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Monday, January 16, 2006
I'm back
Tan, rested, and ready...
Sorry for the blogging disappearing act (or as I like to call it, "pulling a Billmon") but I was in Santa Barbara getting the on-edge but raring to go mrs tbogg settled in before she starts her new job tomorrow. We managed to find an lovely cottage five minutes from work and also five minutes from a Trader Joe's, a good dry cleaners, and a nail salon, which are three of the conditions for world peace on her short list. New furniture being delivered on Saturday...new computer to come and she'll be right as rain, which is more than I can say for the dogs who have been 'acting out' as some might put it.
I call it being a 'being a big pain in the ass.'
Anyway you'll have to excuse me for not knowing what the hell is going on in the world (which is one of the three conditions for a primo slot over at Pajama Media along with being objectively pro-anything that George Bush does as well as being a bedwetting wanker) but I will say that that WaPo has some splainin' to do, Jeff Goldstein has finally found his level, and Wolcott the Fumento-slayer points out this gem:
Feeling cranky after being held captive for weeks by a crying infant, or perhaps because there was insufficient frosting on his Frosted Flakes, John Podhoretz has a bone to pick this morning with Andrew Sullivan, if you'll pardon the expression.
"ANDREW SULLIVAN'S ANTI-GAY INVECTIVE [John Podhoretz] Andrew Sullivan calls my old friend Fred Barnes's admiring book about President Bush 'fellatial.' Imagine if someone had used such a word about an Andrew Sullivan blog item about, say, John McCain. Andrew would have been OUTRAGED! He would have demanded an APOLOGY! Andrew, you see, is gay. So any comparison of his rhetoric to homosexual conduct would be UNACCEPTABLE. But Andrew, being gay, is free to use slighting sexual references to homosexual conduct when discussing the rhetoric and ideas of others. Why? Because, in Andrew's eyes, he is beyond reproach solely because he shares a bed with other men. And Fred Barnes? Married to a...(I know it's unimaginable) woman. How contemptible of Fred. Doesn't he know marriage is only for gay people? UPDATE: Yes, the act Andrew S. analogizes to Fred Barnes's treatment of President Bush is not exclusively one performed by homosexuals. But since Sullivan uses the word for a male writer's analysis of another male, his use of the word "fellatial" therefore has an unmistakably gay tinge.(my emphasis)
I love the fact that the Pod had to update the post to reflect that, as the advertising asserts: Fellatio! It's not just for homos anymore!, although I'm sure that Mrs. Pod has more than a mouthful to say about that.
Lastly a few notes about Santa Barbara:
What tattoo parlors are to Garnet St. in Pacific Beach, nail salons are to State Street in Santa Barbara. I blame this on the fact that it appears avery fifth woman in Santa Barbara is a real estate agent and you gotta have nice nails for that because... The average house in Santa Barbara proper appears to sell for about $1.3 million. It's California real estate gone berserk. The people are, how shall I put this....much better looking than in any other city I have ever been in. I'm serious. James Lileks will never ever ever ever live in Santa Barbara. There is no Target. Really. A town with a monster-sized Urban Outfitters and no Target is somehow comforting. My favorite store/catalog company in the whole world is based there. I swear there are more bicycles per capita than anywhere in the world except Beijing. It is the most dog friendly city I have ever been in. One woman was grazing the cosmetics counters at Nordstrom while her labradoodle wandered about trailing his leash and nobody batted an eye. There is a point break right at the Ventura County line where the waves come up to the edge of Hwy 101 and break on the rocks below. With a storm hitting on Saturday, waves were breaking below and splashing up onto the freeway as you drove through it. Nothing quite says 'California' like having your car get hit by a wave on the freeway.
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