
Before anyone challenges my math: I rounded up. And if you find mistakes (I was careful, but I am only one person), please email me. If you would like a text version of the document, here you go. It's in Notepad.
Fifteen percent. One tiny country, fifteen percent of the Security Council resolutions since its inception. How many, I wonder, have concerned the tyrants who rule the rest of the Middle East? Well, someone else will have to do that digging. I've been sickened enough by my research.
UPDATE: PDM, in a comment on LGF, points out this article by Shai Ben-Tekoa, who was commissioned to do a statistical analysis of U.N. voting vis a vis Israel in 1991. His statistics (though a decade old) are far more thorough than mine.
Glass half empty: On moving day (stop laughing, it wasn't funny for me), a rock hit my windshield and caused a traveling crack, which essentially forces you to get a new windshield or never pass inspection again. My comprehensive covers it, but I have a $500 deductible. The guy at my Five-Star Chrysler dealership in NJ tells me it will cost me about $500. So of course I put it off and put it off and put it off, but since I'll be driving out to Goose Creek this week (wow, check out that picture on the front page), I figured I'd better finally do something about the windshield. Plus, if I don't switch my car over to VA plates, I can't vote in November. (Not to mention the difference driving a NJ-licensed vehicle and a VA-licensed vehicle makes to, say, a VA state trooper.) This morning: Bite the bullet. Call around for quotes.
Glass half full: $199 at Glass Masters. Boy, do I like Virginia prices. And same day service. I'll have a new windshield by mid-afternoon. And let us all say: Yay. permalink
60 Minutes profiled the terror links from Iran, Iraq, and elsewhere to the terrorist networks in Israel. Lesley Stahl interviewed Col. Miri Eisen of the IDF, who, I believe, was born in America, since she spoke English like one of us. Besides the satisfaction at seeing a program like 60 Minutes exposing the lies, corruption, and terror of the Pals and their leader, a thought struck me. We need to amend an Islamofascist's worst nightmare scenario. It's not a Jew with a gun.
The Islamofascist's worst nightmare: A Jewish woman with a gun.
Time for those shooting lessons. permalink
Michele has a post with a link to a hilarious Flash film made to the music of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," and I was apparently the only one left who had never seen it. But her post covers the Zeppelin days, and I do believe we're of an age, she and I, because I recognize all of her cultural references.
My friends and I didn't spend hours discussing the meaning of "The Battle of Nevermore," but we did designate "Stairway to Heaven" as The Deepest Song Ever, partly based on the Tolkien quotes (or our interpretation that there were Tolkien quotes) in the song. Later, as I cringed each time it was designated The Best Song Ever in holiday poll after holiday poll, and started swearing loudly and profusely every time it came on the radio (and switched it off immediately), I started thinking it was Biggest Poseur Song Ever. Well, not really. Most rock lyrics don't stand up to any kind of scrutiny, and the fact that you can barely make them out is often a plus (witness: "Immigrant Song").
There are exceptions. Most Beatles songs, for instance, are still wonderful even after having heard them a zillion times. "Eleanor Rigby" is my favorite, I think. "Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door/Who is it for?"
Now that's deep.
I found a reference to this a few days ago on another website (forgot where, apologies), but have seen and heard nothing since. A Google news search brings back nothing new. If the story is true, why is there no mention of such a thing in the major media? Why is it being covered up? Why is it only in one three-day-old blurb in a compilation story entitled "UPI Hears..."? (And oh, don't you love the sarcastic tone of the last two sentences? Nice. Let's make fun of thousands of deaths, not point out the shame of Syria being on the UN Human Rights Commission and the Security Council.)
So. Where are the major media outlets' investigative reporters when you need them? Still looking for the non-existent Jenin "massacre"? permalink
(Note: Below is a repeat from a post I wrote last night, because it bears not being relegated to the archives yet.)
I don't know where Angie Schultz has been hiding, or how long her blog has been around (which of course I could learn with a click on the archives link, but hey, it's nearly 3 a.m. and I'm exhausted), but she is effing excellent. There are so many good posts I'm not even going to quote one. Go read them. I barely even mind that she's using reverse type (although of course I'll start to bitch about that at a later date).
She's funny as all get out. She has an anecdote about the word moiety. Seriously. (But it's a really funny one.)
Spread the word on this one folks, she's a winner. permalink
Last week's blogs are archived. Looking for the Buffy Blogburst Index? Here's the Blogathon. The Superhero Dating Ratings are here. If you're looking for something funny, try the Hulk's solution to the Middle East conflict, or Yasser Arafat Secret Phone Transcripts. Iseema bin Laden's diary and The Fudd Doctrine are also good bets if you've never been here before.