Let 1,000 Journals Bloom

As I have already told my dear friend Fang, I am now somewhere between the fourth and fifth circles of Hell, or at least between whichever circles don't contain the sodomites. (Apologies for not remembering my Dante in more detail.) It seems that I awoke one morning this week to find that I am back, once again, working for The Man. I'm still not entirely sure how it happened, but I don't think it was by design. In any case, I had forgotten what it was like to be awake at 6:30 a.m. (Well, that's not entirely true—I was often awake at that hour, but rarely awakening at that hour.) And clothing is certainly more constricting than I remember. (I mean, I did wear clothing working at home, too, but rarely dress slacks and a 2-ply button-down long-sleeve pinpoint Oxford. It takes a toll on one after 9 hours or so.)

Enough ranting. Now, I know this isn't much of a blog post, but in honor of the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday, I offer this similarly peripatetic art project for your enjoyment. Take 1,000 writing journals, give them to various artists to decorate, and then spread them all across the world to random people. Tell them to write in them and pass them on to someone else, and track the whole thing on the Internet so you know where all the journals are (except for the lost ones). Take a look—it's pretty cool.

And by the way—if you have the option, try to avoid having a job. I don't recommend it. And I think Leopold Bloom would back me up on that.

Why We Love the French, Why the Japanese Disappoint

I realize that I'm probably going to offend someone by saying this, but if you have one of those disingenuously named "sport-utility vehicles," I've probably already wished some unspeakable evil upon you. I'm not opposed to conspicuous consumption, mind you, but I just wish for it to be confined to food, wine, and clothing—in short, things that don't ruin the environment while getting in my way on the road.

For those of you who already love the French, this will be just one more justification for your ardor. And for those of you who don't, I'm sure it will reinforce your small-minded, provincial thinking. Yes, the French have proposed to ban SUVs in Paris-centre. (Click here if you only read English.) I swear, I love these people.

As for the Japanese, things there are rather more disappointing. It seems the same food-science Einsteins who brought us the square (actually cubic) watermelon now offer poison-free fugu. Fugu, as you might recall from "The Simpsons" ("Poison... poison... poison... tasty fish!") is that deliciously daring delicacy that is mesmerizingly yummy when prepared by an expert sashimi chef—and irreversibly posionous when cut with even the slightest imprecision. Think of it as the Russian roulette of fine dining.

Now, it seems to me that the whole point of eating fugu is that it might actually kill you, but you hope (and probably believe) that it won't—sort of like maraschino cherries or Tater Tots. But take out the possibility of toxin, and you might as well eat Mrs. Paul's fish sticks. (Wait, bad analogy...)

Can We Twist the Nuts, or Just Squeeze Them?

One thing you can say for President Reagan is that when he made a treaty with a foreign power, he more or less stuck with it, how ever unpleasant the later consequences. Clearly the current administration isn't hamstrung by such traditionalist thinking. Whenever Mr. Bush doesn't understand something—which as you might imagine is somewhat frequently—he can always count on his good friend Mr. Ashcroft for interpretive assistance. Pesky foreign treaties like the Geneva Convention getting in your way when you want to torture someone? Don't worry, says Mr. Ashcroft, they "may be unconstitutional" when applied to the President.

Now let's think about this for a minute. The U.S. signs a treaty, the Senate ratifies it, and the world community expects (or at least, used to expect, until now) that the U.S. would abide by it. Now along comes Mr. Ashcroft to advise Mr. Bush—certainly no great Constitutional theorist himself—that such pesky restrictions couldn't possibly apply to the President. Silly rules just apply to the country, not to its chief executive! (Perhaps Mr. Ashcroft solicited his opinion from Ken Lay or Bernie Ebbers?) One imagines that this is just the sort of "above the law" thinking that Mr. Bush likes to hear.

Herewith a snippet from the Justice Department's rather chilling idea of what it is "permissible" for the President to authorize:

In the view expressed by the Justice Department memo, which differs from the view of the Army, physical torture "must be equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious physical injury, such as organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death." For a cruel or inhuman psychological technique to rise to the level of mental torture, the Justice Department argued, the psychological harm must last "months or even years."

The gist of this is that, short of, say, cutting into your lower abdominal cavity and ripping out a kidney, it's probably not impermissible torture.

Thank goodness this sort of thing only applies to the nasties and not to faithful Americans like you and me. But don't feel too left out. All that's necessary is for the President to find that you are an "enemy combatant," and you too can be dragged around on a leash by a skanky Appalachian chick while your best friend is forced to lick your balls in a humiliating (for at least one of you) fashion.

Ah, but you protest, surely there is some due process that would protect a U.S. citizen from such arbitrary treatment. It can't be as easy as the President and Justice Department just saying that you're an enemy combatant, can it? Surely they'll clear all this up at your hearing, right? Sorry, Jack—you don't get no stinking hearing. You just get to rot in jail with no lawyer until, if you're lucky, Mr. Bush et al. get voted out of office.

Bush's "Con"voy

Those of us who frequently make the jaunt up or down the second-most-dangerous deathtrap in Texas, IH-35, know all too well how hard it is to find that Zen-like speed that allows you to go slowly enough to avoid ramming into the back of the 18-wheeler in front of you while going fast enough to keep the 18-wheeler behind you from delivering a chrome enema.

Into that already treacherous environment, we now may add the tens of thousands of Mexican trucks that our safety-conscious President and Supreme Court have now given free reign of our highway system. I'm as shocked as you are that I'm quoting anything from Phyllis Schlafly and her generally frightening Eagle Forum, but I think it's important for people to realize the danger that is posed by the double-threat of poorly maintained, poorly inspected vehicles shooting up and down our interstates under the control of drivers who may, or more likely may not, have any familiarity with U.S. traffic laws or sufficient command of English to read traffic signs and warnings.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for free trade, and I'm not standing in opposition to this incredibly stupid decision because of trade issues or job-loss concerns or any of that. I just don't want a 20-ton rattling deathtrap bearing down on me at 85 mph—or worse yet, pulling away from me as random parts fall off of it to the complete oblivion of the driver. I know, you're thinking, "Typical liberal, making up shit to scare people." Well, why don't you ask the Rev. Scott Willis how he feels about that?