The last to hear, as usual.

It is impossible that such governments as have hitherto existed in the world, could have commenced by any other means than a total violation of every principle sacred and moral. The obscurity in which the origin of all the present old governments is buried, implies the iniquity and disgrace with which they began. The origin of the present government of America and France will ever be remembered, because it is honourable to record it; but with respect to the rest. even Flattery has consigned them to the tomb of time, without an inscription.

It could have been no difficult thing in the early and solitary ages of the world, while the chief employment of men was that of attending flocks and herds, for a banditti of ruffians to overrun a country, and lay it under contributions. Their power being thus established, the chief of the band contrived to lose the name of Robber in that of Monarch; and hence the origin of Monarchy and Kings.

Via the Online Library of Liberty. As per usual, I suspect I am the last to hear of this, largely due to my unorthodox approach to edumacation.

Cultural identity on a shrinking planet

It's been suggested to me more than a few times that I should spend some time in the UK; a significant majority of the authors I read (at least, those who I read most everything from) live there. I realized this morning while going through a large group of music I'd put into a higher-play-rate playlist that a similar majority (although not quite the landslide of the fiction-bias) are from Bristol, Manchester, and Birmingham. I've certainly thought about it. There are various other things that at least point to it, including my preference for whisky of Jura and Skye (as opposed to Strathspey and, uh, Kentucky).

The problem with it is the conundrum of the Wapanese/Weaboo, the Wigger, the Castizo/Mestizo/Cholo, and whatever it is Feòrag is referring to here:

... the American women who know all about Irish history and consider you to be an apologist for the English government, as orange as an easyJet tailfin, and possibly not even Irish at all (unlike them and their single Irish ancestor).

The term apologist is apt, but is such a loaded word, it brings up the same ugly connotations the word collaborator has. So, forgive me for not having an appropriate proper noun. I think most people in the US will recognize at least a few people they know as having romantic notions about living in Europe (the UK in particular for some reason or other), who consider themselves well-versed in European history. This is often even taken to the absurd length of acquiring an accent (disclosure: since moving to Virginia, my "r" in the case of "Arlington" has become a little softer, but as far as I know, that's about it). So, does interest in places foreign automatically designate one as culturally mercurial, disingenuous, or some sort of turncoat? Well, of course not. Not rationally, anyways. I just can't imagine explaining to somebody that I went off to Edinburgh or Bristol to "pick up some of the culture I was obviously gravitating towards" without feeling like a complete nitwit.

I've previously threatened to run off to Wailea for a few weeks to write the next book. Maybe I should switch oceans. I wonder whether I'd actually be able to get anything written in those conditions. I had a huge uptick in productivity when I was sitting in the hospital in San Diego in December. I don't know whether it's because I had absolutely nothing else to do, or whether the isolation from outside stimuli was the catalyst to action. Perhaps if I gave myself a "no innernets" constraint on my next sequestration, I could use the surroundings as bolster to inspiration or productivity, rather than distraction.

Idiocy disguised as misandry

On Friday, February 2, 2007, Americans nationwide will celebrate the fourth annual National Wear Red Day by wearing Red to show their support for women's heart disease awareness. The Heart Truthcampaign, sponsored by the National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute, part of the National Institutes of Health in the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, introduced the Red Dress as the national symbol for women and heart disease awareness in February 2003, to help spread the word that heart disease is the #1 killer of American women.

I suppose these are the same people who think we should find a cure for breast cancer, while simultaneously not even knowing what a prostate is. There's no reason to support a specific demographic suffering from a disease. Imagine if you will a "National Black Person AIDS Recognition Day." I'm sure that would be overwhelmingly popular, despite a huge African population of AIDS patients. Similarly, and not without a little irony, people would be irritated should an organization decree that today will be national prostate cancer awareness day. Please wear ... whatever color your prostate is.

There are so many different kinds and severities of terminal illnesses right now that it's counter-productive to focus on one over another. Men not liking to talk about their rectums, or admit that their proctologist had a look at their prostate is the primary reason we don't hear about it often. Picture the news tonight, with a goatse-esque image of a rectum, or the full-frontal picture of what/where a prostate is. It's much simpler to have something ambiguous and benign, perhaps a vector illustration of a vague "U" shape with a similarly vague but unmistakable "O" nipple shape within. Much different than the clearly phallic and sexual image of a penis, prostate, testes, et cetera.

I can't tell whether it's ignorance on the part of those who don't know the severity (or existence) of correlating mens' illnesses, or a bias towards the XX folks, or even embarrassment about discussing "those parts" publicly.

My guess is the latter. And so, I offer you this: on Friday, whilst you are wearing your red, to, uh, promote redness in support of the broken hearted woman, give your local prostate a massage. It needs it.

Hmmm, what have we here...?

A MAN WHOSE TRAITS CANNOT BE DESCRIBED WITHOUT THE FLICKERING VERB OF IMPOSSIBILITY SURROUNDED IN NATURAL HOMOSEXUAL INSTINCTS CULMINATING IN AN UNMANLY AFFECTION FOR HIS WRINKLED BOSOM. (via)

As for the rest of it, I have no idea. The, uh, satanism and memeology piece is fairly funny. ("flickering verb of impossibility?")